Reflecting on Orange Trees in Alcobaça

Yesterday, orange trees caught my attention in downtown Alcobaça and prompted a heartfelt reflection on this moment and place.

I grew up near orange groves in Southern California, yet seeing this fruit ripening in the heart of winter still invokes wonder. Enormous orange spheres burst with color, practically singing Joy! Abundance! Hope!  Can´t you just you smell them?

I had just left a small group of fellow immigrants, all of us trying to memorize lines of a Portuguese play. We are originally from Great Britain, Italy, Belgium, and the US. And all of us arevcrazy enough to agree to a public performance on stage in a language most of us are still learning. By now, we are too well acquainted with the humiliation of bad pronunciation, wrong conjugations, and frozen-mouth syndrome. Well, we might as well learn some literature and have fun as we bumble along, right?

Our group rehearses in a typical Portuguese café that is closed on Mondays. On weekends, fans of futebol (soccer) fill the space between walls covered in players’ photos, banners, and slogans. During our Monday rehearsals we wear our heaviest coats because there is no heat. The café is bone-chilling cold, but our little troupe is warm-hearted.

None of us have acting experience. We enrolled to stretch our Portuguese language skills, and for most of us it is a very big stretch. Our director, Diane, speaks only Portuguese. Occasionally someone needs a translation, but her skill — and patience — carry us along.

The walk back to my car is quintessential Portugal. I pass small clothing shops displaying beautiful children’s fashions, a fish market whose scent announces itself to every passerby (ugh), and the gentle Alcoa River that runs underground beneath the town praça. Across from my car, the public market is crammed with regional vendors offering vegetables, meats, fruits, and more. Sidewalks and narrow streets are paved with Portuguese calçadas, the limestone cobblestones worn smooth over time.

Several artists have studios along this street. I stopped by Benjamin Roman’s workspace. This American artist is committed to bringing light and joy into the world through his luminous watercolors. We both know he escaped American violence with his family, but neither of us mentions it. Some truths are understood without words.

Walking to rehearsal and back includes many greetings of boa tarde (good afternoon). with strangers. Courtesy is foundational here. Every email and text message begins with a greeting of kindness. Every parting includes abraços (hugs) and beijinhos (little kisses on each cheek). Relationships are fundamental to life.

I pass one of the city parks, where children play unsupervised. Why not? They are safe here. Imagine that.

My car is parked near several banks, which reminds me how banking in Europe is much more secure than in the U.S. With just a few taps on our phones we can pay vendors and transfer money, yet fraud is rare. These quiet efficiencies, like the orange trees, fade into the background — until you stop to notice them with gratitude.

Like most Monday nights after theater rehearsal, we host our Portuguese neighbors for dinner. Following the rapid dialogue can be exhausting. After two hours, my brain is drained, but my heart is full. Bonds grow across the language gap with every shared meal, every week, month after month. Relationships build over time and shared experience — just like learning a language, just like finding home wherever you are.

 The abundance of enormous oranges growing freely in public spaces, framed by traditional calçadas, feels symbolic. It is beauty offered without demand. It invites pause. Gratitude. Presence.

When I arrived home, another delight awaited me: a letter from the United States. (You know who you are, you awesome friends!) Adoro receber cartas! I love receiving letters. In a world of speed and screens, this small, intentional act warmed my heart.

If you feel inspired, please do not hesitate to write me a letter.

Love, as always, Penelope and Tim