After living in Lisbon, I am spending the next year in different towns in Portugal. I want to get to know this country and its people better. I am eager to see what the next chapter of my life here might look like…and where it will happen.

Picture it. A city girl from New York City, opens the door to her rural Portuguese home, only to find she could have brought along her pig.
But we’ll get to that.
Can A City Girl Make it in Rural Portugal?
After a comfortable month in my palace in Viseu, it was the perfect time to dive off a cliff and test my comfort zones. From the lap of luxury in my spacious one bedroom apartment with a view in Viseu, I headed out to live the rural life. I rented a car and drove to my next stop, a working farmhouse in the tiny town of Paços de Serra at the foot of the Serra da Estrela mountains.
My home for the next four nights (yes, only four as I am adventurous but not an idiot), was to be a private apartment in a large farmhouse. The space had a bedroom, bathroom and combination living area and kitchen. However, as this was an old farmhouse in rural Portugal, there was to be no air conditioning. As I was getting closer I grew concerned. Perhaps I had overreached on this one. When I initially planned this stop, I felt a bit bulletproof after my year with The Slumlord from Hell in Lisbon. What could be worse than that?
Now, halfway through my journey and a little banged up from some of my road trip experiences, I was more realistic. In the middle of record heat in August this now seemed like one of the stupidest ideas I’d had since my University of South Carolina days when my college friends and I decided to road trip to the University of Georgia, a 3 hour drive away, at 1am on a Saturday night. We were having so much fun we wanted to “take the party to Athens”. Let’s just say, Athens was asleep when we arrived.
Nevertheless, I drove on. After all, how bad could it be and it was just four nights?

How Rural is Too Rural?
The town of Paços da Serra has 726 residents, and only grew to 727 when I arrived as I cannot imagine there were any other tourists. After parking my car near the farmhouse, I headed up the hill to my non-airconditioned apartment, sweating like a pig and hoping for an early fall. My host greeted me, a friendly woman with a businesslike air about her, which seemed in contrast to what you’d expect from a person running a rural farm.
She happily showed me around the grounds, and seeing my yoga mat, pointed to the shed in the garden where I could practice if I liked. She pointed out the olive trees, saying it wasn’t time for the harvest just yet. I took it all in, wondering what the next four nights on this farm would bring and a little concerned given the stark contrast with my beloved cities with their bus fumes and homeless people.
Back at the farmhouse, as we opened the door to my apartment an unwelcome tidal wave of heat washed over me. As I walked into the living area, I realized the full afternoon sun was baking the apartment, just in time for a hot night’s sleep. At first glance, the cabin was just a step above camping out, with a gas powered hot plate that seemed like a fire waiting to happen. That was to be how I prepared meals here so I made sure my host showed me several times how to light it, fearing I might be the last guest she has here if things go south with dinner.
As she was leaving, she showed me how to use the skeleton key to lock the door to the apartment. While I am no stranger to skeleton keys, this one was a bit tricky. I told her I’d probably just leave it open. After all, if one of the 726 residents stole anything, it would not take long to find the culprit.

Giving Myself an Attitude Adjustment
Despite being a bit of a furnace, the place had everything I needed for four days. The feel of the apartment reminded me of my grandparent’s old house in rural South Carolina where they raised my father and my aunt and was about the same size. As I felt like I was experiencing some of what life in that house must have been like for them year after year, I realized I was being a bit of a spoiled brat. I only had to stay four nights here in the heat and had the place to myself.
After my attitude check, I decided to slap a smile on my face, put my big girl panties on and embrace the experience. From my host, I learned all about my temporary lodging’s history. The apartment had been the home of the farmer who worked the land and his wife and two kids. They kept their pig in the space underneath the second-floor apartment. Unfortunately, I did not know that in advance so I had left my pig at home.

While unpacking my things, I discovered a trap door in the bedroom at the foot of the bed. I asked my host if that was where she kept the bodies. Almost too comfortably, she laughed and explained the bedroom was where the family washed the dishes and the trap door was where they dumped the dirty water. Sure. Dirty water dump. Let’s go with that. I’ll sleep better that way.

The Tragic Life of Pigs in Paços da Serra
One day as my host was giving me a tour of the neighborhood, she shared a little about the history of the village. As we walked, she pointed out tiny little doors on many of the old houses, which were just like the one underneath my apartment. These little shelters of terror were where families kept their pigs, never letting them out until it was time to end their tragic lives. They would throw food into them but they never saw the outside of their pen until it was time to give them the axe and put them up to use as food for the next year.
This was just a horrendous story all around. The poor farmer and his family had to ration this one pig to live off the entire year, eating potatoes for most of their meals along with the occasional one egg they would all share. While that had to be a tough existence, in order to give them that sustenance, the pig lived his life shut in a dark hole. It was like the poor animal had been thrown into solitary without committing a crime.
If I had been around back then I would have fashioned a lease with which I could have taken Wilbur out for a spin around the neighborhood in the afternoons. We would have walked down to the cafe, had a small beer, and shot the breeze with the other villagers before heading back home for the evening. He would have lived outside, in a pen and not in a dark pig prison.
Thankfully, things are different for pigs in Paços da Serra these days. You can see them enjoying a life of leisure in the fields. In the late afternoon by the little river, there is a farmer who proudly parades his pigs through the village. I liked this man. He was always very friendly and was not a pig torturer which earned high marks in my book.
The Local Café
If you have been following my journey as I adjust to life in Portugal, you know my local café(s) are a very important part of my life. My local café cannot be one of these overpriced, "pay 5 euros for a latte" type places. They must be authentic spots, where Portuguese is still spoken, the decor is a bit rustic, and locals are popping in and out as they go about their days.
One afternoon, I headed to the other side of town to find the local café in Paços da Serra my host told me about. As I walked through the dusty side streets, the locals looked at me strangely. One asked if I was Brazilian. Another asked if I was lost. All of these conversations were in Portuguese so while I tried to respond, they did not totally grasp what I was trying to communicate. Giving up, I would simply say the name of the café which elicited a smile and confirmation that I was heading in the right direction. While I appreciated the gesture, it was pretty hard to get lost for long in a town of 726 residents.
After about a 7-minute walk from my farmhouse on the other side of the highway, I arrived at the little café. There were a few picnic tables outside with two local men each sitting at a different table. I guessed these two were not close. As I was pondering this situation, a man came bounding out of the café, and as with the others, looked at me strangely, saying something I mostly could not understand. I told him in Portuguese that I wanted a "galão" and he smiled and waved me in.
The place was exactly what I was looking for. Rustic. Outdated decor. Full of locals drinking coffee or wine, depending on how their day was going. I sat with my galão and took it all in.
Becoming a Local in Paços da Serra
As I sat there, two older women came in, one sitting at the table next to me and one joining me without a word. She quickly brought me into the conversation and I did my best to hold my own. As she criticized the woman she was with for ordering what was a very large glass of red wine at 11am, I disagreed, saying she was a grown woman and could do what she wanted.
They both laughed and I had two new friends.
We went on to discuss why I was "sozhina" which means alone. I responded as I always do, "Why not?". More laughter.
The next day as I was walking toward the cafe in the extreme heat, I saw my two new friends sitting behind the church in the only shade around. It seemed the entire village was there, drinking their late afternoon beers, wines and coffees as the sun was setting. My two new friends waved at me and I waved back as I went inside and grabbed a table and a wine.
Shortly after, the two women came inside and joined me, asking why I did not come sit behind the church. This was probably the best part of my time in lovely little Paços da Serra. Here I am, a stranger, who butchers their language at best, landing in their town the day before, and already welcomed to sit behind the church and have a happy hour drink with everyone. No need to know much about me. I am a human being, alone, and they were ready to be my friends without knowing any more than that.
This City Slicker Loves the Rural Life
It's impossible to explain how I felt during my time in Paços da Serra but I'll make a feeble attempt. The people there are so warm, welcoming and non-judgmental. They made me feel like I instantly belonged. I suddenly did not care if my apartment was 90 degrees when I went home at night. Cooking dinner on my two-burner gas hot plate was a joy. I loved my balcony where I ate my dinners and watched the most glorious sunsets over the farm, reflecting on my happy days spent in the dusty streets of this rural Portuguese town.
I was at peace knowing that I already had friends here and was more than welcomed. It felt like I was living a normal life that I loved.
Could I move here or somewhere like it? I don't know. I am still open to learning what is further down the road as I continue my year-long journey through my new chosen country. I cannot wait to experience what is next but I can say, this town and its people will always hold a special place in my heart.
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