Late August in southern Portugal. The air is clear and mildly salty. The sun beats hot and painfully bright. The cicadas sing in the trees.

Did you know the sound of cicadas comes from the contraction and release of their tummies? No kidding. And it’s the males being seductively noisy. Fortunately, neither the female nor the male die in the end. Well, they do die. But not from their amorous behavior. That’s always a blessing.  

Portugal. Land of Port wine, beautiful beaches, and unbelievable mosaic tiles. Camped out on top of a hill in an airbnb, my family is lethargic from the intense sun and endless ocean. At this moment, we are stretched out on chaise lounges with our bellies full of melons and figs picked from a nearby tree and every Portuguese pastry you can imagine. 

In the middle of a worldwide pandemic.

Yup, hospitals are again filling in the U.S. as the rate of COVID-19 infection climbs. New variants. Unvaccinated people. The sheer mind-numbing boredom of 18 months of fear and isolation. Argggggggg . . . .

But plane tickets and house reservations bought two years ago can no longer be delayed.

So here we are. Portugal. It took full vaccinations for all but the two year old, proof of negative COVID tests at four different checkpoints (two in the U.S., one in Paris, and one in Lisbon), and masks masks masks.   

Whew. 

We land in Lisbon, a wonderful, moody town of narrow streets and tiny restaurants.

That night, we pass a hole-in-the-wall bar, where old men sit with shirts partially unbuttoned and cocked, straw hats. Across the cobbled street is a well-lit restaurant — Restaurante Leitao do Prior.

Joao Simoes tells me in good English that their specialty is suckling pig.

“We clean the pig, put the sauce inside, close it up, and cook the whole pig.” 

Of course he does. 

The meal is served with home-cut potato chips, homemade bread, olives, goat cheese, salad drizzled in olive oil, and . . . a platter full of pork.

This is a family operation consisting of Joao, his brother-in-law, and the two sisters they married. Like all restauranteurs, it’s been a tough time during the pandemic. And the tough time isn’t over yet. Carry-out has saved the day so far, according to Joao. Just barely. 

There is only one other customer at the tables in the restaurant. It’s Friday night.

“The pig is only good the same day it is cooked. If we figure out the numbers wrong, we have to throw it away.”

But in spite of the doom and gloom of Covid, Joao welcomes us into his world.

First, the family is brought out from the kitchen and introduced as if we are the visiting in-laws. 

Then appetizers, the main course, and three different homemade desserts are brought to the table. Each more spectacular than the last.

Finally, after-dinner drinks are poured — Port wine, Portuguese brandy, and two espressos. 

“Do we want more?”

Only if you have a pushcart to get us home. 

The only other customer smiles. He says to be careful with the brandy. 

I ask if he eats here often.

He pats his stomach, “I don’t dare.” 

“And what do you do for work?” I ask.

“I’m an air traffic controller at the Lisbon Airport.”

Which, of course, opens the door for him and my youngest son to analyze every airplane disaster that has ever occurred. Really?

I sip my brandy and ignore them.

That was two days ago. 

And now I feel the bright heat in southern Portugal as the wind comes down from the hills and the cicadas do their alluring dance. 

Did I tell you the male and female survive?

Joe