Sneaking a Peek at the Festa Da Desfornhada

After dinner on Saturday night in Guimarães, we passed by a restaurant named Histórico by Papaboa. Both entrances to its courtyard were brimming with people, piled up to watch what was going on inside, the Festa Da Desfolhada. Since there didn't seem to be any ticket-takers and the start time on the poster was three hours earlier, we simply excused ourselves through the wall of onlookers and checked it out for ourselves. With a few glasses of vinho verde in me and a video camera in my purse, what else is a girl to do?
Everyone seemed to be in clean up mode. Big straw brooms scratched away at the stone ground, batting corn husks over into an ever-growing pile. One man raked the cobs into a tray and then let another smack at them with something that resembled a long riding crop. It was obviously a traditional festival. The men wore straw hats and the women wore red headscarves and long skirts. A few children ran around, making sure (along with the still-playing band) that the festivities weren't completely over for the night.
"Desfolhada" means "leafless," but translates more perfectly to "husking" and that's what the festival is all about. It's a night of eating and drinking and husking corn. Evidence of all three filled the courtyard, even as things appeared to be wrapping up. The smell of food lingered in the air, the corn was still being dealt with and a man in a red-wine-stained shirt whirled his dance partner around and around.
A four piece band made up of three accordions and a tom tom drum played a folk tune on loop as couples spun and moved in circles around each other like a Teacups ride. The cleanup crew-cum-percussion section joined in with their straw on stone scratching and wood on corn thumping. As we stood there, we saw the revelers gain a second wind. Just when it all seemed to die down, a man in a blue polo shirt walked across the emptying square, clapped his hands a few times, struck a flamenco-esque pose and, somehow, roused people back to the dance floor. Singing started and cameras flashed. You can watch a little bit of it below. I warn you - the music's an earworm.

Getting Ready To Be A Capital Again

Ten months ago, we arrived back in Europe after a trip home for the holidays, landing in Tallinn, Estonia just before the new year. It was an exciting time in the city - they were celebrating not only the beginning of 2011, but also the commencement of their term as European Capital of Culture.

Now, we're in Guimarães, in the north of Portugal, and there is an expectant buzz in the streets. Having been selected as one of two Capitals of Culture for 2012 (along with Maribor, Slovenia), Guimarães has a right to be happy. Being worrisomely behind with the preparations, however, has put the place on edge.

Being a capital isn't new to Guimarães. In a way, it was once the capital of the country, when it became the seat of Henry, count of Portugal, in the 11th century. Before true nationhood, the county-fiefdom was arranged around the fortifications and monastery here, and the city has long been called the "cradle of the Portuguese nationality."

Guimarães history is tempered by youthfulness, though. Much of its medieval center is surprisingly intact, with cobbled streets and pretty old balconies. Many of the old spaces have become art galleries and vintage shops, and the culinary scene is considered even more forward thinking than Lisbon's. It's a tangled, fascinating city of hanging laundry and hidden bars, where young people sit out late into the night and old people watch them, leaning languidly out their windows.

Being a European Capital of Culture is an honorary, yearlong distinction, typically shared with another "Capital", but the impact on a city is huge. Being selected generates a massive amount of tourism and attention; Tallinn was jubilant.

Guimarães is barely two and a half months away from inauguration, and the city has a long way to go before it celebrates. An all-encompasing beautification initiative is only partly completed. Much of the old town looks like a giant construction site, and the work crews were going full-tilt late on a Friday night and early on a Saturday morning.

It seems that everyone is involved with the slow process. Signs in windows shout messages of preparedness, groups gather to watch the machines. Sometimes, there are as many men and women with clipboards as with tools; progress is monitored and analyzed, discussed and argued. We sat in a busy cafe near one worksite, and there were as many eyes fixed on the hole in the street as were watching the soccer on television.
In some corners of town, streets or squares had cordoned off, torn up and then, apparently, left to sit. Portugal's financial problems have likely taken a toll, here, and it may be that the original plans were too grand for the practical reality.
The truth is, Guimarães is going to look great no matter what. It's a beautiful, vibrant city that, miraculously, doesn't seem to have lost much after being torn asunder. The beauty of the city - of Portugal, really - is in its haphazard detail. Intricate tiles, ornate steeples, hidden icons, cracked paint, vibrant hues... sometimes all packed into one lopsided building. The feeling of renewal is greater than the sense of worry, the dust and rubble in the streets only highlights the effect.

Gypsy Kitchens: Andorra Pintxos

We've often wondered what the difference between a pintxo and a tapa is. Well, the answer is right in the name. Pintxos or pinchos are served "spiked" by a toothpick, most often onto a piece of bread. Sometimes, its a breadless skewer of anchovies and olives or something of the sort. Either way, the spear is essential as the name (pincho) literally translates to "spike." So, the ones we made are not technically pinchos - but they are 100% Andorran.

It all started with this can of Fir Nectar. Displays for the item were set up in every grocery, most often on the butcher counter for no other reason than it being the most popular place in the shop. We've never seen this before and - it turns out - neither has anyone else! An Andorran entrepreneur has made 10,000 cans of Nectum D'Avet this year and plans to expand to international markets. It will continue to be produced in Andorra, but he's already gotten permission to collect pine and spruce cones in parts of France. The cones are bathed in a pool of sugar for a year and the "nectar" is then extracted. Pretty interesting.
The problem was, we didn't know what the heck to do with it aside from pour some on our cereal in the morning. The super sweet, piney flavor didn't quite work in our coffee as well as syrup or honey. Then, the answer hit us. It hit our tent, actually. You see, we pitched right under a walnut tree. An old man made the rounds each morning with a plastic bag and a walking stick, picking up nut after nut until there were none left. When he saw us looking at him curiously, he smacked one over in our direction with his cane and mumbled something about that being a good one and the furry ones being bad. One morning, we got up early and collected as many as we wanted from the night's bounty.The idea from there on was pretty simple: slice some bread up, spread cheese on it, sprinkle some walnuts and drizzle on nectar. Blue cheese was our first choice, but since we wanted to keep things 100% Andorran and the local blue cheese at the market was unappealing, we wound up getting half a wheel of Formatge Mont Valira. Our pick was based solely on the fact that our campsite is also named Valira. Its Babybel reminiscent flavor wasn't exactly what we were looking for, so we caved in and bought some Spanish Pyrenees blue, too.
The Mont Valira wound up coming in handy - as some pesky campsite cats ate about half our Queso Azul while we worked away at cracking the walnuts. If you look closely, you can see some markings from our smashing instrument - a blue Klean Kanteen. The walnuts were smaller than average and wonderfully oily. If you happen to find yourself without a nutcracker, one hard smack at the center seam will almost always break the nut evenly in half. Lay the halves face down for one more short, hard hit each and you'll be able to remove some nice, sizable sections.
Pile it all up and that's it! This is the sort of recipe that doesn't really need too much explaining. It couldn't be easier and makes an excellent hors d'oeuvre, dessert or party snack - one that you can assemble in bulk and let sit out without detriment. We'd recommend toasting the bread and using honey, at least until Nectum D'Avet takes the world by storm. Also, go ahead and add that toothpick.

Andorran Food

Andorran food could easily be called Catalan food, but we are going to make a strained distinction. It's mountain cuisine, with lots of sea-brine. It's simple - but by concept instead of necessity. It's served in busy bars, quiet restaurants and lunch taverns. We didn't expect this, but the food in Andorra had us more excited than any other culinary stop in the past several months.
Meals here start with tranches of toasted bread and halved tomatoes. The protocol: rub the tomato (and garlic, if it's also served) onto the bread, salt and eat. Some people drizzle olive oil over the slice, everyone leaves piles of smushed tomato on their bread plate.
The status of escargots - called, in Catalan, "cargols" - approaches that of national dish. They are typically served as an appetizer, almost charred in wood or coal ovens, sometimes sauced, usually plain. It's interesting that these little snails are so popular here - sometimes difficult to find in France, escargots might be an Andorran destination food for the curious.
Catalan spinach, at its simplest, is sauteed greens with raisins and pine nuts. In a small bar-cafe in Ordino, high up along a remote valley fork, we ate "espinacas" baked with egg, its edges crispy, its flavor intense.
A dish of legumes and fried pork, presented modestly in a young-persons restaurant in Andorra la Vella. The kind of plate that feels more elemental than spartan, it was served after an utterly uncomplicated hors d'œuvre of steamed mussels, brought to the table by a lanky boy in a tank-top - his mother was the cook, he was friends with all of the customers.
It's difficult to pass up clams, especially at a bar. They're a perfect compliment to the kind of elongated, cocktail-hour joviality of pyrenees evenings. Small, savory, smelling of salt and wine, they are easily picked-at or ignored for stretches.
The most surprising thing about Andorran food is the emphasis placed on seafood. Certainly there is a lot of trout - mountains always mean trout - but the food here, even at this elevation, is more attuned to the coast than to the stream. Far from feeling distant, the mediterranean is ever present; squid and octopus - "calamar i pop" - are very popular, as are cod ("bacallà"), and anchovies ("seitons"), the Atlantic staples.
Having lived in New York City for many, many years, we witnessed the advent and the market-saturation of tapas and "small plates." I would only reluctantly, at this point, go to a tapas restaurant in America. But here, in the high mountains, with Spain below us, tapas seem somehow unadulterated and re-appealing. Here, tapas are what they are supposed to be: unassuming accompaniments to an evening. We work and eat, talk and eat, drink and eat. It's been a welcome and sudden revelation - descending into the Iberian peninsula, discovering a cuisine that we knew but had somehow forgotten.

Above: sardines, codfish fritters and a plate of "pica pica." This last thing is something meat-addicted people should order... and everyone else should avoid.

The Andorra Ferrari Convention

At one time - before I could actually drive a car - I could have told you the exact horsepower output, zero-to-sixty times, top speed and general desirability of every Ferrari in production. Nowadays, I don't even know the names of the different models. It was thus only mildly exciting when the 5th annual "concentración Ferrari" arrived in Andorra, and the streets and valleys began to vibrate and thrum under the onslaught of pistons and tailpipes.
There's a nostalgic charm about the way people worship the cult of the supercar. It's reminiscent, in some ways, of antique modes of aristocracy - a car is deemed superior by birth rite, mumbled approval is given as it passes, heads are turned. They are given free reign and police escorts as they rumble along closed roads, speeding expected, laws not applicable. We stood at a bus stop with our cameras one morning, watching as a long procession screamed along the main Andorran road, dozens of (mostly) red, sleek things traveling at high speed and full clamor. It seems impossible, but we could actually feel the heat of the engines as they whizzed past. Mystifying and slightly gross.
Really, this is the culture of car longing. Ferrari has retail stores all across the globe, selling branded polo shirts and sneakers, pens and luggage, watches and cufflinks. The allure of the car is the marketing ploy; the red glow extends eventually to knickknacks. Although the concentración probably boosted sales, the Ferrari store in Andorra is almost always busy. The owners of the cars wore special red and yellow fleeces, given to them by the event organizers, unavailable to the public, the distinguishing marks of the elite.

It must be a strange convention to attend, a kind of fellowship of the envied and the gas-guzzlers. One wonders if there is jealousy within their ranks, if the older owners look down on the recent-purchasers, if they talk about their Ferraris or about Andorra or about something less mythical.
The convention ended on Sunday, but a few stragglers have still been growling around the mountains. Parked, they draw perhaps even more attention than they do when driven. Maybe that's because empty seats are easier to imagine sitting in, or because they are suddenly, curiously inanimate. Admittedly - even now that my lust for them has dissipated with age - a revving, moving, exhaust-scented Ferrari is still captivating in a way that few other vehicles are. At rest, though, there's something hair-raising about their stillness, as though they might suddenly awaken of their own accord and pounce.
A less publicized and more romantic (for us) convention of Volkswagen bugs and vans was held in Andorra on the same weekend. We joked that it was organized to protest the Ferraris - a populist uprising, maybe - and that Andorra was much too small for all of this driving. It doesn't take long to traverse the main road and suddenly come up against a border. Why hold a car "concentración" in such a small, congested place? Possibly - and this is especially pertinent for Ferrari drivers - because gas is about €1.50 per gallon cheaper in Andorra than it is in France.

Smells Like Andorran Spirit

There are a lot of perfume stores in Andorra. Too many, really. I was expecting the liquor and cigarette stores, but fragrances? Apparently, they're a big draw. Like alcohol and tobacco, the amount you're allowed to bring out of the country is based on volume, not worth. Doesn't it seem odd that non-addictive smelly stuff could be treated in a sort of sexy contraband way? Andorra's shopping is not about small boutiques and "finds," it's about having everything that there is to have for less. As I commented to Merlin when a salesman at the Intersport produced a manila envelope with a replacement tent pole for our 2003 North Face Tadpole 23, "this is shopping Nirvana!"
Well, in said nirvana, there are fifty-five perfume megastores. That's one per 3.3 square miles (about). To give you some perspective, McDonalds, Burger King and Subway combined have one location per 83.5 square miles of America. Twenty-one of the 55 stores are Júlia Perfumeries, whose white and green shopping bag is as omnipresent as a Century 21 bag in Manhattan. Júlia herself, Júlia Bonet i Fité, is considered one of the forerunners of modern Andorran commerce. She started her first hair salon/perfumery at seventeen years old in 1939. When the demand for foreign products became evident, Júlia found ways to get them into the country and into her store, traveling to France herself and making other deals - personifying the "buy foreign products here in Andorra" model.
The Júlia Foundation started Andorra's Perfume Museum in 2004. It has 25,000 pieces in its collection, of which about 1,000 are on display. There are perfume bottles galore, some of which seem particularly Andorran. There was the Lucky Strike scent and the Flor de Havana with a bottle shaped like a pack of cigars. The museum was lined with glass cases flecked with colors and shapes, all the myriads of marketing strategies used for fragrance over the centuries. We walked around with audioguides that explained a few numbered items. My takeaway - it's always been fashion before fragrance. Back in the day, it was about getting Dalí or Warhol or whoever else to make a bottle and then fill it with something. Nowadays, it's about putting a dab of Alexander McQueen, Tom Ford or Versace behind your wrist - all of whom make exclusive fragrances for Júlia Perfumerie in Andorra.
There were also a number of items for sale. "12,000 euros," our guide said while pointing to a bottle shaped like Buddha. Well, the border cops sure would be fooled! You're not allowed to bring more than 525 euros of goods out of the country, but you are allowed to bring 75 grams of perfume indiscriminate of price. We sat in a room, darkened by a pulled curtain, to watch an informative video. As it went through various eras and profiled certain icons in perfume's history (Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette, Napoleon, etc), items in the room were lit with a follow spot. They really do have a cool collection of paraphernalia. The narration was only done in French, Catalan or Spanish, so I can't relay any tidbits.
The front room was dedicated to the science of fragrance making. This is precisely what deterred us from visiting initially. Neither of care much for scents and the idea of an olfactory museum experience wasn't very enticing. We went around, uncorking scent tubes to smell the aroma being highlighted. Vanilla, coffee, patchouli, cinnamon, musk, lavender, etc. After the go around, we were encouraged to play a computer game in which we smelled fragrances and identified its notes. Another option was to create our concoction from ingredients. We've never seen anything like the wheel of vials that powered the game. At the end of it, Merlin had a headache and my recently ailing sinuses were cleared - - but it was fun.
Perhaps the most intriguing fixture in Andorra's perfume culture is the perfumerie near the border town of Pas de la Casa. I couldn't find any information about this place. I can only tell you that it's next door to an Andorran product mall and a distillery that specializes in Pastis. You walk in and see & smell fragrance culture galore. There are huge copper stills lining the roof and these glass jars along one wall - it's the homemade stuff, labeled by aroma. The rest of the store is filled with soaps, cream, incense, bath salts, etc. It was the smelliest place we'd been to on our self-guided perfume tour - because, luckily, as Merlin remarked, "we escaped attack by atomizer."

The Luck of the Irish

Really, we were the lucky ones. Andorra played the Republic of Ireland in a sold out match on Friday and we happened to be camping right above the stadium. When we pulled up to pitch in the afternoon, just about every police officer in Andorra was surrounding the grounds. "We're just camping," we explained to the first row. "Here for camping!" to the second. "We're in a tent up there," we told them when we came back through later. "Yes, yes, camping," they all said, pointing us through on our final trip. We couldn't have been more a part of the action.
Except, of course, if we were Irish. The first green shirts were spotted in town that morning. We thought it was amazing that those guys traveled all the way here for the game. Little did we know that busloads would arrive and congregate outside the stadium for hours before the game. It was a big match for them, bigger than for Andorra. Both teams are in Group B of the UEFA Euro 2012 qualifiers - and Ireland is just a win or two away from securing their spot. Andorra, on the hand, is an underdog, as the friendly old man who runs our campsite explained with a hand up near his forehead for Ireland and a hand down near his knees for Andorra.
Beers were carried from the campsite bar over across the street, where the Irish supporters had hung up flags and a banner that read "YES WE CAN!" The game didn't start until 9:30, but the singing started around seven. When it rained for a little while, the singing got louder. Close to game time, the Andorran supporters (who we'd assumed were just having an 'early' dinner) had still not arrived in any great number. We were invited down to join Team Ireland, but would have felt a little bit like traitors. Plus, we had a paella to make.
When the rain stopped at the start of the match, this rainbow crossed the sky. Dare I say there was a pot of gold underneath. Two quick goals put the Irish up 2-0 in the first twenty minutes of the game - a fact we surmised by the roar of the crowd in the distance. The tiny stadium's stands were almost completely green. Just to give you a little perspective: The other Group B stadiums (Armenia, Slovakia, Russia, Macedonia and Ireland) hold an average of 31,000 people. Ireland's is the biggest of the bunch, with 50,411 seats. The Estadi Comunal in Andorra la Vella holds 500. You could say that enthusiasm seemed to be relative.
The campsite owner had introduced us to this police officer earlier in the night and we'd been given permission to come over and watch. At that hour, before the game had started, a specific spot was pointed out for us beneath the glow of the stadium light - presumably, so no one could see us there from below. By the time we arrived later, with the match in progress and the Andorrans struggling, no one seemed to care that we were there. Other campers were huddled around with umbrellas and the police chatted casually to each other.
Andorra's more of a winter sports country - and roller hockey, interestingly. Their national soccer team is about as good as any country's would be working with such a small population. It doesn't mean they don't like the sport. We've seen pick-up games like this one a few times and heard rowdy matches going on at recess. It just means that most Andorrans were probably not heartbroken about the 2-0 loss to the Republic of Ireland. To be honest, we were a little relieved. I doubt we would have gotten much sleep had their been a huge upset. And it would have been a very sad, long bus ride home for a lot of fans.

Gypsy Kitchens: Camping Paella

In Catalan, "paella" means "pan," and can refer to a wide variety of dishes. Here in Andorra, it seems that every home and restaurant has their own version, all of them delicious. On one of our first days in the principality, we were lucky enough to eat a little of the "gran paella popular" at the Fira del Roser, in Sant Julia de Loriadav.

There was a time in our lives when we made a lot of paella. Using a multitude of ingredients and a two-step, range and oven method, we complicated and elongated the process until it was much more difficult than it should have been. Then, on a canoe trip a few years back, a breakthrough: paella can be extremely simple. This is our recipe for camping paella, which calls for no fresh ingredients and can be made using one burner (or a campfire) and a very moderate amount of effort.

In a kitchen, there's no substitute for live clams and mussels, raw shrimp, market fish, parsley, fresh peas and all the rest. But outside, without refrigeration, those ingredients become problematic. Instead of fresh vegetables and shellfish, chicken and sausage, everything here is canned or semi-non-perishable. Rice is a given; onion, garlic and lemon are hardy enough; canned peas and peppers add plenty of flavor.

We used canned octopus, squid, shrimp claws (a real find), mussels and clams. None of these are necessary, and the only one that's suggested is the tinned clams, because their juice is so integral (if clams aren't your thing, consider buying a small container of clam juice). Any tinned, canned or jarred shellfish should work well - canned cod could also add something, even sardines in a pinch. Drain the fish, discarding packing oil but retaining any other liquid. Also drain the peas and peppers, discarding the liquid. Cut the peppers into small pieces.
Chop one large onion and brown in olive oil, peanut oil or butter. Add a few cloves of minced garlic and cook for a few moments, then add more oil and two cups of rice. Cook the rice, stirring occasionally, until the edges of the grains become translucent. Add three cups, combined, of the retained fish liquid (or clam juice) and water. Use no more than a cup of fish liquid. Also add a heavy pinch of saffron. Stir everything together and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cook the rice (uncovered) until nearly done - about fifteen or twenty minutes. Although this is rice-cooking blasphemy, make sure to stir every now and then to prevent the bottom from sticking - the added sugars from the onion can cause the mixture to burn.
When the rice is almost done, stir in the vegetables and seafood and cook just until warmed and tender. Before removing from the heat, stop stirring, turn the heat to high and toast the bottom of the rice until fragrant (about a minute and a half). This last step creates the mythical "socarrat" char at the bottom of the pan, which any highly-regarded paella is supposed to have.

A note on pans: a wide, shallow pan - like a cast iron skillet - is ideal and traditional, but a narrower, deeper pot can work well too. We actually cooked our paella in a cast iron pot and finished it in a ceramic dish, but that's because it's cold and windy here in the mountains, and we couldn't cook the rice very well in a pan.
Normally, paella is served in one big dish, which everyone eats from with forks, spoons and fingers. Squeeze lemon over the top and eat hot, relishing the fishiness and the socarrat.

Here's the recipe:

Camping Paella

Ingredients:

2 cups rice, preferably arborio or similar

5-8 tins, cans or small jars of shellfish, cephalopods or fish (with an emphasis on clams and mussels)

1 can peas

1 tin peppers

1 large onion

3 cloves garlic

1 lemon

Olive or peanut oil, or butter, or some combination of each

Pinch saffron

Process:

- Open and drain all cans, retaining any water-based fish liquid, but discarding any oil and the vegetable packing liquid.

- Slice peppers into small pieces. Cut any larger pieces of seafood into manageable chunks.

- Chop onion, finely-mince garlic, heat about 3 tbs. oil (or butter) in pan or pot.

- Sautee the onion in the oil until lightly browned, add more oil and stir in rice. Cook rice until translucent at edges, then add 3 cups, combined, water and fish-liquid. Use no more than 1 cup fish liquid.

- Add a heavy pinch of saffron and stir, then bring water to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and let cook - stirring occasionally once somewhat thickened - until rice is nearly done. Add small amounts of water if liquid disappears before rice is done.

- Stir in seafood and vegetables and let warm/cook until rice is tender. Stop stirring, turn heat to high and toast the bottom of the mixture until just fragrant, about 1 or 1 1/2 minutes.

- Remove from the heat and serve with wedges of lemon.

The sign of success - socarrat.

In Casa Cristo

Our tour guide, Robert, didn't know why this house-cum-museum in Encamp, Andorra is named "The House of Christ," either. It sure wasn't the name of the last family that lived here. Maybe - gasp - the first? All kidding aside - places like this, that offer a look into how people lived at a certain time, are usually over-stylized. Sometimes, they're flat out reproductions. But Casa Cristo is simply a family's house left exactly as it was when they emigrated to France in 1947. The yellow calendar hanging on the wall verifies this fact. On the table, below it, is a porró, a tradition Catalan wine pitcher from which wine is poured right into the mouth.
After the family left, taking their bible but leaving a book about saints, the home remained shuttered for almost 50 years. In 1995, it was turned into a museum. The building itself was built in the 19th century, which is why I was surprised that they didn't just go back in time and represent life in the 1800s inside its walls. Instead, it is just a little museum that is truthful and simple, offering a glimpse at life without the weight of historic relevance or broader cultural significance. Robert was just about to close up for Casa Cristo's midday break when we walked/ducked through the door. (This house was not designed for tall-ish people). He was very friendly, nonetheless, and invited us in for a quick walkaround, which turned into a twenty minute tour with a lot of "watch your heads." He clearly likes the place and still finds it fascinating to poke through its belongings. This was a box of "various tools" stashed up in the attic. There was also a haycutter that resembled some sort of half-stocks half-guillotine contraption and a lot of fishing net repair equipment. In the corner was one of the smallest, loveliest woodstoves I've ever seen and a family sized foot warming ring. Also present, big blocks of homemade soap and a bunch of tobacco leaves hung up to dry.
It was bigger than we'd expected from a place billed as "a typical poor Andorran home." Bare, but comfortable. The parents' room was next door to the grandmother's room, which was a little larger, closer to the stove and adorned with photos of children and hanging black dresses. "She always wore black!" Robert chuckled as if it were his own silly grandma. He showed us a secret drawer in the mistress of the house's desk and the heavy, pure silver 5 pesos coin inside. There were old linens and christening gowns that dated back a hundred years , lace-making needles and various personal effects.
It was a lot of fun to look around at all of Casa Cristo's relics: old condiments tins, flour sifters, guns and umbrellas, photographs. Rushing through like we were, it felt like we were sneaking around someone's house while they were out. We only touched the things Robert handed to us and did so with a sense of mischievousness. The one or two things that were added or changed for effect were pointed out to us. That tobacco did not look like it had been drying for 64 years. But he seemed as happy as we were about the fact that it's really just a very good dusting job. A snapshot more than a doll's house.
Here is the family's fine china, set out for all to see. Displayed in a large piece of furniture at the center of the kitchen/dining/living room, it was a point of pride; the closest thing to "decoration" in this simple, utilitarian but sweet home. Underneath, was a cupboard, which Robert opened to reveal their "real dishes." Pots and pans and plates were piled up and well-worn. Mrs. "Cristo" probably would have been horrified that we saw it. Give me an ethnographic museum served on tin instead of porcelain any day.