Bridging the Distance

If you enjoy this, please read the sequel, "Remember to Roll" .

If you would like to view pictures of the Island to which I refer in this story, Sao Miguel, Azores please link to, http://www.theazores.net

Ilha Verde - Green Island

(Bridging the Distance)

Though I have often taken to flight in the tranquil depths of my sleep, I have seldom taken to sleep while in flight. And still, in my sleepless slumber, my feet are firmly planted in the place I am from. How unusual, this purgatory between sleep and awareness, where life neither is nor is not, and Fortune lets you look her straight in the eyes. You are fooled into thinking you can grasp at thin air, and pull yourself up to the dream you desire, and time moves so fast that your future is your past, - then a voice from above calls you to where you are now, over land, over sea…who beckons me now that I can smell my delusion; - Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the island of Sao Miguel, you may see it in its entirety from the right-hand side of the plane, which my random seating assignment, heavy eyed as I am, so effectively allows me to view. We will be landing in Ponta Delgada in just a few minutes, the local time is 4:20pm, says the pilot, as we are told to resume our seats and buckle our seat-belts in preparation for landing. Senhoros e senhoras, the pilot has requested…, resounds the slender stewardess in near perfect Portuguese, as she repeats what the pilot has said, keeping Four, Four time with her right foot, clearly from a prepared score, but with full accreditation to the pilot as if he were the author of this credulous prose which she would avoid plagiarizing in fear of the full consequence of aviation law. She is polite and gracious, but no more so than is called for in her manual, page so-and-so, next to which is probably pictured a Platonic smile no mortal can replicate, but which, to her credit, she painfully attempts. Perhaps she is tired, perhaps the Azores is not home for her and her unenthusiastic attempt at a smile bears the weight of a return crossing of the Atlantic, to Toronto.

The plane has landed safely and her somber contentment soon turns to surprise as a loud round of applause erupts from the uneasy quietness that cloaked every seat just moments ago. The applause reveals the widespread appreciation of a faultless landing, which was not flawless at all, but instead rather bumpy and the brakes were applied much too hastily, but in fair and necessary proportion to the limited size of the runway. Nevertheless, to a crowd that has not entirely embraced the routine matter of flight and are happy to have landed alive, the safe landing is worthy of applause. The resonant applause also has at its roots the jubilant feeling, borne by all, though each for his own reasons, at returning to the land of their birth. Many have come home to visit, anxious to flaunt the riches of grace and knowledge and resolve their absence has conferred upon them, but some have returned to stay, having diminished their bodies while cutting the Earth, and pouring in it their misspent youth in the hope of accumulating some modest wealth and returning home before their death.

The island immigrant is the elephant of man, and he will not die abroad, but by the misfortune of finding the Reaper of Life at his own doorstep, waiting in patient merriment, as He is apt to do if He is unwelcome and not expected. Thus surprised, the desolate immigrant will come to be buried in the Land where he falls, though his family will respectfully light a candle in his memory, at the altar of Igreja de Sao Pedro, at least annually, if not more often. The fortunes of these passengers are modest, evidence of which the women adorn in the form of fake furs and gaudy costume jewelry, but sufficiently large to allow them to retire in relative comfort, in the place of their birth, amongst their brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousins many layers deep, all of whom will share in the spoils of used Levi’s and instant coffee and such other icons of North American wealth as maximum luggage limitations will allow. For the most part, this is a land of common people, but it holds a wealth for me beyond any small fortune I could amass and I will come to learn this during my short visit.

The applause continues but at a slowing pace. It differs from the initial applause in much the same manner the rapid lavish ovation marking the end of a symphony concert differs from that which marks the end of the encore performance, often interrupted by the scattered search for personal belongings and misplaced car keys, under murmured pleas to Saint Anthony of Padua, the patron Saint to lost souls and earrings alike, and not to be confused with that Egyptian hermit, Saint Anthony, who, though in possession of similar heavenly powers, would find it most displeasing to be summoned amongst this crowd. The applause is now in recognition that the performance is indeed over and the plane has not landed, rather our island has risen from its curtsey to meet the plane. Bravo, we are home!

My infant daughter manages to remain asleep, even as many of the fake furs and trinket filled leatherette pouches boisterously assemble with their respective owners into the narrow urethra of the plane, awaiting ejaculation into the uterus of their collective birth. The womb of my birth. No-one leaves, however, without first accepting and then returning a pleasant nod with the stewardess, who, I am convinced, is simply counting the number of remaining passengers before she can be relieved of her duty. By the time I reach the door the pilot has joined her. He too mimics the perfect smile - Plato would be proud. Everyone else, however, is genuinely happy and they run to embrace their families as my wife and I collect our luggage, secure our six month old daughter, and deliver ourselves into a small taxi cab. No one has come to meet us, for no one knows we are here. We have come to surprise our respective families. We have no fake furs or instant coffee, our only fortune is being bottle fed in the crowded back seat of this undersized Ford Fiesta, so well suited to the narrow underdeveloped cobblestone roads of our youth but less well suited to the carry-on baggage required to keep a baby happy and alive.

As we leave the Aeroporto de Ponta Delgada, the car squeals and slides through the narrow cobblestone roads, slipping in and out of randomly available, but surprisingly arranged parking slots by the side of the road which so timely accommodate oncoming traffic that could otherwise not pass, at least not without first killing all of its accustomed and unsuspecting passengers, and us, the wide-eyed and cautiously attentive surprise visitors. The driver takes us west on Avenida Antero Quental, which, save for a couple of name changes, Rua Jacome Correia and Rua Jose do Canto, runs straight through to Rua da Arquinha where we head north. Many streets here share several proper names for there is so much history to honor and so little land to do it with. We turn left where Rua da Faja de Cima and Rua da Faja de Baixo fork and we are there. No, I did not commit these lengthy street names to memory from the uncomfortable front seat of this undersized taxi cab, for it was moving much too fast for me to notice anything more than a double speed visual of my youth and what seemed a highly edited version of my life, passing before my eyes. Little did I know then that this visit would offer ample opportunity to recapture sufficient frames from the cutting room floor to affect the plot of a life still to unfold. I came to memorize these long and historic street names soon after my arrival, in the hope of finding my way around during days of family visits and sightseeing. People here cheat death each time they drive, perhaps a sense of longevity, like the wine offering in the centuries old gold chalice at Igreja de Sao Sebastiao, has been falsely ingrained within them. I find this to be contagious and I will soon rent and then borrow a car and discover myself racing through these narrow streets which, not so long ago, could scarcely accommodate a horse and carriage.

It is difficult to find a horse and carriage now, progress has dealt all the horses in favor of Ford Fiesta’s and other small European cars. I soon will come to detect other evidence of progress not present when I last set foot here, like the HiperMercado which has displaced the local grocer, the family run appliance and clothing retailer and, the television, which has displaced children from Jardin de Antonio Borges, known for its unique accommodation of a rare arboreal collection from locations not otherwise connected, and other local parks. Oh yes, and progress, with its unstoppable cavalry of technology, has slaughtered many common working folk, reducing them to street beggars. A young widow in black, with a newborn baby steadfastly clinging to her barren breast, will beg for whatever few escudos still occupy my left pocket as I walk out of Café Mascote, and, an old woman begs silently, she does not approach, but sits motionless on the steps of an historic church, Igreja da Matriz, as if she were cemented in with the commemorative stones in 1547, her helpless plight evident in her quiet detachment from the hustle and bustle around her. She begs loudly, yet we cannot hear her for she is silent. I remember her vividly, though I cannot see her face. She sits listlessly, her black shawl brimmed forward over her forehead, casting an equally dark shadow over her features, like the Grim Reaper having resigned his position and siting apologetically at the steps of God’s first house, seeking forgiveness from those candle bearers whose brothers he so untimely beguiled with a similar, though more jubilant stance, at their own front steps. She had no face yet I shall never forget her. I cannot always explain why certain events secure permanence in our memory and become engraved to our being like a childhood scar, unseen and forgotten for years, yet presently there when unexpectedly triggered by a familiar taste or sound, or the fragrance of a flower since withered away. I suppose such events are not meant to be forgotten - an immortal scar on a child’s left index finger. Perhaps such events are not forgotten because they carry with them deep emotions, or make for an amusing anecdote or, perhaps, they fashion one’s personal development - pillars on which one is forever climbing in pursuit of maturity. We will once again be directed to this poor old woman before this story comes to an end, but first we must resume our cab ride to preserve the congruity of our story.

Less than twenty minutes after we entrusted our lives to our taxi cab driver we are greeted with open arms by my wife’s aunt who, unshaken by the surprise, quickly assembles enough space in her little home to accommodate her niece, her grandniece and a complete stranger, me. This is the way of our people. We are an accommodating people. An annual religious event known as the Romeiros best demonstrates this characteristic and, in-fact, propagates it: - a group of penitent men traverse the island in search of forgiveness for their sins, the sins of their family and the sins of those who could not be bothered to join them. With only a monk’s robe on their back and a rosary to keep count of their prayers and the passage of time, as each bead is rolled under the left thumb-nail and passed into an accommodating palm with the regularity of a proper wall-clock, weary Romeiros will drop in unannounced and randomly upon unsuspecting homes and they are always greeted with a warm meal, a cup of tea and a dry bed on which to spend the night. The following morning they depart in the comfort of a full stomach and piece of mind, leaving reparation in the form of a Hail Mary and an Our Father to fortify the home of their keepers. I have not prayed in years and fear I am light on God’s good Grace, perhaps I can buy her aunt a nice gift instead.

We are a nomadic people, how else would we have come to be on this small island, Sao Miguel, Acores, nearly six hundred years ago, in the middle of the Atlantic, close to no-one but God. Nomadic people are obliging and, like the rosary bead as it is rolled with ease from thumb to awaiting palm, we are easily accommodated, I have anecdotal evidence of this.

My wife and I both left this place when we were ten years of age, I in 1973 and she in 1974. We did not know each other then but were brought together in Toronto by chance, or possibly by Destiny, that agent of Time and sister of Fortune, trusted to deliberate as She sees fit, for how else would two kids, from an island who counts less than forty thousand as its own, come to meet in a city of five million. As with any immigrant and nomad, we each experienced several trials and tribulations and many set-backs that would break the will of most people, but not the will of the nomad. The nomad expects little but the security of his family, and little but death can break his back. But let me not digress, and return to our trip, lest I lose the little attention you have so graciously allowed thus far.

In the days that follow I am equally well greeted by my own aunts and uncles and the many layers of my own clan. I am reminded about my youth on the island, I am reminded of the many family members I resemble and those I do not and I am advised of the many achievements my extended family members have come to yield in my long absence - a lawyer, a nurse and a government administrator. I am reminded of the day I left with my family, but they do not need to remind me of this childhood scar, as I have never forgotten it.

My memory starts with what were most likely the days preceding our departure, though how many I can no longer count. I remember resisting the momentum and I remember the feeling of despair in having no say in it. I remember the friends whose faces I have come to forget, I remember the unbreakable grasp my grandmother had on me as we left her doorstep which she, herself, would not leave for fear of facing the unbearable realness of our future, but this tightest of grasps could not secure her past. I remember the saltiness of the ocean rolling off of her eyes and onto my lips. This was my world too, the only world I knew outside of that which Hollywood so graphically displayed each Sunday morning at Theatro Maritimo, but this world, so many layers deep, was no longer wide enough for us. My parents were sold the merits of the prosperous new world by two of my father’s sisters who had preceded our own emigration. My parents were, no doubt, convinced by the eloquent description of the largesse and wealth of Canada, Toronto to be more precise, such evidence present only in the neat and childlike writings of his sisters, methodically wrapped in well selected photographs and tightly squeezed into an undersized envelope, the stamps licked with great care and uniformly filed each by the other, summing to the exact amount of cents required to ensure delivery and not more; with corroborating evidence contributed by Jimmy Dean and Grace Kelly and other ambassadors of the Silver Screen. We were mail-order immigrants - bought a future sight-unseen. Unlike so many disheartened owners of catalogue sea monkeys and Mexican jumping beans, however, we made out just fine - we always do, for the expectations of the immigrant are invariably low and his desire to succeed disproportionately high, a formulation well suited to minimize discontent.

It was less than two years after our arrival in Toronto that our apartment and, with it, all of the few possessions we had come to accumulate, burned down in a fire. The fire took nearly everything, even my father’s wedding ring, respectfully laid by the side of his bed, for his fingers, once accustomed to the soft fabric and wool of retail employment, had swelled with the arduous labor of a lake-side lumber yard. Not a tear was shed, at least not in my presence. The fire became nothing more than an episode in our lives, a scene in the movie unfolding before us, demanding no more or less attention than any other family event for which we all gather in respect or promotion of and after which we each disperse to our normal goings-on. The fire came and went, as did our few possessions, but we were all alive and well and thankful to our neighbors who brought us oversized sweaters and unisex jeans and fur lined rubber boots to ease the affect of the weather and, until the apartment was again habitable, we were accommodated by family, the same that obliged upon our first arrival.

We would prosper again, within our limited range of expectation, and soon come to own and then be forced to sell a house, providing supplementary evidence that monetary policy does work, and rising interest rates, like a raging fire, can force the common man into the streets. We would retreat to a small apartment and rebuild. To this day I do not recall a tear of resentment or a sigh of resignation, just the marking of an episode or a chapter in our book. We would come to live, for a period of time, in a two room attic, a living-room, with a pull-out sofa, served as a bedroom for the four kids, two to the bed and I on the floor, comforted by the closeness of family and periodically awakened by a rodent visit. The second room, a kitchen, was neatly divided by a curtain that hung from a makeshift line, behind which was the double bed my parents shared with my infant sister. That was home, and had a Romeiro dropped in unannounced we would have found him a small hard corner on which to lay his tired bones and his sore body would have parted us the following morning leaving behind what little he could afford of his allotment of the grace of God. But I do not wish to bore you with all the episodes of our lives, nor solicit the most worthless of gifts, sympathy, I simply wish to make evident the resilience of island immigrants.

We left Sao Miguel, amongst other noted reasons, for the promise of a superior education, but I have had to return to learn one of the most precious lessons of my life, a lesson no teacher or University professor could ever instruct. Universities teach math and science and even philosophy, but they don’t teach you the importance of life and family. In Actuarial Science ‘101’ you learn how to determine when you are most likely to die, but no-one can teach you how to live your life until then. They teach you that the difference between life and death is time, but I say the difference is memory, for without memory time is but a void, and how do you measure the void if not for what it holds; Time stands still for he who has no memory. The formula tells me I will most likely die between the age of seventy five and eighty, it does not seem long enough and yet I cannot avoid pacing in dreaded anticipation as the microwave slowly consumes thirty seconds to warm my instant coffee. I should only hope that those thirty seconds would take a lifetime, then eighty years would not come so soon. My mother was right, when she said, Life is Wider than it is Long, yet we live our lives in paradox, knowing what is important but behaving otherwise. We should all be pleased for those little lessons that come at no personal expense, but reward us with immense return.

I would visit with several other family members before I find myself back at the steps of my grandmother’s old home. Well, it is no longer her old home, but a new home, occupying the essence and space of her old home, since demolished and entirely rebuilt by one of my cousins to better suit his family. A new plaque on the front door still says Rua do Negrao, 59A. We lived next door for many years, Rua do Negrao, 59, but that house, too, is no longer there. And my young neighbor’s bike that I often rode in my dreams still passes me by the front door.

With the salt of the ocean fresh on my lips, I stand on these front steps and it is as if I have never left. It seems my grandmother, just now, releases her binding grasp and relishes to see that I have not gone. Freed, but briefly, from the timelessness of a hug long ago, I am able to hear the many neighborhood passersby exclaiming the various merits of this beautiful new home, but I smell the old home and I see only the old home - I miss her greatly, and I am invited in, for there is no more credible invitation than an open door. I accept and walk through what would have been her door, had it not, as it does now, support an entirely different living space. I am obliged to look to the left for there is where I last saw my grandfather, in what used to be a guest room and the room in which death rested its sorry feet the night before it took him away from us, for even death must sleep from time to time, but never long enough for us to notice. My only other memory of him is with me, sitting on his lap, as he ate a meal of bread crust, which he so carefully scaled from the morning delivery of fresh bread and then covered it in butter while sipping a cup of tea. I am troubled that these memories surface in the form of one or two black and white motionless frames, unlike so many of my more recent memories. I suppose with the passage of time memories first come to lose motion and then color and, I fear, eventually come to be nothing more than a passing thought, an empty feeling, a sense of deja-vu to which we cannot confidently attribute an origin and are forced to posit a past life or a dream. We should not forget that memories are not entirely our own, but communal property of those who have shared them, a bond between men, destined to weaken as the present becomes the past, or abruptly broken by death, from whom, even mother Time, vast as she is, cannot keep them intact. I wonder if my grandfather was thinking of me when death startled him that day. Perhaps he saw me in my red woolen sweater and waving short brown hair, with butter freshly smeared on my nose, laughing and gasping as I bounced on his knee. That memory belonged to him too. I have no other memory of him and, with only one of us left to secure it, I cling to these few frames with all of my might for fear I grow old in their absence.

I was four years old when my grandfather died. My dad and I were watching a local soccer match, at the neighborhood Campo de Futebol, when the declaration was delivered by he who was little known to me but well enough known to my dad to whisper in his ear the news of my grandfathers passing, for the weight of such a message can only be justly carried by the profoundness of friendship. He had died unexpectedly and by the time we arrived at home, only minutes away, he was already laying in this space, then a guest bedroom, a white cloth overlaid on his forehead. I had often seen a similar, alcohol laden, cloth on the heads of other family members, bewailing not death but a mere headache. Perhaps my grandfather had complained of a headache just before he died and, in the shock of the moment, for he had just died, no-one could think to remove it. There were candles lit around him, their flames flickering from the flutter of women’s prayers surrounding him. They wasted no time in assisting his entry into heaven. I later recalled whispers that, as they changed him into his parting clothes, his neatly pressed army uniform, they noticed his penis had rescinded, a sure sign of sainthood - their prayers must have worked, although I suspect a medical reason for the circumstance, though I have never looked into it.

As I progress into the house I can still smell the musty old kitchen in which she cooked many of my favorite meals, I can smell the humidity of the old stone walls covered in flaking clay and I can smell the confusing aroma of the various medicines she took daily to control her many ailments, though they proved insufficient to preserve her life. I can smell the history in this house. What is it about a molecule of smell that can so effectively encapsulate the past, so effectively encase memory, allowing it to be disbursed often randomly or when your being is so disposed? I am now in a new, much more open living area, being shown the quality furniture that my cousins have accumulated, yet all I see is the old closet that once occupied but a corner of this space, where I often hid from her in childish glee, cloaked in darkness and an olfactory blanket of old clothes and retired ornaments, pleasantly awaiting the suffocating hug that would ensue upon my discovery. Though there is no closet here today, this space remains unchanged to me, the closet having been encapsulated in the musty smell of my grandmother’s old house. Today this house, as so many others like it, smells of carpet deodorizer, fabric softener and Channel Number Five. We are becoming a world of common smells. Progress, often through one of its disciples, the HiperMercado, has delivered homogenized smell to every house and person and has displaced individuality and soon, I fear, memory.

I notice the Kitchen window is still where it used to be but it is much larger now. I remember shaving by the light of the old window when I last visited her. I propped up a small mirror that barely reflected back my entire face as I unsuccessfully attempted a bloodless shave. She had no other mirrors in the house, at least none that I could easily find. I have come to notice that old people avoid mirrors. The young are forever observing themselves, looking for pleasing characteristics and identifying areas for improving their still impressionable selves. But old people don’t look at mirrors for they offer no pleasing news, no hope of change, the reflection no longer impressionable. Mirrors remind the elderly of lost youth and impending death. She knows she is old and needs no further reminder. What harm does she cause in her attempts to cheat death by not letting it stare her flat in the eyes. We think we will live forever, but, despite the mild trickery of turning right into left and left into right, the mirror tells no further lies - sometimes mirrors carry too much truth. When we are young life seems an infinity and we are not old until infinity is the present and we refuse to look in the mirror. Anyway, this new window reflects too much light for a good shave.

We move into the yard which is much the same as it was, except for the chickens are gone and they have planted roses in their stead. The roses fill the yard with a sweet smell but I am sad because my grandmother is dead and I am afraid I will forget her smell and with it, her. My grandmother and this island have always been part of the same memory. I could not think of one without the other. She was the front steps to this island and, as Rua do Negrao, 59A will always define this living space no matter how many homes come to be built and rebuilt in its stead, so did she define this island for me. She defined all my memories of this place and now those memories are scattered and I am working hard to paste them together in her absence. I find this difficult in the presence of Channel Number Five. Can life really be diminished to smell? Who will remember my smell when I am gone? I make a mental note to visit her grave before I leave. I want her to know my daughter.

My grandmother died in 1988, less than a year after I last visited her, soon after I had graduated from the University of Toronto. I spent three weeks with her and she treated me like a child. I was always a child to my grandmother. Take a sweater with you, as she would force it upon me, it is cold today. We were in the heat of summer and the humidity was unbearable, but I accommodated her out of respect and because it was my nature. I was glad I accommodated her, she was pleased. I wish I could be a child in her presence again for if that were possible she would still be alive. This day is sad because now I know she died, she must have for we all cried in absentia, but we were half way around the world and reality escapes you unless you are there, and now I am here.

It was not until two days before we parted that I gathered the necessary courage to face her death. But I must not skip ahead and instead ask for your patience as I return to a more chronologically correct passing of my trip to this beautiful Island, so fertile in history, in memory and in sadness - perhaps this is why they call it Ilha Verde, the Green Island, perhaps, instead, they named it thus, simply because of its floral beauty, its rich green fern so randomly dispersed amongst sugar cane and tobacco fields, its crystal blue volcanic lakes framed in stark white hydrangea, its steam filled sulfurous geysers bursting through its delicate terrain, its red dust road stops along azalea lined roads, or its deep cut bluffs that meet the clean Atlantic waters that feed it daily. Perhaps I am too sentimental and the island is simply green, it surely looks so as you approach it from the sky. God, from his vantage point, could call it none other.

I occupy several days trying to learn all that has happened since I last visited. I make attempts at reading the local newspapers, although I have not read in Portuguese in nearly twenty four years; so-and-so has died after a long battle with this-and-that, the HiperMercado is adding another wing and soon will displace Tabacaria Esperanca, and preparations are underway for the four century old Procession, Procissao do Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, which is to be televised in Toronto, two months ago, May 13th, as it so correctly is reported in this dated periodical. If time permitted I could read nearly six centuries of news, six centuries of life – I feel grand knowing I am born of this history, so neatly retained on these pages. Newspapers are the keepers of history, the keepers of life. Life comes and goes, but not before it passes through these coarse off-white pages, leaving on them a black residue in neatly centered typeset, as evidence of its existence, of its passing. And this collection of life sits neatly stacked and tied together by an old tassel of rope, the kind that might have held together a bundle of hay or helped to support a poor man’s pants before it was retired to this quiet job of holding together our lives. Perhaps heaven is a collection of archives where the residue of life is held as evidence of its past existence. Perhaps the thin old man who escorted me in and politely showed me to the reading area in the Biblioteca e Arquivo de Ponta Delgada, is a disciple of God, an angel. We will meet up with yet another angel before our trip is over.

We spent several more days being passed like a worn soccer ball from relative to relative. No-one will accept the responsibility of eluding the Romeiros for it would be uncustomary and ungodly and, well, people might talk.

It is a week into our stay now, which so practically marks the mid point of our visit, and we have come into the possession of my wife’s cousins. They will take us to dinner at an out-of-the way country restaurant so few visitors have heard of, but rich in local culture and the food is said to be divine. This point in time, marking also the midpoint of our story, offers me an opportunity to break and thank you for your patience and ask that you consider taking temporary leave of our orator, reader relationship and join me, before dinner, in a tour of this lovely piece of paradise, that which Plato placed beyond the Pillars of Hercules and Plutarch referred to as the ‘Atlantic Islands’; - Atlantis?, not more than a dot on the face of the globe but a satisfying world onto itself when you are here. I will take care not to bring you to those places I have already taken you to, unless we happen to be passing by and you note it thus, and I will also be pleased to advise you when it is appropriate again to resume our original roles.

I will embrace the liberty afforded the orator and take license over time, topography and geographical continuity in order that I may cover much of this island before dinner. I will start our tour at Rua do Negrao, 59A, because I have not been here for quite some time and I have always found this address to offer me my bearings. We will first head northeast to where Rua do Negrao tapers to a point, forming a “V” with Rua da Mae de Deus which, around the bend, runs west. At the cradle of this “V” is an old stone fountain that once refreshed passing horses, in which we will detect some water, but not from the tap which has long been inoperable, rather from the frequent rains that come as randomly and as unannounced as the Romeiro and are equally welcome, as they fill drinking tanks atop most houses and feed the foliage I will come to describe. Let’s continue west along Rua da Mae de Deus, to the right you will notice an old but well maintained two story building, painted in a milky whitewash and capped in terra cotta clay shingles. This is Escola da Mae de Deus, where I attended school as a child. You will note a two foot stone wall evenly dividing the playground, which, with the fortification of a stern leather strap, once divided the boys from the girls during recess hours. If you were here when I was a child you would have required this dividing wall to discern the sexes, for we all blended into the whitewash building in our standard issue long white lab coats, and, without deeper examination, you may have thought us to be a great number of dark haired heads running amuck in search of our bodies. Just ahead and to the left you will see Ladeira da Mae de Deus, which inclines steeply culminating in a little used church, Igreja da Mae de Deus, for the steep, slippery cobblestone walkway proves too difficult a climb for the aged, the most likely patrons of this stately manor, but a well suited grade for childish play. I will not force your limbs to such lengths but ask only that you look to the right, Ladeira da Mae de Deus, 62, for this is where I was born. I have only a few memories of this house and street, the most vivid of which involves a common game the boys played. We would wax wooden boards, sit and glide on them, letting our bodies ride the grade, while our timid stomachs remained, and we rode towards Rua da Mae de Deus where at least one of the gang would stand to warn of oncoming cars, such warning coming in the form of frenzied yells and generally spastic waving, to which we would answer by rolling off the board and clasping it with our hands. We would dare not wave the car to a stop for it might very well be a taxi cab on its way to deliver my family and I to an impending family surprise. We have not told the driver we are here for a surprise visit but he already knows it, for no-one came to meet us at the airport, where every head is greeted by its body, unless they are here to surprise, and these are his only fares.

If I had taken you right at the fountain you would have found yourself at the head of Rua do Poco which angles in a steep decline towards the wharf. You will find this descent as challenging as your ascent of Ladeira da Mae de Deus for these cobblestones are persistently slick due to the frequent rains and heavy humidity. You may want to briefly break your concentration from where your foot meets this slippery road to notice that the houses on Rua do Poco are like the others you have seen and will come to see, each running seamlessly into the other, broken only by the varying pastel colors that adorn them. You will note that the doors meet the road, save for this two-foot wide sidewalk that you are now scaling. These are a social people and they do not buffer themselves from each other with verandahs or manicured lawns, or other man-made barriers under the guise of proper landscaping. Please look there, yes, there, two windows down from where you now stand, what a wonderful opportunity we have been offered to observe a traditional courtship. He is a young fisherman having just walked up from the wharf at the foot of Rua do Poco, though he must have stopped first at Cervejaria Rotunda, for the smell of the ocean on him has been mildly diluted by a glass or two of vinho de cheiro, serving also to calm his young nerves. He stands below her on the narrow walkway we now share with him and she looks down upon him with encouraging eyes. She is framed by the pastel blue that neatly defines her window podium. With this wall between them she can remain un-chaperoned for one half hour or so, which, though insufficient to contemplate carnal pleasures, proves sufficient for him to whisper sweet nothings and for her to periodically prop her bosoms on the window sill, making known her wares and urging the process to marriage. If I can draw your attention away from the young lady and in the direction of the back yard you will note little space is wasted for leisurely play but instead you will find bananas and passion fruit and pineapple and potatoes and chickens and pigs and rabbits and all the herbs and spices you would need to dress a meal for a king or a pauper. If you are having difficulty negotiating this decline let me offer you Avenida Joao III which is less angled and paved in cement, its modernity accentuated by the four or five story apartment buildings which have increasingly lined its banks. Your step is much less challenged here and you may feel comfortable at raising your head and consuming the approaching five story stark whitewash building which will block your view of the ocean. Were it not for the discreet bars at every window, you may be fooled to think, with its pastel green trimmed windows, red clay roof and well manicured grounds, that this is yet another school and not the local prison. If you have taken sufficient care to notice the bars you must also have observed the all too evident omission of faces adorning such bars, for what shame it must be to commit a crime in paradise.

You are close enough now to hear the waves as they deliver to the prison news of wars and other adversity and the sweet whispers of lovers which the ocean has collected from its many shores abroad. Make a right and you will meet up with those who braved Rua do Poco, now at the foot of the wharf, here on Avenida Infante Dom Henrique. Our timing is good, which I must confess could not be otherwise as I have the orators control of time and space, and we will meet up with the ocean’s first delivery of fishermen this misty morning. A stream of colorful small wooden boats collect on this soft pebbled shore, expelling prematurely aged fishermen, for the salt of the ocean ages sausage and men indiscriminately, and overflowing in octopus and cod and sword fish and less dramatic but equally fresh catch, which they will lay on ice and salt in the open stone building to the right. My grandmother and I will soon be here by way of Rua do Calhau, for it is a more direct and less challenging approach. She will haggle and play one fisherman off the other complaining of freshness and size to get her price. We will have our fill this supper, but not so much that we will be forced to skip our customary late night ceia of bread and cheese and a cup of tea.

Had I taken you east from the prison, to the left and across from the prison, you would have noted Theatro Maritimo, one of three local theaters, which number more than our cemeteries, where the likes of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and the vastness of the American West are likely to be dressing the screen and from which, as children, we would rush to strap on our plastic guns and shoot mouthed bullets at each other all afternoon, Ahhhh, you got me, and I die, but only for a moment for there is no room for me at the local cemetery or for him at the prison.

As we approach the unbearably hot black sand of Praia Sao Roque, one of several volcanic-sand beaches, look to the right, one of the last houses you will notice is that of my cousin Belinha. She is very ill and we will not drop in unannounced, for even the most wearied of Romeiros respects the privacy of those under the final care of God. She has had diabetes for as long as I have known her and she will die within two years of our return to Toronto. They will find room for her at the cemetery, I suppose they always do, for Heaven or Hell will ceaselessly poach those they deem fit for their servitude. Let us go beyond the black sand beaches where rubber soled children pass soccer balls amongst themselves, and head towards Lagoa do Fogo, a placid, crystal blue volcanic lake atop a point which roughly marks the center of this island. We will pass small villages, each with a town square, one like the other, a church, a gazebo for the band and a tavern where the men spoil their health over a meal of viho de cheiro and boiled chestnuts. Let us pause for a moment and look into this village house, its size and exterior disrepair the evidence of modest means within, but its interior is contrastingly clean and fresh, for these are a proud people and a clean people and, if time permitted, we should follow this family or their descendants to come, as they emigrate into the many kitchens and living-rooms of those Toronto doctors and dentists for whom they will dispense cleanliness to make ends meet. Let us not disrupt this woman further for she must still broom her dirt floor before the sun sets. Let us continue on our way along Chinese cedar and hydrangea lined cobblestone and dirt roads, small breaks in which will let us peek at stone fenced farms and tobacco fields and multicolored azalea lined service roads where ox-drawn carriages deliver milk and cheese to those few who still don’t drive. Look to the right and you will see a sugar cane field, yes, there, you must look beyond the defensive wall of hydrangeas armed in splendid milky white and deep purple shields, their sweet colorful smell masking the otherwise offensive odors of farm life. Plato, in the darkness of his cave, could not have manufactured a more pleasant smell than that of the living potpourri surrounding our drive. Let us make our way up the steep “S” curved roads to see Lagoa do Fogo, but first let us take a detour, unknown to any other tourist, as we make our way up this volcanic mountain. There, tucked behind those trees is a captured pool of hot spring water, harnessed by wandering lovers, the young ladies, under the cover of night, having quickened to life from their blue framed existence, their embarrassed and excited faces faintly illuminated, the evidence of which lies in the multicolored residue of candle wax soothing the harshness of the surrounding stones. This secluded lover’s pond, which may prove a difficult find even for Saint Anthony of Padua, though he will undoubtedly be put to the test by a tearful mother as she discovers the absence of her virgin daughter amidst the mild trace of wine surrounding her front window, is confined by a wall of stone to which a path has been so meticulously carved as to not disturb its natural beauty, nor to give hint of blemish to mother nature in her persistent and fastidious inspection of her offspring, or any other frantic mother in pursuit of her daughter's chastity. I will take you now to the top of this tall mountain and you may gaze upon the most placid, most blue lake you will ever know. Lagoa do Fogo is the mirror upon which God reflects his image. You may descend to the lake negotiating small, worn, pathways of stone and grass and wash your face in this warm pool of blue for we still have some travel to do.

If I had taken you west from the wharf, you would come to walk along the wide boardwalks of Avenida Infante Dom Henrique, painstakingly paved in gray and white stones, each not larger than a fifty cent piece, but each so carefully placed as to create patterns and designs which will come together and move apart at a swiftness so determined by the quickness of your pace, and will surely capture your attention, but no more effectively than the many colorful yachts and their hypnotic masts at the Marina Ponta Delgada to the left, where weary American boaters are offered a last chance to dock before they come to shore in Europe or Africa. Look to the right, through the 18th Century arches known as the doors to the city, and you will see the hustle and bustle of a vibrant downtown shopping area, contradicted only by the spiritless old beggar who is still cemented to the steps of Igreja da Matriz.

Let me take you now to the far northwest, using our newfound liberty to bypass the many small towns which mirror those you have already seen in the east and to forgo the many stomach irritating “S” shaped roads which the less well equipped tourist must travel, stopping occasionally to view the heights of the escarpments from manicured, flower carpeted rest stops along the way, and just as frequently to allow their back seat passengers the dignity of vomiting in the privacy of the many berry bushes that line the roadways. We are now reaching the far northwest corner, immaculately marked by the Lagoa das Cete Cidades, yet another placid lake atop the second volcanic mountain supported by this island, distinguished not by its blueness, but by its unexpected division of blue and green, so evenly and cleanly split as to deceive the eye, created, they say, by the tears of a blue eyed princess who could not be with her green eyed shepherd. If we had more time we would descend from the view of Vista do Rei and visit one of the seven small villages which decorate the lips of this multicolored lake. Or, if not now defunct, we would refresh in the lobby of this five star French-owned hotel, whose absent patrons could not endure the stomach wrenching drive to its marble laden rooms.

I will now take you back towards the southeast shores, beyond Lagoa do Fogo, to Lagoa das Furnas, where the smell of sulfur permeates the air and hot geysers permeate its chalky gray earth. As legend has it, these large craters of burning earth have consumed unsuspecting man and beast and, if you care to throw a pebble into the depths of this large crater, you will hear their cries - as if a pebble would give a burning man cause to scream – I suppose sometimes it’s the little things that matter. Look to the right, yes there, where various flavored spring waters fall freely from the mountainside into awaiting cups to be drunk by picnickers who cook their meals in the heat of the earth beneath them. Let us now make our way to Nordeste, the northeastern most point of this island where you may rest briefly on a bed of soft moss, amongst protected floral reserves at Ponto do Sol, and gaze upon the rising sun as it imposes its majestic reflection uninterrupted across the expanse of the Atlantic, leaving its void in coastal Portugal so they too may rest, but in the comfort of their own beds. I have so much more to show you, but I cannot for I must now take you back to the quaint restaurant from which I so rudely plucked you, for it is late and we are all hungry and, besides, this is where I must now be to respect the continuity of our trip. You will find that this is a dinner you will not mind eavesdropping on for there is plenty to learn here, so please do join us.

The hour is late, perhaps we toured beyond our allotted time, but it is within acceptable dinner hours for a people accustomed to dining late, after the last fishing boat has been delivered to shore, or after the last tractor, having spent the time of day ripping open this fertile earth, is set to retire. We are in the possession of my wife’s cousin, her husband and their daughter, approximately a year older than our own and clearly more accustomed to late outings. The lateness of the hour has given our young daughter just cause to make known her displeasure, in the only way she knows how, and though her crying causes much angst for my wife and me, it goes largely unnoticed by the busy staff whose calm intensity gives a ballet like serenity to the hurried, well choreographed, pace of the night. Her incessant crying offers only a melodic overtone to the hurried pace of the waiters’ dance, though I, with my over-expressive and under-rehearsed attempts at calming her down, am cause for distracting even the most attentive of audiences. We hurried through dinner in an attempt to minimize the disruption and, as the women returned with the children to the car, I waited for the check. The waiters danced and curtsied and pirouetted and bowed and, lost in this enchanting performance, I failed to see him approach me. I am sure I had noticed him, when we first walked in, at the small table, in the corner, by the entry, the kind the maitre-de pulls out to accommodate a late comer or a recluse repeat customer who is happy to have a meal in the general presence of people but not in the specific company of any one person. But, no doubt, he blurred with the scenery as the night wore on, masked by the scurry of the waiters and the ever-flowing crowd. I was surprised that the contrasting stillness of his approach did not draw my attention to him sooner, in much the same way my contrasting clumsy attempts at quieting our daughter, in the midst of the choreography, would surely have drawn even the most engrossed audience to me. My eyes were first guided to his hands for their years of service were paradoxically more than that evident in his boyish face. It was as if, in the school-yard of my past, his young head searched unsuccessfully for a body of equal tenure and was obliged to settle for that of an aged farmer. This was a young, aged farmer, cautiously cradling in thick leathery fingers, as a Priest might support a Host while dispensing salvation, what looked to be a one hundred escudo note, crumpled and worn, too, from its many years of service. One hundred escudos, worth ten dollars at the time and less than that today. But, as the span by which salvation exceeds the cost of a thousand loaves of bread, so, I would come to learn, the value of this note would exceed any measure I could spend. He speaks now and the room has fallen to a dead silence. Were it not for the fact that there is no apparent change in choreography and no-one has turned their heads our way, I might be fooled into thinking that the silence has consumed the room for everyone and not only me. He bent towards me slightly to get my attention, although, if you have been carefully watching and not otherwise distracted by the alacrity of the night, you will know that I needed no such gesture to be aware of his approach. He held the note up to me and I abruptly assumed it might be money my wife so carelessly dropped on her way to the car and, while it most likely represented nearly a day’s pay for this young farmer, he was dutifully returning it to its rightful owner, but he spoke otherwise. He addressed me with customary courtesy, so often reserved for storekeepers and other strangers, sehnor, he started, and then went on to express the infinite pleasure he had experienced over dinner while listening to my daughter’s cries. The hermit had sat in relative obscurity not fretting that the child’s cries were disrupting the regularly scheduled ballet, but rather that the choreography of the waiters was obscuring the unplanned but thoroughly delighting melody of a child’s cry. This stranger who had taken cover in the remoteness of a poorly lit corner was now tipping she who starred in the side-show of my discontent. But he spoke on. His wife and he, he went on to explain in a quivering whisper which cut sharply through the noise of the night, though no-one heard it but me, his wife and he, he repeated, having choked on his first attempt, they had lost their baby girl three years ago and have ever since longed to break her silence. He had noticed my clumsy attempts to keep my daughter quiet and, resuming his whisper, petitioned that I should be pleased to hear her cry. He did not say it such, but I interpreted it so - crying is a sign of life, do we not anxiously await the newborn’s cry as evidence of its life, why do we try to quiet them from that day forward - she is with you and she is alive, is what he actually said. He continued humbly, I have not been so happy in so long, and he handed me the one hundred escudonote, asking that with it I buy my daughter a gift as reward for her having moved his heart. Her cries, like the hands of a skillful surgeon, had started his heart once again. He would likely take home to his wife whatever cries he had not fully consumed - a doggy bag of life over which they would feast and reminisce and reflect their own sorrow and tears. Out of ignorance and lacking the reflection time has since so kindly bestowed upon me, I attempted to refuse the money, for this was nearly a day’s pay for this soft spoken and heartfelt man, but he insisted and I graciously accepted. I realized then that the gift was not for my daughter, no matter what toy or trinket I chose to purchase, the gift was for me, he had handed me a scope through which I would forever inspect my life, he handed me a lesson that no University professor ever could, he provided the missing actuarial equation that filled the otherwise void between A and B, here and there, life and death. The best lessons in life are instantaneous, injected like a steroid to get a failing heart re-started, like an inoculation against ignorance. I looked up from the note and he was gone. Perhaps he had quickened his pace and had melded with the waiters, perhaps he had vanished into the heavens from whence he came, for how could some simple young farmer be equipped with such gifts as he. The waiter curtsied with the bill and I paid it, but not with this celestial note for no earthly meal, no matter how well prepared and spiced, could merit such compensation.

I would not sleep well that night, listening for my daughter’s cry, wanting her to cry, thinking about the lack of crying, save for their own, at the farmer’s house. My eyes swelled with tears as I thanked God for my family. I hope He heard me for I had not spoken to Him in some time. Perhaps the newness of my voice, in a sea of repeat users, captured His attention and my children will live forever. The clarity of the evening, like the rising sun in Nordeste, contrasts with the ever-darkening night and I must let us all sink into the humidity of this corn leaf mattress and sleep, even but for a short while tonight, as we are obliged to find appropriate use for our gift money tomorrow, as we leave in three days.

I was forced to wait until nearly seven a.m. before my daughter’s melodic cries awakened me. What had been a bothersome noise until today, was now a symphony worthy of perking Beethoven’s deaf ear. Her cries awakened me in that all too often lost stage of a dream, not too soon to have failed a conclusion, and not too late to have forgotten it. I had come to a determination. Perhaps not by coincidence I had dreamt of a fable I once heard, though I cannot properly credit its author,- a man in need of returning to his home, whereat laid all of his means, begged another for what that other could afford to give, so that he could venture home, promising someday, upon reconciling with his means, to seek out the provider and repay him in full, to which the second man replied, while he laid the sum necessary for the first man’s travels upon the beggars hands, do not seek me, but, instead seek another in dire need and give him the paltry sum which I am now supplying to you, plus some additional amount as you can then afford and ask that he not repay you in time, but rather do as I am asking of you and, thus, leverage kindness on mankind. This came to me in my waking hours, for it is in the waking hours that the mind is most susceptible to brilliant flashes of obvious. I should make a gift, of the gift I had received, to the old beggar, who, by sitting so paradoxically still in contrast to the dancing downtown shoppers around her, had captured my attention in much the same way the aged young farmer had. He, having failed to find the right body for his head before the recess bell resounded its finality and she having been left in the playground, never having connected with her own head, for I still do not recall having seen her face.

Please dress also and follow me, for I shall take Rua do Mercado and you will now have opportunity to see the Praca, where the poor and rich alike purchase their fresh vegetables and meats, fresh cut flowers and cheese and picnic baskets and coffee and anything else their hearts desire and the farmer has capacity to make or harvest and deliver this Saturday morning to this open market. I will take you by way of Galaria de Modelos men’s clothing store where my father worked for so many years until he shed the smell of cloth and finely tailored suits for the sweat of difficult labor by the docks in Toronto. We will take care to go as far but not beyond Campo do Santo Cristo, for I have arranged the calendar to offer you opportunity to gaze upon the many volunteers as they prepare for the centuries old parade, Precissao do Santo Cristo, by laying countless multi-colored flower petals throughout the path of the coming parade and those flowers shall not be violated but by the virgin feet of young boys and girls, dressed in leather sandals and angel wings, who will precede the statue of Santo Cristo dos Milagres, like the many generations of children who have preceded this relic, annually, since it was first offered to the people of this island by Pope Paul III in 1530. This relic will itself be followed by those who have traversed the miles long path on their bleeding knees in search of a miracle, which Santo Cristo dos Milagres has been known to administer to the penitent and the deserving. We will cut, instead, by the countless cafés on Rua da Cruz, where so many one hundred escudo notes, like the one I am now clasping, exchange hands in payment for overpriced cappuccinos and fresh pastries and we will approach Igreja da Matriz from the north, where our unsuspecting beneficiary still sits quietly. Through the doors to the city she absorbs a full view of the ocean and the many accounts it delivers to shore. She may well have witnessed the construction of these arched ancient doors from the church steps that preceded them by three centuries, as she passed the time of life. You wait here while I approach her as I do not want to startle her, though I doubt she is the startling type.

I hastened my way up the steps, two, sometimes three at a time, for their limited height deters no-one from heading God’s invitation. I sat by her with ease of familiarity and told her my experience of the previous night, I told her of the gift which was bestowed on me and I told her of my determination that she should have it. She made no attempt, as I had ignorantly done the previous night, to refuse such a large sum, not only because she was in need of this generous gratuity, but because she was fully aware of the value to me in giving it to her. She, who has had no formal education, understood immediately the actuarial value of this note. In exchange, she offered to say a prayer for me, but I asked her not to, for God, should he care to recognize it, knows the value of what I am doing and I need no further accreditation. I ask her instead to pray for the young beggar in black, whose baby so frantically clung to her and who may come to suffer of hunger tonight. I asked her to pray for the young child the aged young farmer had lost, though his actions on earth have given God independent cause to bestow peace on that young soul, and I asked her buy herself something to eat. I then touched her gently as I left her, partially to thank her for accepting my gift, partially as a show of respect and partially to verify her presence on the steps of this ancient church. Follow me now, quickly, as my gait is so much lighter and I am bound to leave you behind as I race across Rua Marques da Praia to see the jeweler at Ouriveseria Alianca. I am determined to buy my daughter a gift, for no more or less than one hundred escudos, which will suitably document our experience and help us, when time has passed, to focus on what matters. Ah, yes, there, that silver plated tiny infant angel, it was waiting here all along and it is the last one they have, it is listed for more than one hundred escudos, but if I shed the frivolity of the silver chain, which the storekeeper agrees to do, to affect a sale this afternoon, it is just less than my outreached sum, and the difference he will keep as gratuity. [Note 1]

I must ask you now to resume your role as reader as I have certain business yet unfinished and I ought to undertake it alone.

It is now two days before we are set to depart and soon I will fly way from this little island watching a green stain on the earth fade as it is consumed by the cloudless blue sky and, so, I plan an afternoon visit to Cemiterio de Sao Joaquim, which could easily be the only cemetery on this island for I have never seen another, unless, as is the case here, they are masked behind well maintained seven foot stone and clay walls, freshly painted white, with green trim, or some other pastel trim as may suit their dead. The large, cold, black steel doors which open onto Rua da Castanheira are uncharacteristically inviting and I walk in, with my daughter in my arms, in search of my grandmother’s grave. It takes several passes through the narrow grave-lined lanes, so well organized and neatly maintained, to find her site. She is buried at the site in which my grandfather preceded her by twenty three years. The site is dressed in fresh flowers but I am, nonetheless, disappointed that they were buried with no inscription, with no epitaph, the only evidence of their existence being two old photographs, encased in an aluminum, glass-fronted, tube, the kind typical of this island, aged by time and weather, my grandfather in the same army uniform he wore on the day he was buried and my grandmother in the same black she wore the day he was last dressed. Were my grandparents’ lives not worth surmising? - I surely thought so. As I puzzled in discontent I took comfort in the words of a fine author and philosopher, Milan Kundera, who said it well when he stated, "history is like a sheet of multicolored taffeta, each time we look at it, it has a different hue." History is forever changing, the past is alive, my mind races and I build on Kundera's thoughts, in search of justification to the lack of inscription adorning their grave, and suggest that we do not live in the present at all, but in the past, and what vastness of past we have to lavish on ourselves. The relation of future to past, I believe, is that of oxygen to fire. The present is but no more than the incalculable, but necessary, instant of consumption, by the flame, the past, of the oxygen, the future. Yes, I am suggesting that the past is alive, indeed it thrives on the consumption of the future. The flame is forever changing, leaving ashes in its wake - an epitaph. That is why it is our duty to shape the future, for it is in shaping the future that we change the past. Through our hands the future comes to pass and therein lies the instant in which we grasp opportunity and mold our lives, and climb on thin air to the past we desire. My grandmother’s past will forever change with our future, and no stone can accommodate such script. I came to realize, then, that I was holding her epitaph. I lowered my daughter towards her picture and whispered, grandma, this is your history. I wish you could smell her, I say under my breath, not knowing if I am speaking to my daughter or to my grandmother, then you would live for each other. This island has given so much to me, my future, my present and my past, what else could I ask for.

It is now time for our departure and after the usual good-byes and shedding of tears we board the plane, reversing that most natural of acts that first brought us here. I notice the stewardess is not the same who accompanied us here, I cannot describe her further, for my eyes are fixed out the window as we pull away from the face of the island, the island bows once again but there is no applause, only tears, as we leave the stage of our youth and the theater of our lives, Rua do Negrao, 59A, Ponta Delgada, Sao Miguel, Acores, 39th parallel, 29th longitude, middle of the Atlantic, Western Hemisphere, six hundred years of life, poof - we are gone - but we shall not forget. Saint Anthony himself will show us the way, even if he has to carry us on the small of his back.

Though I have often taken to flight in the tranquil depths of my sleep, I shall not sleep while I fly, but I shall span my arms, outstretched, for though life may be wider than it is long, I am now prepared to bridge the distance.

[Note 1: On May 10, 2006 my house in Toronto, where we now live, was burglared and amongst many items of monetary value, this angel pendant, of countless value to me, was stolen. It has upset us immensely]

If you enjoy this, please read the sequel, "Remember to Roll" .