Some of the Fado performers in Portugal.
Fado wasn’t what I expected. I wouldn’t have described it as sad, in fact, at times everyone who spoke Portuguese was laughing. When the music starts, the lights dim, someone rings a bell, they request quiet, and they play a twelve-string guitar while a man or woman sings. They perform about four songs, the lights come up and people continue eating and chatting. This repeats itself about every twenty minutes.
Just before the first set, I had a sip of the vihno verde and told Matt there was no way I could do it. I couldn’t even drink my glass. It was so bad. It tasted like a headache tomorrow: sweet and strong. It was vihno verde that would make me melancholy, not fado. I don’t like white wine, so I may not be the best judge, but Matt wasn’t a fan either. Still, he felt obligated to finish the bottle and my glass. By the middle of the show, Matt was feeling pretty good. The mussels were tasting extra good. In fairness, those mussels were fantastic. The shellfish throughout Portugal was wonderful. A bottle of wine was not required to improve them, but Matt was well into a bottle. He called our waitress over, lifted his arms out to the side, elbows bent at shoulder height like a strong man and announced, “More mussels! More mussels!” The waitress laughed and quickly went from resenting us to catering to us.
I couldn’t help but wish everyone got that excited about muscles. Next time we’re in class, maybe halfway through, you’ll excitedly shoot, “More muscles! More muscles.” A girl can dream, right?