Twenty-Four Hours in São Miguel

Nothing could have prepared me for the entrancing view in front of me. The twin lakes rest at the bottom of a volcanic crater ensconced by green hills. The glassy but dark Lagoa Verde and Lagoa Azul, the former green and the latter blue, were separated by a man-made bridge and a natural peninsula. Tourists on a wooden viewing deck at Rei Vista snapped pictures and conversed in dozens of languages, but their smiles were universal. Bees buzzed in bushes and birds flew around colorful hydrangeas. Motorcycles and cars passed loudly behind, clearly too busy to take in the breathtaking scene.

I admired the view a while longer and reflected until my feet were ready to move. I decided to take the longer loop down to Sete Cidades to prolong the experience. Walking along the crater ridge, I had the Atlantic to my left and the lake on my right. There is nothing but the dirt path and green landscape and blue water and you merge with your surroundings as one singular form. 

A few cows and houses on the orchards by the ocean remind you of civilization’s existence, and other than a few soft hellos offered by hikers you are completely alone. You hear the crunch of your footfalls on the dirt and birdsong and feel the light breeze and warm sun on your neck. There is nothing but peace. I was exactly where I needed to be in the world.

In my moments of zen I may have overestimated the hike. My body ached after 10 kilometers and so I thumbed a ride down the hill with a lovely couple from Ohio on their third visit to the Azores Islands. Sete Cidades means seven cities in English, but it really is just one small village. Legend claims that the lake’s colors come from the tears of a green-eyed princess and blue-eyed shepherd who were forbidden to love one another by the king of the village. It’s a much more interesting story than the scientific explanation involving algae and water depth.

Once in the village I needed a bite to eat and a beer. An American couple walked into the nearest restaurant and were turned away. I tried my luck in Portuguese and was welcomed into the small and “closed” establishment by a rambunctious family of nine. They served me a Rissol de Carne and Sagres and gave me privacy to enjoy my meal. It might have been the best hospitality I’ve ever received from locals.

I walked through the village to peek in the church before milling about the small pastel colored houses. Other than groups of tourists waiting for taxis, the town was quiet. More cows stood in the pastures as I made my way to the lake’s edge to read and soak in the sun. The top of the volcanic ridge was 1,200 feet above me as I dozed by the water. So gently I awoke to the warm sun on my face that I hardly noticed an hour passing by.

When my time to join the taxi line arrived, I called the same driver who had brought me from town to pick me up. Antonio played 2000s American pop music like Natasha Bedingfeld and told me that life on the island never felt too stressful. I believed every word he told me. All my daily worries seemed too far to reach me in this remote paradise.

Before dinner I took a quick shower and bought aloe vera for my Maine lobster colored sunburn. Nobody, truly nobody, is stronger than the sun. A trip to Portugal is not complete without cod and port wine, so I ordered both in a restaurant by the harbor with large glass windows framing the hills as the skies darkened. I strolled along the waterfront and drank in the air. At that moment I felt like I could have walked along the entire coastline of São Miguel. I wanted nothing more than the unburdened independence of no one expecting your presence anywhere at any time. I was a stranger in the middle of the Atlantic. I was in control of the present. I was free. But early flights must be caught and so too some Z’s to reach the airport on time.

The next morning I found myself on the tarmac that I had stepped off just over twenty-four hours before. A thin grey mist hung in the air. The clouds and my iPhone weather app both threatened rain. I found it difficult to believe how much I had squeezed into so little time. On the side of the plane, the airline’s motto – Dream Azores– appeared in lime green. I stepped out of my dream and onto their aircraft with a full heart and clear head.

We are always chasing time and thrill, especially when we travel. But there is as much satisfaction in recognizing time as finite and peace as the yin to thrill’s yang. Each second is what you make of it. Both abroad and at home, if you make real efforts to be present, spontaneous and grateful for every moment, you will never feel them slipping away. Instead you’ll see every fleeting moment for what it is: a gift.

Twenty-four minutes is enough time. Twenty-four hours is enough time. Twenty-four days, weeks, months, or years are all enough time. The dreams I have of the Azores will stick with me for as much time as I am lucky to spend in this life.