São Miguel seems as familiar as it seems strange and new. The island has all of the modern conveniences of Europe and all of the farms and fields of a paragliding destination. We launch and land among the cows and we find food on streets named “Rua dos Santos” and such. I look just like people here. Sati might have a hard time finding me in crowd. Good thing there are no crowds. Anywhere.
Then, just when all seems close to normal, the tiny cobblestone road we’re driving along gets blocked by a parade of pickup trucks in an Espírito Santo festival. They edge by us playing instruments and stopping at the houses along the lane to talk to the residents and, I guess, ask for donations. One truck is full of nurses and a patient in a hospital bed wearing a wig and holding a jug of wine. The next has kids sitting at desks and a teacher waving chalk around and singing. In one truck, a group of hunters is holding stuffed animals, guns and bottles of liquor. A woman stops at our car window and is speaking to us with gusto and we’re explaining that we don’t speak Portuguese. Moments later, it’s all behind us and we drive on between the high close lava stone walls to find a paragliding launch.
Everything is quiet, slow and gentle. When people honk, it’s to say “hi” to a friend. When we take a number at the cheese shop, it’s a formality (our number was 96, they served us when 24 was on the board). Bread is delivered and hangs on front doors. Potable water pours from fountains and kids, parents and grandparents jump into pools in the sea.
The paragliding scene is alive and well, welcoming and fun with more than twenty flying sites on the island. The local pilots are genuine and inclusive. They are happy to give us advice on which site is working. Yesterday when we showed up to fly, Joao handed us t-shirts from the local club.
From the ground, many of the sites look like a standard hill surrounded by farms. But as soon as we’re airborne, we can see clear across the island, taking in the ocean to the north and south (and sometimes from a third direction as well). We can see volcanoes and craters, islets, and the gigantic ocean. There’s nothing between us and Iceland, Massachusetts, Brazil and Antarctica.
Every now and then, the wind is just right to soar the inner rim of a crater. Floating more than a thousand feet above the blue and green lakes of Sete Cidades is dreamy. The lakes are ringed by steep, oozy, verdant plush lava walls. Just outside the crater are planted or grazed fields sweeping down to the ocean. Pilots look tiny flying along the edge until they make the long descent to the LZ by the blue lake. The epic chaos of a Portuguese car shuttle which takes place next is something to behold.
The stories, laughter and good times keep coming. Sweet.
