Funchal, Madeira
Eternal Spring
It was a loud and clear reminder that as much as we think we, as humans, have control and power over just about everything, we absolutely do NOT.
The notoriously treacherous Bay of Biscay laughed at our itinerary with plans to port in the Azores — a destination I was looking forward to mainly thanks to Anthony Bourdain. With extreme winds and swells up to 12 meters (I don’t want to calculate that in feet), we were forced to divert course to avoid the worst of it. For about 36 hours, nature tossed our ship around, sending plates and glasses sliding and smashing; anything with hinges creaking open and crashing closed; and knocking people out of their chairs and off their feet. The biggest waves hitting the hull felt like an earthquake reverberating through the vessel.
I layered on all of my anti-seasickness remedies that I brought *just in case*, but never thought I’d actually need to use. It was a bit more than I had bargained for already in our first few days at sea. I was impressed by how good humored the other passengers stayed (pub trivia was held, as scheduled!), and how professional the crew proved themselves to be. The ultimate display of “keep calm and carry on”?
Our reward for weathering the storm was the lush Portuguese island of Madeira. (Check your pantry or bar cart, you probably have a bottle of Madeira wine, at least for cooking.) It’s said that this volcanic region is one of eternal spring. With all of the foliage — like bougainvillea, birds of paradise, and calla lilies — blossoming in mid-January, the scene felt as advertised! And on a quiet Sunday in “winter,” the city of Funchal welcomed slow, casual exploration.
On my way up the funicular to Monte — where you can take your pick of botanical gardens to stroll high above the city and harbor — I noticed a small cemetery to the left of the station. The walls bordering the cemetery essentially formed cliffs dropping right off the side of the mountain. Those buried there, and their loved ones who come to visit, are afforded probably the best views in town. Location, location, location…
When I reached the entrance, beyond the spectacular panorama, I was struck by how colorful the cemetery was. Each headstone held a photo of the person resting there, and each plot was its own little garden, planted with flowers and decorated with impossibly fresh arranged bouquets. Who kept this place so well-tended — family members, a cemetery caretaker, a magical garden gnome?
There were a few other people around, and I observed their actions while trying to be as least conspicuous (or creepy) as a tourist as possible. There was a little watering can station where I noticed two women trimming and feeding some flowers to return to a plot. Then they walked over to the mausoleum wall, where more fresh blooms adorned each space. The older of the two kissed her palm and touched it to a photo.
The care and tenderness I was witnessing (likely combined with some relief for having made it through those waves) sent spontaneous tears down my cheeks. While navigating the cemetery, I literally crossed paths with the women, and rather than just saying “excuse me,” felt compelled to express how beautiful I thought the place was. They didn’t speak English, but I think they understood the gist as I gestured and wiped my eyes. The younger woman touched my arm, looked at me empathetically, nodded and said simply, “chao,” as they turned to leave. It was surprisingly comforting.
This cemetery in Funchal is filled with life, color, and growth. The tidy grave gardens can’t be ignored or neglected, meaning that nor can the people buried there be. Relatives and friends come to honor those they’ve lost by keeping the flowers — and, in turn, memories — alive.
Eternal spring, as promised.
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On a lighter note, Madeira also seems to know how to recognize those they cherish even before they die… Beloved son of this island, footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, already has a museum and heroic monument dedicated to him! (No comment on why a certain area of his bronzed body seems shinier, as if countless pilgrims over time have rubbed it for good luck.)
