Once upon a time, an emerald green iguana came to live at our suburban home.  His name was Drako and he became the source of local folklore.
     One day two salesmen sauntered up the walk to our front door.  It was a bubbling hot August day. Hoping to catch the hint of a lake breeze, I had left open our front door. Only a screened partition stood between me---inside---and any possible intruders.
     About to ring our bell, the salesmen suddenly scurried away with nary a backward glance.  Puzzled but relieved, I wondered why their sudden departure.
     Then I noticed. Chuckled.

     Resembling a mini-dragon, our teenage son’s pet iguana---Drako--- clung to the top of the screen. Sharp claws gripped the fine wire netting.  Beady eyes scanned tall trees with luscious leaves growing on our front lawn. Over 2 feet/0.61 metres long, including his long tail, Drako appeared an ominous creature to any unsuspecting onlooker. Like me, Drako obviously had hoped to catch a welcome breeze on the screen. Instead, he caught the eye of a couple of unsuspecting humans who fled as if seeing a monster.
     How did Drako become part of our busy family that included three teenage males?  Unfortunately, our middle son learned early in life he was allergic to furry creatures. No stately cats.  No bounding dogs. No fluffy bunnies. So he chose an iguana.  An iguana that was given freedom to roam our four-bedroom, two-storey home.  But that’s another story.
     Not especially cuddly, Drako did, however, possess other positive attributes.  A herbivore, he loved munching on crisp, water-laden lettuce fresh from the refrigerator. Or juicy grapes accidentally left on the kitchen counter. He didn’t cost a fortune to feed. 

     Arboreal by nature, he often climbed the floor length curtains to straddle the top of drapery rods.  Nothing more disconcerting than having the feeling something--- or someone--- is watching you.  Then you look around and there! on top of the curtain rod! lies a bright green lizard nonchalantly peering at you with big bug-out eyes.
     With a tendency to skitter across the floor with remarkable speed---and with the flexible body of a reptile---Drako could easily disappear if not watched and be lost forever: out an open door, down a loose floor grate, or perhaps wedged behind the furniture. This became a problem because he had no scent and therefore could not be tracked down. 
     One afternoon, Son Owner checked his special aquarium with the lava hot rock and found no iguana!  Raising the alarm, he enlisted his family’s aid in joining a house-wide hunt for his mini-dragon. Even brought in a large, reckless tracking dog to sniff him out but with no scent to follow this proved fruitless.  Only thing this rambunctious dawg accomplished was terrifying the rest of us and probably drove Drako deeper into hiding.

     Desperate, we called the pet store owner who gave precise directions on how to find the reptilian pet. After filling a tin foil pie plate with water, we placed it on the floor surrounded by newspaper.  Sprinkled flour on the newspaper.  Now all we had to do was wait for Mr. Iguana to come out of his hiding place to drink water.  Naturally he would splash in the water.  Naturally his wet clawed feet would pick up the flour as he headed back to his hiding place.  All we needed to do was follow his flour-laden tracks and presto! we would find him.
     Except the plan didn’t work.  For one week, the mini dragon disappeared. 
     Until one morning we heard a shriek.  Aha…Mr. Iguana must have reappeared!  In Son Owner’s bottom drawer of his dresser.  Hidden comfortably amongst his underwear.
     Drako caused cocktail chatter. Guests arriving in our home for refreshments were puzzled by many bare green stalks planted in pots. Our resident mini-dragon had polished off the foliage leaving only the stems. 
     It was easy to get rid of an undesirable guest. We merely introduced our lizard in all his reptilian glory.  Amazing how said guest suddenly remembered something left cooking on his stove at home and hastily excused himself.
     Even the twittering birds perched on the hydro wire stopped their chirp chattering in silent awe when they spied this strange creature. In a group, they scuttled quickly in the opposite direction along the wire while staring at this harnessed green iguana slowly climbing to the top of our backyard cherry tree.
     When Son left for university, he found a home for Drako with a local avid naturalist who introduced myriads of students to such stunning marvels of nature as iguanas. 
     And Drako lived happily ever after.

     “Watch those prickly spines…and boil the leaves for at least 5 minutes before eating…”
      We’re talking about the Maya chaya, a maple-leaf shaped green known as tree spinach in México’s Yucatán Peninsula: a ‘miracle’ medicinal plant richer in iron than spinach and an excellent source of potassium and calcium.  But beware: its leaves contain toxic hydrocyanic glycosides so boiling before consuming is a must.
     Chaya is only one health food we’ve discovered on our winter sojourns to different foreign destinations over the years.

     Ever eat cactus pads?  Nopales (from the Nahuatl language), commonly known as prickly pear plant in Canada, reportedly prevent cancer, improve skin health, protect the heart, improve digestion, boost the immune system...you get the idea.  Each Spring it’s easy to spot the prickly pear growing in the wild.  Look for splashes of brilliantly coloured red and yellow blossoms that dot an arid field. There’s something neat about saying you’re eating cactus. Of course, we told our skeptical friends, we don’t eat the spines; of course, we scrape them off!

     In Lhasa, Tibet, out of breath from thin air in the high altitude until we sucked in oxygen through a tube from oxygen pillows, we chowed down on yakburgers. Only later did we learn this healthy deep red meat, with a delicate beef-like flavour, is higher in protein and Omega 3 than bison and most fish. The longevity of the Himalayan people is attributed to their yak rich diet.

     Meanwhile, in Playas (aka General Villamil beach), a coastal town in Ecuador, we heard about nuns who sold Noni wine.  Noni is touted as a cure-all: like other superfood discoveries, it helps prevent cancer, diabetes and liver disease; is a powerful anti-oxidant; boosts the immune system and so on and so on.
     Always interested in improving our health, we had to try it.  Buying Noni wine on the Sabbath from the shy wine-making Sisters in a coastal Ecuadorian convent is a memorable experience.  Finding the nunnery was difficult; finally finding the door to the nunnery was like playing a game of Clue. Once inside, we carefully wound our way down a short flight of stairs where we spied a wooden turntable at waist level set into the wall to our right.  We heard a hidden garbled female voice on the other side of the wall.   Suddenly the turntable began to move, stopping in front of us.  The table top held a menu with the name, description of available wines, and prices (about US $8).
After making our choices, we pushed the turntable back to the invisible waiting Sister(s).  They pushed back our invoice; we pushed back our money.  The final spin carried our order of wine.  The transaction was wordless; we never saw the nuns.

     At the night market in Phuket, Thailand, my husband ate insects, now considered a viable protein substitute to meat. The largest crowds gather around the fried insect stall.  So popular is this stand there is a sign in English stating photos can only be taken if you purchase the crunchy little morsels. Crickets are caught in the wild while grasshoppers and silkworms are raised on insect farms in northeast Thailand.

     Back in Canada, one of our best health foods, wild rice, is a gift from the Ojibwa culture. Not a grain but a grass, wild rice is popular in haute cuisine. In addition, it is used in folk medicine remedies as a treatment for burns, heart problems or digestive complaints. And it’s gluten free!
     Also well known abroad as one of Canada’s best-known health foods is maple syrup.     When we’ve given it to friends in foreign countries, recipients quickly comment after tasting it, “oh, it’s too sweet!”
     Does any reader out there know of another Canadian food we could pack as healthy gifts to foreigners? I've heard  poutine is a prime example!

     I’m struggling to write something original about Canada.  After all, our country  celebrates her 150th birthday on July 1st and already glowing platitudes are pouring forth.
     When I think about this land, I compare it with other countries where we have wintered.  We are travellers so living three months in a foreign land does offer a rare reality check.
     My dominant memory is mentioning to our new neighbours in Thailand, Colombia, Ecuador, Panama, Nicaragua or Mexico that we are Canadian. Amazed by their warm reactions, we see spontaneous smiles and hear wistful comments like: I’d love to visit/live there; or Can I go back with you?  Those moments make me proud to be Canadian.
     And when we lived in Ohio for five years, our Canadian friends asked us time and time again, what is the difference between Canada and the U.S.?  Our answer: Canada seems more gentle, more civilized.

     Even the late actor/comedian Robin Williams expressed the same sentiment in his own style: You are a big country.  You are the kindest country in the world.  You are like a really nice apartment over a meth lab.
     Still, time has wrought definite changes.
     Living in Ottawa during my teen years, I attended Lisgar Collegiate, a high school located close to the Parliament Buildings.  It was natural for my friends and me to walk freely into Parliament after classes and watch the House of Commons in session from the visitors’ gallery.  Sadly, you cannot do that today.
     Because we lived in the capital city, we attended special Canada Day celebrations with thousands of others on Parliament Hill.  On one occasion after the planned program, then-Prime Minister Jean Chretien walked unaccompanied on the front lawn through crowds of spectators whose friendly shouts and outstretched arms offered a rousing and enthusiastic greeting.  He continued to walk alone among the throng along Wellington Street where we, along with a crush of others, shook hands and chatted with him face-to-face.  No Security detail was visible….it was merely a spontaneous people mingling event probably not possible today.

     Before we began international travelling, we drove to the Maritimes and then west, through the Rockies.  Our land is beautiful.  Fresh. Stunning. Raw.   We still want/need to experience the farthest east and west points: Haida Gwaii in the Pacific; Newfoundland in the Atlantic; and our Canadian North, before it disappears.

     Today we live in Burlington, Ontario, where city libraries are currently recognizing local authors and their books as part of Canada’s 150th.  A travelling exhibit, it will appear in a different branch  each month.

     I am fortunate to be included in this display with Ode to a Flattened Toad, co-edited with the late Peggy Fletcher. Ode showcases the adventures and misadventures of a talented Sarnia-Lambton writers’ group.

     When we live abroad during Canada’s three coldest months and return home: often worn out, always cranky, definitely miserable after a long flight, I light up with gratitude---and moist eyes---when I see our maple leaf flag.  I am delighted to be back on home soil.
     So the emotional joy at returning to this great country is my personal glowing platitude, nay---my sincere salute---to our incomparable Canada.

     These three little words keep echoing in my ear…..
     …“Where’s my wallet?”
     You know that sickening feeling you get when your wallet is missing.  Did you leave it at the last store when you opened it for your debit card, your arms laden with stuff, you were running late?  Did you drop it somewhere? Think!  Think!  Think!  Your entire life is in that wallet: drivers’ license, health card, credit cards…but thankfully not much cash.  The money isn’t important anyway…it’s those cards!
     Now imagine when that happens away from home.
     Three times I have suffered the wallet disappearing act.  Three times I’ve had to start my life all over again.  And each time I tell myself, never again.  My purse/wallet will never leave my sight!

     We were in Lima, Peru, years ago.  I used a backpack purse with three compartments to allow freedom of movement for my arms.  Before we left the hotel to peruse the fascinating streets, our hotel concierge warned: be careful of your purses and wallets.  The people here are very poor and they are experts at removing your valuables.  We smiled and waved as we exited the lobby.  Did he think we were born yesterday?
     The streets were crowded: colourful and exciting.  Along a stone walled building a local artist was exhibiting his work.  We stopped.  One of his paintings grabbed our attention.  I remember leaning towards it for further study.  That’s when I felt a slight jostle, readjusted my purse shoulder straps, and carried on.
     Only when we got back to the hotel did I discover the neat slit (by a very sharp knife) in the middle compartment where my wallet had been.  Disbelief was followed by horror was followed by oh no!  Cancellation of credit cards…phone calls back home…and on and on.

     In Madrid, Spain, when we were there many years later, the economy was poor, unemployment high, and people desperate.  I followed my husband onto the escalator carrying hand luggage with purse slung on my back.  Packed escalators forced a face-to-back ride to the next level.  I felt the guy behind me pressing too close, turned around, gave him a dirty look.  That must have been when the heist happened. 
     Once we got to our hotel, surprise! I couldn’t find my wallet.  The fallout from this robbery was worse.  On a hotel phone call to my Canadian bank I waited, fuming, for 30 minutes while my call to Canada was redirected to a call centre in southeast Asia because of the time difference they said. This made no sense to me and even a later verbal and written complaint to the bank for this treatment elicited no response.

     In Toronto’s Pearson Airport, our check-in to the Middle East was hampered by no visa.  Our hosts in Abu Dhabi had assured us our visa would be issued in the airport when we arrived but our Canadian agent wanted one now.  Because of the kerfuffle, we were on hold.  I remember putting my purse down on the floor beside me, partially hidden and protected by my carry-on. 
    When we left the counter, my purse was gone.  Horrified, I contacted airport security who blithely commented this type of theft happened at least ten times a day.  They suggested I could search nearby trash bins but probably, they comforted, the professional thieves were far away by now.  Since my wallet contained company, as well as personal credit cards, my life became a desperate merry-go-round of panic phone calls.
     So, no matter where I am, when I hear someone say…where’s my wallet?....
     I shudder sympathetically.

     For the longest time we couldn’t figure out the origin of this maddening fine black gritty dust; it filtered everywhere in our rental casa in León, Nicaragua.  Settled in our clothes, on our bare feet, on the bottoms of our sandals, on table tops.  With windows and doors open trying to catch the slightest breeze in this 35 C (90 plus F) heat, black dust swirled in through the iron protectores coating the computer, bedding, floor, counters…that damn black dust saturated my life driving me to distraction! 
     No wonder the women in our lower/middle class neighbourhood were constantly mopping, sweeping, splashing water on their front door stoops.  I felt like a coal miner’s daughter.

     And then came the epiphany.
     It began with a stop at Cerro Negro (Black Hill), an active volcano 22 km from León. The youngest volcano in Central America---its first eruption was in 1850, the last in 1999---it has erupted 23 times since its beginning. The volcano is 500m (1640 ft) high and is a basaltic cinder cone. Elevation: 726m (2382ft).
     Based on its past history a significant eruption is predicted in the near future. Rather than lava (which occurs mainly near the base), Cerro Negro expels ash and tephra (rock particles). A 1995 eruption, followed by another eruption from a nearby volcano in 2015, produced a thin layer of ash on León; traces of the ash are found in the city even today.
     Eureka…that was it!  Those fine black particles driving me crazy were residual ashes from volcanic eruptions that began 22 years ago!  No wonder Nicaragua is known as the Land of Lakes and Volcanoes!

     Cerro Negro attracted us for many reasons.  Main one was its reputation as location for a new extreme sport in Nicaragua, supposedly a first in the world: volcano boarding.  A resident Brazilian developed the idea in 2002. 
     We wanted to witness the foolhardy souls who ‘boarded’ down the side of this volcano.
     To get a feel for the lay of the land, we followed a man-made trail up the volcano’s more rocky side to about 250 m (820 ft) from the top.  The trail continues to the top but we chose to stop at this point.  Even at this elevation we felt the strong winds that sometimes force boarders to retreat to a safer elevation until the winds calm.  Ever have the sensation of being blown off into cinder space?  We did.
     While climbing the volcano, we met two groups of boarders as they made their way to the top.  Participants must carry their own boards plus a backpack containing protective goggles and boarding suit.   We also watched them slide down, a plume of tiny black cinders trailing behind them, goggles and suits decorated with black dust when they hit bottom. As one of the boarders confessed, when you finally get to the top and look down, wa-a-ay down, and the wind is blowing, you suddenly wonder what the f--- am I doing up here?

     Most people use the board to sled from the top.  Experts remain standing by using a snow boarding technique on a specially designed board.  The volcano’s surface consists of fine/small cinders lying loosely along a slope of 41 degrees; foolhardy souls can hit speeds of up to 50 km/hr (30 mph) as they race down.  Children ten years and over can test their grit on Cerro Negro but only if careening down the incline with a qualified guide. 
     Lest you think this sport is only for the young, it is not.  Our guide told us of accompanying a 65-year-old man who made the trip to León specifically to volcano board on his birthday.  He likened it to making love…spending 45 minutes in foreplay getting to the top and then the climax, screaming down the hill in minutes.
     Suddenly I had an entirely new outlook on the black volcano dust in our casa.

Is he homeless? Sick? What is he doing here? How did he get here? Where is he from?
     A one-legged amputee, the old man sits on the ground leaning beside his wheelchair and against the black wrought iron fence that borders the church in our neighbourhood of Zaragoza.  One day he is not there, the next day he is. 
     We regularly walk seven blocks to centro for shopping, banking, park concerts in León, Nicaragua, where we are living for three months; the Zaragoza Church is enroute.  So the old man’s appearance is sudden and surprising.  During our first pass, I glance surreptitiously at him.  A small bundle of belongings is heaped on the seat of his wheelchair.  Loose plastic grocery bags containing mysterious items are scattered around him.  It is morning, no shade on this side of the church.  He wears no hat although the sun beats mercilessly down on him.  Coupled with 30 C (90 F) plus degree temperatures, he has to feel uncomfortable even if he is Nicaraguan. As a visitor I know I suffer from the heat, sweating profusely while seated on a bench in the shade.

     Surely, we think when we first see him, the good people of the church will help him.  Maybe that’s why he’s chosen this spot to rest his tired and crippled body.
     But no.  We are alarmed he is still there the next day, and the next day, and the next….each time we pass, he is there.  We also notice scraps of food around him.  We deduce people feed him, including us.  Each time we return from grocery shopping at the supermercado, we drop something off at his feet if he is dozing or in his lap if he is awake.  First, it is a mandarino, then a boxed fruit drink, and soon a small snack of fruit, chicken pastry, and a drink.  Initially he says nothing, eyes constantly closed as if waiting for death. Later he appears more alert and we hear gracias, once I heard ‘thank you’. 
     Six weeks later and the old man is still here.  His sidewalk space outside the church is expanding.  Someone has dropped off a large cardboard box, perhaps for shelter from the sun.  Numerous pieces of food lie sprinkled around him.  His position is the same since he parked himself there. 
     We figure someone must look after his personal needs.  Although my husband says he smells a strong odour of urine in his vicinity, we note the old man’s gray hair and matching beard is cut and groomed.  His face is weathered, sun damaged.

     Several weeks later, as we amble along our usual route to centro, we notice a blue pick-up truck parked at the curb beside the old man.  Two strong-looking men are standing in the back of the truck, having a discussion.  Their body language speaks of hesitancy: one has his elbow bent, arm crooked, hand resting on the side of his face, a pose of reflection. We alter our route, turn right instead of heading straight, decide not to pass by the church this time. 
     Earlier we had asked about the old man with a neighbouring Nicaraguan, a friend fluent in English.  He says there are many people like the old man.  He says authorities want to place these people somewhere else, out of the line of vision of visitors.  City Fathers do not want tourists to see the visible poor who lie prostrate in door wells, unfortunates wasted by illegal drugs, civil war cast-offs from decades ago still suffering post traumatic stress disorders. These ugly sights are not for the tourist who comes to Nicaragua for a good time: sun, sea, volcano boarding, eco cloud forest trekking, all for much cheaper rates than neighbouring Costa Rica.

     I think of home and the destitute people I see in downtown Toronto, seeking shelter from the cold winter winds, lying on flattened cardboard pieces placed over sidewalk grates to catch whiffs of heat from subway lines racing below the streets.  Or indigenous people whose communities lack clean water and a clean environment, where young people see suicide as the only way out. Canada is a first world country; Nicaragua is third world.
     On our return to our casa from the supermercado, prepared to drop off his usual fare, we discover the old man’s wheelchair has disappeared; the sidewalk is clean, no sign of habitation or garbage. No odours. Out of sight, out of mind. 
     An unwanted liability, the old man is gone.

     Ever wonder what becomes of those ugly yellow Bluebird school buses when they’re almost junk?  They start a new life in Central America.
     The one I’m on now is in León, Nicaragua.  I’m squished into a seat---at least I have one on this over crowded hot bus---next to the window and there’s an ominous looking bug on the side panel near me just out of my reach.  It’s actually closer to the pony-tailed young woman with bare arms in the seat ahead of me.  She is engaged in a lively conversation otherwise I would warn her about the nasty bug despite my limited Spanish skills.
This bug has a black hard shell about the size of my little fingernail with long waving feelers.  It faces me.  Right now it’s stationary.

     There is too much activity and noise on this bus…and we haven’t left the depot yet.  A large middle-aged woman from the market is pushing along the crowded aisle hawking tajadas, a favourite Nica snack of fried plantains served in a plastic bag with two helpings of coleslaw salad (carried separately in a swinging pail) topped with a splash of some mysterious sauce.  The woman’s eye makeup is impeccable but over the top: turquoise eyelids with a whitish blend beneath her carefully pencilled eyebrows. Shimmering tomato red lips draw attention to her double chins.  The colour of her lips matches her long fake fingernails. Tawny coloured hair, black at the roots, is pulled back severely into a pony tail accenting her large golden hoop earrings.  She is a study in extremes as she sways back and forth, up and down the crowded aisle, hawking her food.
     Her loud appearance is a magnet, forcing me to take my eye off the bug for awhile. Suddenly my peripheral vision senses movement. I catch the bug’s slow silent creep towards me along the side panel.

     As the bus pulls out, the driver switches an old Bruce Lee film on a front video screen adding to the general confusion.  Nica buses have a copiloto, a helper who performs duties that free the driver to do his job.  The copiloto collects fares, helps passengers off and on the bus, urges them to move on back.   
     The bug, still there, unsettles me.  I decide to flick it away but miss; it skitters closer to the bare arm of the girl ahead of me.  Unfortunately, it still faces me ignoring the luscious looking flesh only a bite away.                
     Now careening along the highway, I decide it’s time to warn the pony-tailed girl about the bug.  As I’m about to tap her shoulder she pulls a canister from her purse, sprays her hair and unwittingly sprays the ominous looking bug that disappears where…..near my bare leg?

     The bug is still on my mind the next morning.  Too many insectos in these tropical countries.  Suddenly my husband beckons me to the baño.  “Spider,” he whispers, “big one.”  He points to an open drawer.  I gasp. Tarantula!  Two of its black hairy legs hang over the edge, poised as if ready to jump.
     Oh, what to do?  What to do?  Although a whiz at defeating bugs, he has no idea how to tackle a 10 cm tarantula. Is it fast? Poisonous? Aggressive?  We run around in circles before my husband decides to seek an expert: he runs for help from a Nica neighbour.  While he’s gone only a short while, I nervously eye the tarantula in case it decides to scurry somewhere. Like towards ME.
     My husband returns pronto with our Nica neighbour.  He sees the tarantula. No translation necessary.  Reaching into his back pocket, he brings out a tape measure.  While we both watch intently, he extends the tape measure to a desired length.  Deftly, quickly, he places the end of the tape under the tarantula, flips it out of the drawer, quickly steps on it.  We stare at the remains of the large hairy intruder.  I think about all the dark hiding places in our rented casa.
     And to think I was worried about the bug on the bus.

     He appeared suddenly on my left.
     Because we arrived in León, Nicaragua, late last night we were tired so his presence did not register immediately when we left our BnB with glazed eyes. We came to spend three months here to avoid the cold Canadian winter… to experience life in a third world country, the second poorest in the western hemisphere after Haiti…to leave our comfort zone, test ourselves in a foreign land.  This was not our first visit to Nicaragua so we knew all about her warm and hospitable people.
     In the morning, following a hard travel day and a restless sleep, we had just stepped from our accommodation onto the uneven, narrow sidewalk, turning to our right. Out of thin air, he appeared on my left.  A boy about 8 with large brown eyes.  He said nothing.  But he raised his hand, waving fingers frantically in his mouth.  I stopped. Stared. Then he vanished.

     It took only seconds for my mind to process his gesture.  The child was hungry.  He was asking for food.  In a vain effort at redemption, I looked around for him.  He was gone.
     Trying to forget his haunting look, I continued on with our plan.  Our first task in this culturally-rich university city was to find a permanent address.  We hoped to rent a casa near centro where we could walk to the cathedrals, parks, mercados and places frequented by locals.  Of course, being North American, we wanted internet, a fully equipped kitchen, a clean, modern bathroom and any other amenities to make our life comfortable.
     While we looked, though, I kept thinking, but what about that little boy? Where does he live?
     As we searched, using BnB guest/host contacts, walking around looking for signs to rent (se alquilar), frequenting tourist bureaus, visiting real estate offices, scouring the internet, we began to lose hope.  Small casas we saw were too far away or else bare, dirty and dark shanties, begging for TLC, not in great neighbourhoods.

     During this time of reconnaissance, we discovered other facets of life in León.  Early mornings in our Paz de Luna (Peace of the Moon) BnB, brought squawks from green parrots as flocks visited the inner lush courtyard with its running water fountain and plethora of tropical plants: birds of paradise, aloe, hibiscus, flowering cacti, sour orange trees; in the dining room we lingered over breakfast and the background music of legendary crooners singing old American standards like How Insensitive.  We listened to street noises: the enchanting clip clop of small horses’ hooves pulling old two wheeled flat wagons along narrow, cobblestone streets. The sound sent the mind tumbling to a more seductive past.
      Lest I paint too romantic a picture, please be aware of the opposites.  We cannot flush tissue down toilets in this city: Please do not put any paper in the toilet to avoid plumbing problems. Used tissues must be deposited in the garbage bin located beside the toilet.  Although León is relatively clean, watch you don’t break a leg on the many sidewalk potholes and chunks of broken pavement.  Pockets of poverty---a weary elderly shoeshine man with bent back hoisting his trade tools across the central square; an old, barefoot woman peddling postcards; a younger one, tired already, extending her hand---exist alongside scores of university students sitting on the cathedral’s base scanning their cell phones.

     I watch a group of four boys, 8-10 years, jostle along the street with slingshots ready, their eyes on a moving target along the side of a building.  The shortest one takes aim on the run, fires, and whoops with joy.  The friends run together to the wall where the hunter picks up and proudly displays his fallen prey, a lifeless iguana.
     As we retrace the steps to our BnB, I spy a long, lean, and gaunt older gentleman dressed in black, trailing closely behind us. His hair is sparse and grey. His bearing is regal.  We enter Paz de Luna; he automatically follows.  Startled, I turn to investigate before we disappear to our room.  I see him approach the desk, motioning in his mouth with waving fingers.  This time I signal to the staff, we will pay for his food.  She smiles, nods, shows him to a table. 
     The frail stranger, sitting with back straight, is staring out the window at the clear, cloudless day, waiting patiently for food. He does not see us.
     That’s when I recall the painted message on the wall of a local café, Pan y Paz (Bread and Peace)… the world would be a better place if everyone had bread and peace everyday.
     Which reminds me again of the street boy with the brown eyes.  I saw him for only a second but he will haunt me for a lifetime.

     He lumbered to our front door in his red velvet, white fur-trimmed suit and coal black boots, shaking his jingling bells, stroking his full beard and shouting ‘ho ho ho’.     
     Our three young sons, who lived in the enchanted land of imagination, knew the real Santa was here, just as in previous years.             
      The real Santa was our rotund neighbour who lived behind us, a former professional football linebacker, easily weighing 280-300 lbs.  No way did our boys equate this magnificent Santa with the nearby mortal who shoveled his driveway like the rest of us.            
     “Santa’s here!” they screamed when they heard the doorbell ring.  Although they saw Santa in malls, parades, at school and Sunday School parties---Santa was everywhere it seemed---this Santa, the one coming to their home, was the real Santa. Each year he reminded them his reindeer were in the North Pole stables, resting and munching as they got ready for the long night flying across the world pulling his toy-packed sleigh.

    And only a real Santa knew their real behaviour.  We stifled snickers when Santa gently chided our eldest: “so, you threw sand at your brother this summer” or “good thing my elf watched you pick up the mess” or “didn’t you share ice cream on the swings…?”  He knew way too much real stuff.
     The faces of our three sons, totally enraptured by this giant of a gentle man, are forever images.  Tucked away in our messy memory albums are photos of each boy, sitting comfortably on the knee and in the arms of this marvelous man, chatting to him about their hopes and dreams while my husband and I frantically wrote down their wish lists.  Many times we were about to purchase something we thought they wanted for Christmas only to discover they told Santa something else.
     Over the years, as the boys grew, our neighbourhood changed and after the boys left home, we resettled elsewhere in Canada. 
     Although we occasionally returned to our hometown to visit old friends, we never found time to look up Santa.  On one occasion, though, we made a point of calling him.  We wanted to remind and thank him for the pleasure he brought our family when the boys were young.   On the phone, he invited us over immediately.  His voice sounded the same as 25 years ago: larger than life, warm and welcoming.

     “Come in!” he boomed when we rang the doorbell to his small bungalow.
     We did not expect what greeted our eyes.  I only hope the shock on our faces did not register.
     Our Santa was crippled.
     Although always large, he was even more so now: an obese, old bald man spilling over the stuffed lazy boy chair in which he was parked.  Anchored in a cluttered living room, he sat within reach of a telephone and TV remote control. A small table by his side held a pitcher of water, an empty glass, and a plate with some food scraps.  He looked as if he had not moved for days.
     “My knees,” he explained.  “Ruined them playing football.  Then came arthritis.  Now I can’t move without leaning on a cane or a walker.  Too heavy.”  He laughed and we caught a glimpse of merriment from long ago. “When Bonnie died and Darryl moved away, life came to a standstill.”  Bonnie was Mrs. Claus of course and Darryl their only son.  “I have a housekeeper---comes each morning to make sure I’ve enough food for the day.  Helps me dress then comes back in the evening and helps me undress.  Hardly move from this spot.”  He shared his tale matter-of-factly, no self-pity.
     We found it difficult he was incapacitated....and forgotten.  This unselfish man gave so much delight to his neighbourhood and community.  As the real Santa he brought joy to numerous Christmas parties and our neighbourhood; excited children across the city watched the local cable station each December hoping he would read their letters of dreams.  His annual TV appearance guaranteed the largest response of any community television program.
     Yesterday’s Santa may no longer exist as he once was but to our family he will always remain real.

     “I am afraid you’ve been tricked.”
     Gulp.  Silence.  Sick-to-our-stomach feeling.  Hard-earned money gone.  Thieves. Bandits.  Scumbags.
     All these epithets and more spring to mind as we listen dumbfounded to our hostess.  She continues.... “we deal with this company and we know you never send money. (We did.) Use only credit cards (we transferred cash).  Never share your personal email (we did)...Use the company as a filter. A go-between (we didn’t).”  We were cleverly led astray by a bogus look-a-like.
     Here we are in Lisbon looking for a rental apartment for one month and now we are certain we’re scammed.  The advertised apartment on-line did look almost too good to be true.  It was.
     All we want to do now is leave, return to the safety and security of our Canadian home.

     But like the proverbial possé galloping in to save the day, we think (nay, hope) we may thwart the attack because of a five hour time difference and banking rules. Panic-stricken, we contact our son in the financial business in Canada who manages to unravel the almost-done deal.  Now we can breathe again.  Now we can explore Portugal affordably---and we can eat!
     The apartment we eventually rent, half way up a narrow steep hill on the first floor of a traditional stone building, sits in a working class/student section of the city.  Laundry hangs from clothes lines strung out back and front.  This is November; Lisbon is sometimes warm enough for only a tee-shirt, sometimes not.  Inclement weather brings forth residents who scurry up and down vertical cobblestone streets with warm scarves wrapped around necks, umbrellas clutched in case threatening clouds burst. In contrast, colourful graffiti and weird artful figures swirl and sweep like wallpaper across nearby exterior walls.
     Climbing the dozen worn-in-the-middle wooden steps to a shabby landing leading to our apartamento dark door, we open the door to....a red and white IKEA décor!           
     What a shock....our DIY furniture in this small space does not match or complement this centuries-old neighbourhood.   We cannot complain, though, as there are modern amenities, including internet.  But there is an offensive sewage odour coming from the kitchen sink we never resolve.

     Living in this local community, our learning curve escalates. Especially at the supermercado.  Few fish filets (North Americans don’t like picking out bones) but plenty of dried salt bacalhau (cod) and other whole fresh peixe with glassy eyes, octopi with suction tentacles, new fruits to taste, like persimmon. What is this squat orange fruit that looks like a tomato?  Brimming with nutrition is good to know but when and how to eat it?  Shopping for groceries requires the eye of a detective.  How do you unlock and package fresh buns and famous Portuguese bread from their glass cages?  Where are the eggs? (hint: not in the cooler). 

     Out and about: what metro line takes us to centro or the train station? With winding, steep hills of cobblestones, when does one street end and another begin?  Did the tourist office mean turn right here or there?  We backtrack numerous times and start again using familiar benchmarks (yes, McDonald’s! although who would eat there in this land of delicious pastries and inexpensive wine?)  All this plus the challenge of language and currency.
     After many mistakes, wrong turns, curses and blame, we begin to learn the intricacies of this amazing city reputedly the second oldest in Europe after Athens. Vibrant, friendly, so wonderfully European, Lisbon buzzes with heavenly pastelerias, excellent vinho do porto, and delicious local cuisine like seafood at Ramiro’s across the square from our apartamento.

     First heard about this famous restaurant from our host rental agent who sang its praises.  As fans of Anthony Bourdain’s gastronomic TV show, we also learn Bourdain dined at Ramiro’s during a taping in Lisbon. A must for us then. When first exploring our neighbourhood, we noticed patrons lined up outside the door and around the block of this three storey seafood cervejaria. Time to taste the excitement!  As North Americans, our first shock: no reservations.  Our second shock: on arrival you receive a random number; when it appears on the outside screen, your table is ready.  We randomly wait among growing crowds and meet a visiting American couple (he, a well-known baseball writer/statistician).  This is the third night his wife has staked out Ramiro’s hoping to get in. Suddenly the screen flashes our random numbers (ours is 1060...their’s 1645), one after the other, and we are ushered into the brightly lit restaurant, second floor.  Coincidentally we sit at the same table and devour sizzling shrimp laced liberally with garlic, served with mounds of garlic (again!) bread.

A taxi driver points out his friend’s marisqueria (seafood restaurant) in our neighbourhood.  We eat there and are treated to a local version of fado, bluesy music with centuries-old origins.  Patrons in their fifties---one in his nineties---sing of broken hearts and lost loves with gusto and melancholy.  These dining performers welcome us with warmth and curiosity.

     From the internet we learn fascinating tidbits of information about our adopted city:
       click here
     This is only the beginning of our five week stay in Portugal.
     And to think we almost gave up and flew home.