I have in my possession two small notebooks my late mother Algerina took with her when she visited Madeira and the Azores. In the neatest handwriting, she recorded what she and my father did, saw, and ate. I brought both with me on our recent trip to those Portuguese Islands.

My mother’s first trip was in 1983 to Madeira, where her parents lived before they emigrated separately to the U.S. Times were tough then. So, like so many immigrants, they were seeking that so-called better life. My grandmother, Angela, was 16 when she came by a ship with her sister. I don’t know how old my grandfather, Manuel, the name traditionally chosen for the oldest boy in a family, was when he left the village of Gaula. 

Flying to Madeira in 1983 took effort. Their brother-in-law drove them to Providence, R.I. to catch a bus to Logan Airport in Boston, where they flew to JFK in New York, and then via TAP Air Portugal to Lisbon, where they stayed fa ew days before flying to Funchal. On the other hand, my fellow travelers and I took a direct flight from Logan to Funchal. (The seating aboard the plane was tight, but we got free red wine and a nice meal.)

My ever observant mother wrote “Men wear jackets on shoulders and carry pocket books to carry all those escudos, lots of paper money.” My parents went on tours, but they also visited her Uncle John, who was 83 then, and other family members in Guala. “He kept saying my name and saying that the other Algerina (nun in Africa) was stronger than me.” Her Uncle Paul, the youngest who had emigrated to the U.S., had notified them. My mother saw the home where her father was born. “Took pictures of the bedroom where my grandparents slept and all the children would sleep on the floor.” It appears my parents got their fill of what Madeira had to offer, including taking one of those basket sleigh rides down steep, cobblestone roads. My mother notes that was how food was once transported, but someone smartly decided to put a seat in them as a tourist attraction.

Inspired by my mother, I kept my own little notebook during our trip. Here are some of my observations:

Views from the patio include the tiled roofs of the homes below and the ocean beyond — at night, an impressive display of lights.

Roosters are aplenty and up early. Their crowing sets off the dogs. 

Cristiano Ronaldo, the football aka soccer superstar, who grew up here is big with his own museum and a life-sized bronze statue. Strange but true: the area around his prominent jockstrap is rather polished. 

The roads are narrow, steep, and winding, many cobblestoned, not surprising given the island is volcanic. Navigating them was a challenge for Brian, the designated driver in our group, especially since we had a car that fit five rather snuggly. Well done, Brian.

Before our trip, I learned rudimentary Portuguese via audiobooks, enough to be polite and say what I want. But everywhere we went, except for one exception I will mention later, everyone spoke English well. Of course, it was a friendly gesture to greet and thank them in Portuguese. In one restaurant, I guess my accent was good enough for the maître-d’ to think I was fluent. Desculpe.

Coffee is served stronger in small cups than I could handle. Hank said, “This coffee will make you stand straight up.” One time when I order decaf, it was thick, a bit bitter, and served black in a tiny cup. 

Food was exceptional, lots of seafood, exotic fruits, and wine, so was the service. Brian treated us to dinner at Avista, which had exceptional cuisine.

Unlike my mother who had to deal with escudos, the currency was euros. It was easy to draw money from an ATM  (I had notified my bank ahead of time) or pay with credit card.

The taxi cab drivers are super chatty. One was local, the other from South Africa.

I had limited access to the internet, but when I did, the Google entries were written in Portuguese.

Bars are everywhere including at the bus stops in our neighborhood.

Smoking is popular. Lots of smoking in public.

The air smells of ocean. The waters, as we found when we swam in the ocean at Porto Moniz Bathing Pools, surrounded by black volcanic rock, are blue and clean.

We stopped at a small restaurant in Guala on our way to the airport for breakfast beverages and a variety of pastries, including pastel de nata. The rest of my fellow travelers were making their way to the car when I went to talk with an older woman who sat at a table with a man I assumed was her son. What struck me was how much the woman looked like a younger version of my grandmother, Angela or Vovó as I called her. I shared who I was, my connection to their island, and how she resembled my grandmother. The man interpreted. At the end, the woman smiled and thanked me: Obrigada.

My parents only went once to Madeira. I want to return and see more of the island. The members of my family in the U.S. who still had connections to those living in Madeira are no longer with us. But I would like to see who I could find and what else I could experience on this island.