Soon
after my Dad’s passing in August, the family started making plans to
bring over his ashes to the family tomb in Olhāo, so that we could place him
together with his Mother, with whom he always said he wanted to be
"reunited" after she passed away at a very young age. Dad was 23 at the
time and that life event had a profound effect on him, given their
special bond.
As we started to make plans, I asked about his life in the Algarve.
Even though Dad was born in Lisbon, his side of the family was based in Olhāo where he lived for several years.
I
was told Dad lived in this big house, now abandoned and covered in
murals, which made it hard to miss. On top of that its architectural
style made it standout and a well-known spot in the city.
I shared the screengrab with my two brothers who immediately recognized the place.
“We drive past it all the time,” said my brother Alex.
Olhāo
is right next door to Tavira where my Dad's side of the family has
spent their holidays over many years, so naturally, bumping into that
place was to be expected.
It's
September and I'm days away from going to Tavira, where I decided to
take a morning to go on a road trip with my girlfriend, where we would
first go to the house and then to the cemetery where my Dad’s family is
at.
In
the 25/30 minute drive from Tavira, I could feel some anxiety building
up. I felt like we were off to an adventure, searching for fragments of
my Dad’s past, which were soon to be part of my own story.
As we arrived, we could see the house from a distance. It stood out in such a way, that it felt like it didn’t belong!
We
parked the car and took a moment to look at it before crossing the road
and walking all the way around, looking at each detail and admiring
every little corner. We took particular notice of the mural of a witch, which the "pointed roof" took the shape of her hat.
We
looked for an entrance, but most of it was blocked, only a small
entrance off the side in which you would need to crawl under. I didn’t
have the courage to do so, as it didn’t feel safe. I started taking
pictures, both wides and close ups.
I
handed over my phone to my girlfriend and asked her to take a couple of
stills of me standing on the front and back of the house. It all felt
surreal.
I saw a mailwoman speaking to another lady and approached them to ask if they were locals and knew anything about the house.
The
mailwoman says she is from somewhere else (Faro, perhaps?), but the
other lady instantly says that despite not being originally from the
area, she has lived there long enough that she can help.
I
asked her about the house and she says that it is known as “Chalet
Victoria”, owned by the wealthy family "Saias" for many years,
before it was sold to the city hall. But before any of that happened, it
used to be the property of businessman José Guerreiro Mendonça, my
great-grandfather, who had purchased the place from an Italian emigrant.
There he lived with his family, including his son Francisco Xavier
Mendonça (my Grandfather), both of which worked for the national bank
(Banco de Portugal) until the financial crash happened and they went
bankrupt.
As a consequence, they had no choice but to sell the house.
We
were in awe of this story, delivered with a great level of detail, to
the extent where she almost sounded like the local historian.
As
we thanked her and said our goodbyes, Carolina pulled out her phone and
went on Google to look the story up. Everything checked out.
We made our way to the cemetery to pay a visit to the family tomb and wrap up our morning.
Moments
later, I call my stepmother to tell her about our morning and how
everything we heard matched her version of the story except for one
thing. She believed the house was rented, but apparently our family
owned it and after selling it due to the crash, they lived in it as
tenants for a few more years before moving to Cascais.
Cascais,
I was told, was already a very dear place to my Dad’s family and due to
their long history and affection with the small village on the coast of
Portugal, my Dad would end up there as an adult, building his house,
starting his involvement with the jazz festivals and spending his days
there until his passing.
But his story begins in Olhāo, at a place unknown to me until now.
Filling
in those gaps and learning more about his life made me somehow closer
to him and offered me a physical and spiritual place that I can come and
visit whenever I’m down at the Algarve. It also provided me with
memories that I certainly won’t forget, tangled with this unfamiliar
sense of adventure and discovery.
It
felt like a great day, that I couldn’t help myself but make the
headline of this post “A Great Day in Olhāo”, after the iconic Esquire
picture “A Great Day in Harlem”, taken by Art Kane.
That picture, which
features some of the greatest jazz musicians of that time, has its own story with Dad... a story that like this one, I will continue to cherish
with all my heart and to remember each time I go back to my Dad's
place, as it continues to back hanged on his wall.
