We walk comfortably among the city. Today, it’s a busy city, but it’s not bustling. We try to find a bank to cash the travelers checks, but it is too late. Joyce had escudos to carry us through a few days so we explore the city in search of little late lunch.

“Desculpe, gosta para comer almoca?”
“Nada . . . Nao . . Nada”

Four Bradt recommendations later, we stop at a corner café named Café Portugal. We planned to stay away from it because we feared it was the equivalent of visiting the Hard Rock Café in New York. It turned out to be just what we needed.

I may have been raised around Criolo’s, but I was not raised Creole. I new about five or six Criolo dishes, and we ordered 3 of them at the Café Portugal.

“Un crer, dois pastels, dois gufong”, in my broken tongue. Pastels are cross between the Indian Somosa and the Spanish empenada. Gufong is much like a cornmeal doughnut.

We waited at our little table and started to nestle into ordinary life on the islands. There were too women and a toddler in front of us. One women had big, round curls and sharp , delicate features. The other had long hair, and a gold skin. They were beautiful. The boy bobbed up and down eating gufong. Behind us were a line of men ordering midday drinks and placing lottery bets. The place was full of idle routine. >>>