A fishing boat returning to the dock.

mushkil yuN aan parhii ke dil ko na badal payaa.

****

muztarib huN is qadar shikaayat ki goonj se,

manguungaa unse maafi likh kar khoon se .

(Muaztarin=agitated, disturbed)

****

Aey shab tumheN  dekha andherey se larh rahii ho,

roshni leke aayaa kahaaN chupp gayii ho .

****

hawaaoN ka rukh hamney palatey hue dekha,

tumne rukh jo paltaa toh hairat nahiN hui .

****

Mein chahataa huN sabko milaauN tujhase,

har shay se pyaar ho har shay ki dua lage.

****

Faasley mujhko kabhi nazar hi na aaey,

tu toh meri ruuh mein merii jaaN mein hai.

****

hawaaoN ne gunah kiyaa ke diye ko bujhaa diyaa,

saari raat phir andheroN mein bhatakti rahiiN.

****

Hawa ki tarah kya ham to khyaal ban ke aatey haiN,

darwaaje pe nahiN rukatey dil mein baith jaatey haiN.

****

Haal jo meraa poochaa aankhoN mein aansoo aa gaye,

sarey nazaarey jo saamney they be-tarah chhitraa gaye.

****

Rukh na palatnaa kabhi hawaaoN ke saath sath,

urh jaayeNgey usool tinkoN ke saath saath.

****

Waqt bechtaa huN rozaanaa apnaa,

khhareed na sakooNgaa jab zaroorat hogi.

****

leader ko chaahiye ke usooloN pe chalaa karey,

warnaa urr jaayegaa jyuN taash ke pattey.

The next morning we went and see Sintra’s beautiful gardens and its architecture that is hidden in wonderland. Just enchanting! Definitely a must see! After that we decided to go as west as possible to see Cabo da Roca, the lighthouse. It was crazy windy and crazy beautiful. The road led us north towards Caldas da Rainha, but we got totally lost in small villages between.

We needed a day off and decided to have an easy day in Peniche. On our way there we stopped in Foz do Alrelho and had a cup of coffee.

Tuesday was a day for Nazare and Leiria.
After that we saw the beautiful Porto where we drowe with a cute little ship and tasted wine in the wine cellars.

It really was a super super fun week. Let’s do that again!

Lisbon

Sintra

Cabo da Roca

Foz

Peniche

Nazare and around

Porto

Selected photos of the first.

MAIN CARD/LIGHTWEIGHT QUARTERFINAL FIGHTS

• 16-2 Dave Jansen (2464) vs. 14-1 Magomed Saadulaev (2297)
• 13-2 Marcin Held (2214) vs. 9-0 Murad Machaev (2006)
• 14-2 Ricardo Tirloni (2267) vs. 10-2 Rene Nazare (1986)
• 20-0 Alexander Sarnavskiy (2527) vs. 44-21-1 Rich Clementi (2290)

PRELIMINARY FIGHTS

• 125 lbs: 5-1 Dave Morgan (2017) vs. 2-0 Matthew Lozano (1904)
• 145 lbs: 0-0 Eric Albright (1946) vs. 3-0 Brett Martinez (1718)
• 155 lbs: 3-1 Cosmo Alexandre (2000) vs. 4-0 Mike Bannon (1979)
• 185 lbs: 8-8 Lewis Rumsey (1952) vs. 5-2 Duane Bastress (1942)
• Catchweight: 14-5 Carmelo Marrero (2271) vs. 11-4 Lew Polley (1873)
• 155 lbs: 7-0 Emanuel Brooks (2347) vs. 5-0 Darrell Horcher (2219)

It’s a little funny typing Rich Clementi’s record on the same line with Alexander Sarnavskiy’s, but it’s a fairly competitive fight despite the wide gap in career winning percentage. As one might expect, the 20-0 record of Sarnavskiy contains more than a few wins against inferior opponents. But unlike Jason Reinhardt, whose seemingly impeccable record was based exclusively on defeating cans, Sarnavskiy has some quality wins as well, including wins over Len Bentley, Douglas Evans, and Marcio Cesar. With Sarnavskiy, there’s no one win that stands out, but there are enough quality wins to consider him a legitimately good lightweight fighter. He’s my favorite to win this Bellator tournament, followed by former WEC lightweight Dave Jansen.

Un invierno en algunos spots en Portugal con el joven talentoso portugués Miguel Adão. Solamente 15 años y ya un estilo digno de los mejores riders, a ver … Por el momento clic y disfruta!

Winter in Portugal with the young gun Miguel Adão. Only 15 years old and already a fine style. Click play and enjoy!

Filmed by: Luís Alexandre, Luís Pereira.

Edited by: Ruben Cabral.

Pedro Bettencourt is currently one of the best rider of North Portugal, the proof is in the clip!

Filmed by: Meias de Leite, Gustavo Imigrante, Pedro Paula.

Edited by: Meias de Leite.

It`s autumn, and the season for one of the most impressive “natural phenomena” in Europe – the massive waves of Nazare in Portugal. A huge underwater canyon streching far out into the Atlantic, causes the exeptinal conditions – only reserved for a few surfers in the world. Last october, I was there shooting Garrett McNamara and his crew surfing these monster-waves. And – when it comes to extreme-sports – it might be the sickest thing I`ve ever shot. I was shooting from a helicopter, with film-maker Thierry Donard, and we got some pretty cool angles on this great athlete – who has devoted his life to find the biggest waves on the planet. ….a few days after we had left – he broke the world-record, surfing a 30 meter wave in the same spot. Wel – word is Garrett McNamara is back in Nazara searching for even a bigger wave. l wouldn`t recomend anyone to join him. But if you will – make sure to give me a call!!

Nazare, Portugal

There isn’t a better place to surf in any corner of Europe! Portugal is one of the best European Surf Spot, because there isn’t another country with so many good days to surf and so many different beaches. Portugals moderate climate and the long and amazing coastline gives to this little peace of surfers heaven the best condition to surf all year.

In Portugal the surfers can count on waves that require a lot of expertise to surf them, like Peniche supertubes or the Coxos in Ericeira. But not all beaches are for advance surfers, the Costa da Caparica beach is the best place to learn how to surf due to the soft sand bottoms.

Portugal is part of Surf History, with the first world surf reservation, and with the biggest wave surfed in Nazaré.

But the starters that came in, startled us. There were Percebes, Caracois and Camarões.   Sea snails yes, boiled shrimps certainly, but the Percebes were my first time and Rui promptly demonstrated how to nip of the head of the barnacle and get to the tasty meat inside.

Percebes or ‘Gooseneck Barnacles’ are a delicacy in Portugal and will not be found anywhere except in the really authentic seafood restaurants. These strange looking barnacle are found on the rugged coasts, more often near dangerous cliffs where the mighty ocean pounds the coasts with its roaring waves. Harvesting this delicacy is a dangerous task and fishermen risk their lives as they swim through turbulent waters to bring in a fair crop. No wonder they are available only in a few places, but relished by true sea food aficionados.

The barnacles are cooked for just a few minutes in sea water, with no other additives retaining the taste of the sea as you bite into them. Once you get the hang of it, eating Percebes is really easy -  just bite off the strong head that covers the body and suck in at the juicy meat moistened by the wonderful salty taste of fresh sea.

The Caracois (Sea Snails) too were delicious, well boiled for about 2 hours with a bit of olive oil, onion, garlic, bay leaf and oregano, and with a little fork to dig them out of their shells.

Certainly, starters that you must start with!

The Buzio is a simple, yet typical seafood restaurant. It is located at 7 Rua Teofilo Braga at Sitio Nazare, or you could always book on the exceptional Faith & Heritage tour with Around Lisbon which would get you there in time for lunch.

The best tickets are invariably gifts. I sat in the sixth row of the new Yankee Stadium courtesy of my former boss; he’d said thanks for an onerous month with a pair of seats next to the Mariners’ GM and their pro scout. After a decade-long drought, when the Knicks entered into the 2011 playoffs I forewent a springbreak trip to Florida and spent the equivalent on a pair of seats for Game Four. It was monumental to see the Knickies in postseason play; it was also my boyfriend’s birthday. And last night, a day shy of halfway through my time in Europe, I was on the recipient end of another nice ticket: ringside at Nazaré’s first bullfight of the season. This slab of concrete (and it was a narrow, hard slab), came from a friend’s friend visiting from Reno. He wanted my budget to stretch farther over the seven weeks in Europe than ringside seats would allow. Obrigadissimo, Van the Man.

What is a Portuguese bullfight? It differs from the other, more popular Iberian version of the sport on a number of counts. Perhaps most importantly, they don’t kill the bull in the ring. Not to say this is a good place for PETA supporters, but at the end of the fight the bull trots out under his own accord – a much better resolution than the body drag that concludes the Spanish version. The ring is smaller, the team of fighters bigger, and the pageantry even more pronounced.

The cavaleiros, dressed in long brocade coats and feathered hats, look more like suitors of Marie Antionette than 21st century sportsmen. And rather than the hand to hand of man vs. bull as you see in España, the cavaleiros ride on tremendous horses, Portuguese Lusitanos. These creatures, huge and beautiful and as good as any of Andalusia’s sidesteppers, are the real stars of the show. But don’t tell the forcados (more on them later).

There were six fights last night, two rounds of 1-2-3 for J. Moura, R. Fernandes, and J.M. Branco. The order here is important: Moura was the patriarch, near as old as my dad, with a good head of gray hair and a Portuguese potbelly. But he was sure of his ways, confident on every horse. Fernades was the rising star; with a head of flowing blond locks he looked more d’Artagnanthan a Portuguese cavaleiro. And Branco, dressed appropriately fresh in green silk, was a baby, rough and eager. When the guy planted a pick he smiled and flashed a mouth full of braces. Each had something to prove to their predecessor; and after the halftime they had a chance to one-up each other all over again.

Moura had little to prove: he knew what he was doing. He proceeded from the long picks, which unfurl a flag upon piercing, to middle length spears to a tiny dagger, switching horses along the way. The old man didn’t waste any time charging the bull – a few guttural “Hey! Hey! Hey!s” would get the animal’s attention, and that was that. But Moura did enjoy a little spirit of play on the way out of each attack: after contact he’d get the bull going after him, sprinting in tight circles. In these chase scenes one was reminded how small Nazaré’s ring really is: the horse, deft at the sidestep, reverse and diagonal never seemed to reach a full-forward gallop.

While Fernades’s good looks have undoubtedly opened many doors, his horsemanship clearly has something to do with his succes. He spent a good deal of time lining up the bull, so that his head-on charge (generally proceeded by a brief man-and-horse dance routine of prancing, hotstepping or otherwise gyrating) would be particularly breathtaking.

I should note that in the positioning of bulls he, and all the other riders, were aided by matadors. This crew, wearing the kind of sequined garb you expect from a Spanish bullfight, were the ultimate fluffers: a few waves of their hot pink capes and the bull would be revved up again. These matadors, unlike the Spanish, had nothing to do with the kill – once the bull was in place they scampered up and over the wall again.

Back to Fernandes: when his second bull was something of a non-starter, he turned the round into a dance show. It felt a little like figureskating: lots of sequins and satin, tight braids (on the horse) and twirls. There was the chesnut pony that pawed the ground like a dog ready to sprint, then the tan horse that shook its hips like it was skiing slaloms. The grand finale was a dark brown number that Fernandes rode hands free: both of his mitts were occupied with white and gold barbs. He hooked the reins to his waist; a few twists and squeezes later, and bam: bull’s eye (actually, bull’s back: they aim for a fat spot high on the bull’s back). A female companion’s wide-eyed assessment of the trick: Imagine how strong his thighs are.

Branco’s first run went well enough, but his second pass, nearing One AM (the spectacle began at 22:15) was getting desperate. His bull, a particularly mad one, gave him and his horse a run for their money. Branco had a hard time hitting his target – there were a few false passes, and a couple that landed farther down the bull’s back. (The brute easily enough shook these out.) The horse took a couple tough body blows, though a good deal of gore was avoided because of the flat-ended leather sheaths over the bull’s horns. No open flanks tonight.

That’s not to say we made it through the night without any blood. The stab wounds on the bull’s back did seep; after a few passes the glisten of red could be seen on their black flanks and on the white tinsel of their barbs. In terms of blood loss, however, the forcados gave them a run for their money.

This last step of the Portuguese bullfight is the biggest difference from the Spanish. After the horsemen take their leave eight spry guys jump into the ring. Each is wearing a short brocade coat and a wide red belt around his belly. They line up single file, facing the bull. One brave soul steps ahead, taunting the animal with hoots, hollers, and a big swath of red belly. He slowly approaches with a stylized two- step as his team adjusts behind him. Staying in line, we will learn shortly, is critical.

You know what happens. The bull charges. It’s the forcado’s job to get him by the horns, and hang on. The first pass through this exercise went fine: the guy stayed mostly on the ground, running backward as the bull heaved forward. Enough teammates grabbed onto their compatriot, and every other part of the bull, to slow the creature down, and they eventually stopped him. (You’d stop, too, with 1500 pounds of guys hanging off your horns.) They disengaged their roadblock all at once, save for the tail-man. That one forcado was still hanging onto the tail; he gave the bull a yank and they went through a few spins (the bullfight equivalent to popping a wheelie) before the shepherds were called in. This pair brought in the steers who act as sweepers, cajoling the bull back out of the ring.

Adolescent farm boy versus raging bull: things can go wrong. It’s oftentimes hard to tell if the post-wrangle blood on the fellow’s jacket is his or the bull’s; machismo dictates the forcado walk out of the ring pretending he hasn’t broken three ribs. In the third go the forcado was knocked off the front of the animal, he dove into a protective fetal position under a pelting of hooves. Amazingly, thirty seconds later the guy bounced back up. He adjusted his hat and was at the front of the line again. Down goes Frazier, again, but this time, miraculous, the befallen forcado flipped the bull along with him. No one broke a leg under the bull’s flank, but it could’ve happened. The guy left the ring of his own accord but like a lady in a too-tight corset, one of his buddies slipped a strong hand under his elbow.

The blows continued. The fourth forcado lost a shoe with the bull’s impact, and split his lip something awful – no doubt whose blood it was that time. The fifth took a ride — he was airborne atop the bull’s head most of the ring’s diameter. You hope the bull will charge sooner, rather than later, so that the forcado’s ride is that much shorter, but the final forcado was just a few feet from his target when the animal charged. The ride was a bucking one, but the fellow stayed on till the end. He was half-blood when he emerged from the back, it was part bull but also certainly some of his own.

And what does that front row get you? A few clods of dirt in the mouth. A good view of the mangled back of the bull. A peek into the Portuguese elite — our ringside neighbors had the same Brooks Brothers sensibilities you’d see in the Hamptons. I could watch the fighters watch their colleagues from the inner ring, just a three foot drop below our own front row. Moura watched his colleagues with a cool detachment, while Fernandes needed a cigarette as soon as he was off the saddle. The forcados, on the other hand, were a true band of brothers: as soon as they were out of the ring it was hugs and butt slaps and tending to one another’s wounds. When the last forcado came out of the ring doused with blood, there was a rush to see how much of it would come off with a little bottled water. His left eye was well on its way to swelling shut, but with a few pats on the rump he was strong enough to get back out there and take a bow. Obrigadissimo.