Rent My Villa – Please!

Just over a year ago, I was backpacking around the lush and semi-tropical island of Madeira, writing a travel piece for the Globe and Mail.

Madeira is one massive volcanic rock, on which almost every fruit, flower and plant in the world flourishes. A riot of brilliant colour, Madeira is Portuguese and sits off of Morocco and the Spanish Canary Islands.

The travel feature for the Globe – “Boomer Rediscovers His Backpack” was a two-week test of age against tough terrain, hiking and hitchhiking the perimeter of Madeira.

In that piece, I admitted to taking a fall on a steep cliff above the village of Paul Do Mar and hobbling for days around the next little town, Jardim Do Mar, trying to rediscover my legs. I still consider myself a hardy hiker; it's just that at my age, I now need an arrow on my pack that reads, “This end up.”

What I did not admit to was the fact that in the course of that three-day convalescence in the postcard village of Jardim Do Mar, which is squeezed between a towering mountain and the crashing Atlantic surf, with nothing to do but limp around and look around – and by the way, I believe this happens to a lot of middle-aged people, both men and women, who, for no known reason other than the – okay, I drank a little too much and bought a villa. So sue me.

I don't know what the hell happened. One day I'm sitting in Joe's bar talking to … wait for it … Joe, and I asked him who owned that small brand new villa on the cliff over the ocean at the far edge of town, the one with two, two-storey apartments in it.

And he points to a guy at the end of the bar who appeared to be bopping to music that had not yet been turned on. Silvino.

So I rudely cut in on Silvino while he's dancing with himself and he takes me down the stone path to the cliff with the most breathtaking view on an island that is already overflowing with spectacular seascapes.

He then shows me through the two identical apartments, which are quaint and practical with deep mahogany fittings over red tiled floors.

We were standing on one of the four upstairs balconies when Silvino mentioned the price. He grabbed me before I took the second worst fall of my life, in as many days. That's when my WLU Psychology No. 101 kicked in.

“You know, Silvino,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I've earned what little money I have, the hard way … five cents a word, writing stories for newspapers and magazines, some meager royalties from books that took years to write, a TV …”

That's when Silvino removed my hand from his shoulder.

“You know, Guillermo,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “When I landed in South Africa 25 years ago, I had no money and no place to live. I worked construction jobs 15 hours a day and I slept in a bus stop at night. With my first pay, I bought a blanket because it's cold at night in a bus stop.”

The guy was killing me.

“Look, Silvino, what does it matter how we earned our money? The important thing is we both have our health. So let's go back to the bar and drink to our health because I can't afford to buy this place.”

“But you can get a mortgage from the bank in Calheta. It's easy.”

You should know that “easy” in Portugal translates into 30 kilos of paperwork, which includes passports, birth certificates, extra passport photos, medical check-ups, police check-ups, financial statements, a marital check-up, a Portuguese Visa, a temporary residence certificate, a contribuinte, a certificado inscricao, proof of living conditions, a non-student declaration, proof of susistencia, a procuracao, certificadao ristro central, property evaluation, a bund, bank transfers, legal clearances, a deed, an escritera, a key to the front door, four door stops and a Pez Dispenser.

After one year of paperwork, I finally went to Madeira to take possession of my villa, and when the Portuguese customs officer asked me if I had anything to declare, I had to be honest and say a very sore back from carrying this knapsack full of documents.

And Antonio, the manager of the Banif Bank in Calheta, who really owns the villa and lets me use it whenever I want – he was great.

Antonio: “How old are you?”

Me: “Fifty-seven.”

Antonio: “Okay, you'll die at 75. Let's see … carry the one … okay, you've got an 18-year mortgage at three per cent. Have a bom day.”

And if I read the fine print on the mortgage agreement correctly, I'm required by law to die in the villa.

So there you have it. I am now the proud owner of a beautiful little villa in the gorgeous little village of Jardim Do Mar on the lush island of Madeira.

A lonely villa awaits your next vacation. Me casa, su casa. Rent my villa, please. No smokers, no pets, and definitely, no pets who smoke.

I know, I know, it's a shameful plea for help from someone not totally unfamiliar with getting into stupid situations. But look at the alternative -- do you really want to see me foreclosed in a language I can't understand? Can you imagine the paperwork if I have to declare personal bancarrota?