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It was a balmy Saturday morning and I was abruptly awoken by my IPhone alarm. Too early, even for the roosters on the cherry farm I was visiting in eastern Portugal. Despite the serene location and breathtaking landscapes, I was there to help a friend harvest the cherry crop to sell. As we drove up the winding roads to the local farmers' market, I got nauseous. Not from carsickness, but from nervousness. I did not speak the language, yet I was posing as a local. Selling fruitful goodness to the masses. For two days we plucked perfectly plump cherries off the tree. So ripe, they fell into your hands. They were the most beautiful shades of red- dark to bright. Something I had only ever seen in a stock photo. The taste was even better- sweet and juicy. I was confident that our cherries would be a hit, considering I addictively consumed copious amounts myself. I was just concerned customers would be turned off by an outsider trying to peddle goods, on their turf. In the town square, we set up our booth amongst other crafts, baked goods and fresh produce. We carefully placed our products to attract customers. My friend gave me a couple phrases, but insisted our large sign and obvious bright red cherries or "cerejas" is explanatory enough. The morning had slow foot traffic. The town elders eagerly sized up the array of vendors and swarmed their best goods. They meticulously searched everything before they made their choice. At lunch, the families arrived and would quickly choose. Just a snack for restless children, before heading to the nearby stage to enjoy the singers and dance troupes. We were almost sold out by late afternoon. I was a getting anxious to finish up. It had been a long day of standing and engaging. It was a fun atmosphere and I wanted to unwind as a local. I reflected that in my sales pitch. “Cervejas. Cinco mas!” People came over in a hurry. I also noticed a couple faces of disappointment. After the last cup was sold and car packed up, we decided to enjoy the last hour of the festivities. I was pleased with myself. I lived a life that wasn’t my own, as a Portuguese cherry farmer. Just then, one of the locals came over with a beer and invited me to join. He quipped, “You were shouting beer all afternoon. You deserve one now." Evidently, due to my exhaustion or excitement, I started shouting “cerveja” which is beer. Cherries are “cerejas.” However, on a beautiful afternoon like that, both cherries and beer would have hit the spot.