The sound of golfball-sized raindrops deafened my heartbeat. I could barely see past the black flashes of wipers struggling against the violent downpour battering our Euro-sized rental. Waterfalls spilled down the wildfire-scarred cliff to our right, sending debris across the road and down the thousand-foot drop an arm's length to our left. I inhaled deeply, navigating each rail-less hairpin turn as flash flooding overtook the one-lane cliffside road to Piódão.

I tried to maintain some semblance of stoicism so as not to betray the fear creeping through my skin. This wasn't quite how I imagined introducingo Cate, or to my in-laws to the country of my ancestry.

The Portugal of today is almost unrecognizable from the yesteryear trips I made with my parents as a child. Tourism erupted over the past decade as the country steamed through a post-recession renaissance. The World Travel Awards named Portugal the World’s Leading Destination three years running, and the country saw a record 12.8 million foreign visitors landing on its sandstone shores in 2018 alone.

The evidence was inescapable even before we left Lisbon. Views from the famed miradouros were marred by construction cranes dangling above remodeled facades, while multi-story cruise ships eclipsed the terracotta rooftops that define the city's skyline. Even my parents' native tongue seemed to get lost in the September air.

I knew I needed to escape deeper into the countryside to show my new family the authenticity of the land my blood family calls home. But I didn't count on my plan for a scenic three-hour drive through central Portugal turning into something else entirely.

Even at less than fifteen miles per hour, it was the most frightened I'd ever been. My imagination kept conjuring the truck careening around each blind corner, the landslide readying itself above us. I kept my grip white-knuckled and my expression neutral. Thankfully, everyone kept their heads down.

There was a debate to pause, but nowhere to pull over. So I made the unpopular decision to keep going, testing the depths of the rivers now collecting on the road and praying my calculations wouldn't send us plummeting down the mountain pass.

During the last few switchbacks of our hellish ride into the Serra do Açor mountain range, the sun started to peek past parting clouds. The post-storm petrichor blended with the scent of singed pine and eucalyptus, filling the car with nature’s much-needed therapeutic touch. Across the valley, set on a lush leafy green mantel top, a nativity-like village appeared in the dying light.

As we made our approach, I noticed the idiosyncratic planning of Piódão, one of twelve historical villages designated by the Portuguese Tourism Center. Schist stone, layered one over the other, climbed the hillside before settling into a neat amphitheater. "This place looks like Portugal's Rivendell," Cate observed, conjuring the Elven realm from Tolkien's fantasy epic.

After parking in the cobblestone square, we stepped into the fresh mountain air, clearing the stench of terror that had stained our clothes. As if sensing exactly what we'd endured, or simply being a masterful salesman, the proprietor of Café A Gruta, Senhor Carlos Lourenço, motioned us over.

"Come, you look like you need a drink," he said, handing us each a shot glass filled with a cloudy, aromatic liquid. "This one is an elderflower liqueur; it helps with the sinuses. And this one is chestnut, good for digestion," he continued, pouring from his collection of bottles. Whether or not his health claims were backed by science, the five shots settled my anxiety considerably. We left with two bottles of his regional elixirs.

We pulled our bags across the cobblestone, no easy feat after the dose of anxiety reducers, before stopping at the steps of a structure that looked misplaced. Like the spots on a fawn, the earthen coloring of Piódão is dotted with a dozen or so whitewashed exteriors. The one before us was the most prominent. In old-world fashion, it was a house of worship. But compared to the ornate Manueline architecture of religious sites across the country, the Igreja Matriz exuded an understated beauty. The smooth exterior seemed almost cake-like, vanilla buttercream covering its entirety, with a final touch of soft blue piping accenting the layers of tiered frosting.

The Igreja Matriz is a relatively young addition, built in dedication to Our Lady of the Conception toward the tail end of the 18th century. The village itself dates to 1527, Portugal's first national census, when it was thought to have been a haven for fugitives and highwaymen. That first perilous road into town wasn't laid until 1974.

This centuries-long isolation shaped Piódão's unique construction. The original settlers built from what the region provided — schist, slate, and wood. But as we paced the narrow streets, we kept noticing a familiar splash of color: wooden doors and window frames painted in the same blue as the Igreja Matriz accents. Legend has it the reason was less aesthetic than pragmatic. It was the only paint color carried in the village's single hardware store.

We finally found our sleeping quarters in the maze of stone alleyways. The guesthouse owner, Senhora Inés Ribeiro, greeted us with a key that looked pulled from another century. She had told us at reservation that her flagship four-room location, Casa Da Padaria, the site of the original village bakery, was fully booked and offered us two rooms at her smaller inn, Casa do Avó. My Portuguese told me immediately: this was her great-grandfather's own home. Both names held the remnants of their former lives, deepening our sense of immersion in exactly the Portugal we had come looking for.

In this village of sixty, residents can often trace their lineage to the very doorsteps where they now do business. Most locals, like Senhora Ribeiro's family, had once fled their rural upbringing for opportunities in the cities, but many returned. They now work the farms, shops, and restaurants that allow Piódão to retain its character. The overtourism suffocating city centers has become, paradoxically, the force repopulating this hilltop hamlet.

Around eight o'clock we headed out into the cooling night. The streets were quiet, lit by scattered yellow lamps. The only sounds accompanying us were the gurgles of running water used to irrigate the village farms — natural springs traveling from the top terraces, through street-level aqueducts, and down man-made waterfalls to the base of the settlement. This ancient farming technology has been feeding the valley for nearly 500 years.

"I think it's time for dinner," Cate said, picking up on the Portuguese tradition of the late meal even here in the remote mountains. The smell of grilled fish guided our grumbling stomachs to the seats of O Fontinha, one of only four operating restaurants in Piódão. It felt like sitting down for dinner with a neighbor. Tables and chairs that could have been sourced from my childhood home filled the single dining room. Our amiable hosts, the Lopes family, served regional fare in a truly farm-to-table environment: cheese from goats raised up the hill, a traditional Portuguese farmer's stew made from lambs with names, and a perfectly grilled trout fished from the rivers just hours before we sat down.

The following morning, we awoke to a rumble that shook the schist walls around us. On that same road we had narrowly survived, smoke rose from the puttering of a hundred bikers on 1970s single-cylinder motorcycles weaving down the valley. In an instant, Piódão tripled in population. They set up shop just outside the Igreja Matriz, where a king's roundtable had been laid for their arrival. Any unease dissolved the moment my parents' language rose from the group in spurts of laughter. They were part of a local weekend motorcycle club on their yearly mountain trek, stopping at the historical site for cold beers and a warm meal in the afternoon sun.

We spent our final hours at one of Piódão's "river beaches,” an odd designation for a swimming hole dozens of miles from the Atlantic. The natural pool filtered directly from the spring waters that carved its stone basin. We walked what felt like miles of craggy stairs, receiving directions from the local velhotas seated gossiping on their shaded terraces, before reaching the cold jade waters below. Picnickers sunbathed along the edges just beneath two arched stone catwalks and an ancient suspension bridge connecting the homes to the main thoroughfare.

My gaze wandered to the dwellings overlooking this intersection of nature and human ingenuity. I wondered what it felt like to first set eyes on this rugged place and decide to build a life within it. Just like us four Americans, those first settlers must have been searching for an escape, for a connectedness often hidden outside of comfort. They were a hardy people. Their descendants no less so, trading the walls of the city to return themselves to the earth.

The ride back to Lisbon was less terrifying the second time around. The roads were dry. The sun guided our path. We felt genuinely refreshed, restored by a piece of Portugal the masses hadn't yet reached. With the rest of our time in the crowded capital, my in-laws came away with a real fondness for the country that indirectly formed me. They even brought a piece of its melancholy home with them. My phone buzzed with a single word: Saudades.