Take a Trip - by my nephew Colin

Would you miss commercials?

Desperate Housewives. Six Feet Under. West Wing. All things I am addicted to and miss.

Hong Kong TV is strange. It’s not bad, but just really different. We subscribe to a cable TV service. Well, really, it is TV that comes in through our telephone line but does that really matter anymore?

It, like so many things here, is a completely random mix of things that are U.S., British, Asian, and who knows what.

We get four Discover channels, including Animal Planet and one channel that shows a hybrid of U.S. makeover and cooking shows. I watch that often. HBO, Cinemax, and STAR are all added expenses for us but only marginal added value. Programming differs greatly from their U.S. counterparts with the Asian versions being relegated to run mostly unpopular shows released in the 90’s. As I type this, the Wednesday night feature is The Net, starring Sandra Bullock. Not bad, but definitely not up to the expectations I had when I saw there names on the contract. Add to this list a couple of BBC channels and our subscription service is almost complete. Oh, of course, there are about a dozen channels in Chinese that I am skipping over here and CNBC, which offers two nights of Jay Leno per week.

The BBC has lots of techno-strange colors to remind you that you are leaving or entering a commercial break.

So what’s strange? Well, a couple of more things add to the twilight zone feeling I sometimes get when watching. First off, it seems there is some great crunch on expenses here as all the channels tend to have one block of 5 hour programming that they repeat three times in a twenty four hour period with a few other non-repeating shows thrown in. They start with prime time and then repeat that again overnight and during the following day. I am a bit slow, but even I realize I am watching the same episode that was on the previous night.

Perhaps even stranger…commercials. There are spaces for promotions in programming, just as you would see in the U.S. The difference? There are no paid advertisements on TV here. None. All the commercials are promotions for other programming on the TV networks. All of them.

What I would give for a good channel with some sitcoms. Ah. They have them in Asia. We’ve had them in a hotel in Singapore. Even in Portugal, our hotel in Sintra had a great selection. But then the randomness continued, even in Portugal, with the Lisbon Marriott having almost no TV options – CNN and BBC – no sitcoms, movies, or other.

It’s amazing to me the sporadic options that are available. I hope I am not too overwhelmed on returning to the U.S.

Conimbriga

After a nighttime serenade at my hotel from the guest in the room next door, guitar in room and song in the shower, I was up. The morning seemed bright and full of possibilities as I peaked out my shuttered window and into the quiet streets two stories below. As my first non-Marriott breakfast in several days, I was excited to enter the dining area at my appointed 8am time. My dutch hostesses had prepared a hybrid Portuguese, American, and Dutch buffet that included American bran flakes (finally!), Portuguese breads, cheese, and ham, and Dutch somethings. I say somethings as my hostess was unsure of their exact nature. On initial description I took them to be a Dutch fiber or seed supplement, plopped on your cereal to provide good plopping. But in reality, these somethings were sprinkle – orange, purple, and other more primary colors - sugar pellets I am used to finding on a Dunkin donut.

After several failed attempts to catch the correct bus to my destination for the day, Conimbriga, I taxied it. As the best sight for Roman ruins in Portugal and one of the best maintained in Europe according to my guidebook, I was excited. I’ve seen Roman ruins before but never a fully developed locale as this was supposed to be. What I found was of interest but also some disappointment.

The thing about ruins is that they are inevitably in ruin. You find a stone here, a mosaic there, and but for some somewhat explanatory placards, it is difficult to make much sense of it all. They had actually done a beautiful job creating a museum on the site, which was long, low and architecturally muted in its serenity, but they appeared not to be stopping here. I found more than half of the ruins under construction. Yes, they were actually rebuilding the ruins in several parts with new marble and stone. I just couldn’t imagine.

There were a couple of really cool things – remnants of the old Roman road between Lisbon and Porto, mosaic floors, flowered gardens, and a tall, crumbling city wall. But with these I was the lone traveler to board the return bus to Lisbon – one per afternoon – and after thirty minute I was back at my hotel to grab my bags, to lunch at a converted church site, and to return to Lisbon, for what would be an almost end to my European adventures.

The old Roman road and the city's ancient defense wall.

The remnants of an ancient heating system.

Columns remain.

With a small creek just a few hundred yards away, Conimbriga's setting appears to have been a beatiful one.

Iris and water remain and active part of portions of the site.

Outside the site, graffiti takes an odd form here with past school groups having marked their waiting spot.

Quiet Time at the Marriott

It’s Tuesday morning, and I sit in the lobby, cushion to back, hair damp and askew, and laptop out. The day is ending for many of the hotel staff; the day begins for the cleaning staff. I am the anomaly, a guest awake early, but they seem not to mind too much and adapt their patterns to fit me, sweeping around my couch and chair alcove for a while and then surrendering to my inhabitance, and gaining boldness as they literally vacuum around my feet.

This morning there are few late night guest arrivals, airport or bar, and as such, little excitement for what even is beginning to approach an acceptable morning hour. On Sunday morning, as I sat here waiting for the breakfast to open, a group loudly announced their arrival when stepping into the pillared and marbled room. Their night was ending, their day beginning. Clad in sunglasses and with a noticeable stoop to their gait, I would see them again three hours later in the lobby as they mingled before a business meeting.

We have found Portugal to be a less than the ideal business destination. Eric’s group has faced numerous problems with hosting a meeting here, mostly around delayed service at the hotel or in customs. I’ve been surprised to see how little internet access there is given the enormous café mentality and reality here. It seems primed for wireless internet access points were it not for the fact that cafes are places of relaxation and socialization – not places of work. We were lucky to get internet access in the room at the Marriott as they only have two floors wired for guests. That access, too, has a price – a steep one at 20 euros/day (about US$25).

Cafe Work

It’s morning time in Lisbon and I have some work to complete before seeing a few last sights. I have ducked into a small café near the Barrio Alto district and sip an orange drink.

The café owner pecks away on an old typewrite from a corner table when he can. Between customers, black on white, he could be penning a new menu or the next National Book Award winner. I will never know. His work seems more deliberate and somehow more lasting. The pounding echoes through my body with a punctuated force. The tiled room, shades of brown, gives a false sense of height to an otherwise normal space.

A dog barks outside. There are few dogs in our travels that I’ve wanted to cuddle with. Most have been street dogs. Independent, hardened.

I wonder. Is there no limit to the amount of coffee one can drink in a day? The months it took me to really kick my coffee habit are all being forgotten here. There is no use fighting coffee. You can’t. They won’t let you, and you more than want to surrender yourself to them. Yes. Give me the brew. The drip that instills tranquility. If there is one thing they treat with attention, it is a cup of joe, which makes you stare a minute longer at your porcelainized shot glass.

I move on.

Another café and another beat. No typewriter here just the chatter of voices, the hollow click of heals on the faux-wood floor, and the bass-heavy beat of background music. No musac here, just beat. The coffees are bigger and more diluted than before. The seats are wider and more comfortable. The lingering moments more apparent. Every shop has its atmosphere; it’s purpose. No neighborhood run-in here. This is a place with leather chairs and couches, space that seems unending, and a menu that ia traditional only in the sense that a large family can be – a family of ten or twelve. It grows and grows as if obeying the heavenly laws of café Catholicism. This is where to escape for the afternoon, while my earlier locale was for a quick morning stop. Down and go. Standing all the time. Not that that would keeping people from staying all day or returning with the chimes of the clock.

Surreal. I am sitting with my back to a wall. I turn and realize. The wall is the canvas for a projection of a fashion show. The whole time I have been sitting and working, writing about things far from here and reading about serious things, people have been dancing the dance of Lauren behind me. Very odd.

There are no Starbucks here.

Pretty Pics

There are always more photos than I want to post at once. So, here are a few of my favorites from Coimbra that I haven't published yet:


An untended but beautiful window in Coimbra.


Beautiful from afar, many things were uncared for up close.


An angel watches over the city.


Tower and courtyard.


Well, it may not be pretty, but this is kind of a fun self-portrait.


Roman aquifer.


This beautiful library stands shut up, open only to the occassional tourist willing to pay a few euros.


Another view. If you look real close, you might be able to see that there is no glass on any of the shelves, simply wire, almost like what we'd call chicken wire back home. Very odd.


These cloistered waters house a wonderful little restaurant.


My lunch said diner. I was so hungry.


The streets were beautiful.


Even with the sloping streets, this woman was able to balance her load on her head.


I looked up to see a skyline of crosses.

Coimbra

University towns are fun to visit for the culture and life that they seem to exude from every street. Just as many of the most desirable places in the United States are home to major universities – Madison, Austin, Lawrence – so to is at least one town in Portugal – Coimbra.

View of Coimbra.

With Eric in meetings, I set off to Coimbra early on Tuesday morning. With a train transit time of more than two hours, I decided to make this an overnight journey as in addition to the town of Coimbra, the surrounding countryside holds some of Europe’s most intact Roman ruins. As a northern, more secluded town, I have found Coimbra to be more sheltered from travelers, with the service staff knowing little English and my sad attempts at communication only barely sufficing. Luckily, I found a great tiny hotel, perched randomly near the top of the hill on which the University sits, and with the great hotel, a great Dutch innkeeper (who spoke English) whom showed great care in her explanations of the city to me and kindness over the phone.

My guesthouse.

Seeing the University is fascinating, for I have read in the guidebooks of the prestige of this institution, but from the exterior of its buildings one is left to wonder. In the U.S., universities continue to increase and increase in their glamour as they strive to out-do each other. Here, crumbling buildings stand as they have for centuries with little adaptation apparent. A woman and a man in lab coats scurry quickly between buildings, ducking into an unmarked door that I assumed was abandoned.

A famous university clock tower.

Arched entrances abounded in Coimbra.

The average age of the population on the street drops steeply from Lisbon but twisting alleys and rolling hills remain the rule of the landscape. Here the streets are cobbled with a traditional round stone rather than Lisbon’s square patterns. After a quick nap at my hotel, I would spend the afternoon walking and reading throughout the city, absorbing as much as I could of a charming city on a beautiful spring day. My favorite area was a park along the river that provide striking views, a nice walk, and a restaurant that actually was serving food all day and at which a single traveler did not feel intimidated. Most cafes here only serve cheese or ham sandwiches, and I had nearly reached my fill.

Casa Pombal breakfast.

Close up shots of breakfast. Anyone see bran?

Walking through the park and along the river as the sun began to decline in the early evening sky, you could smell the hormones in the air. Couples stood kissing against a railing and in several cases, to my surprise, in nearly full mount on park benches. I return to the hotel and a night time guitar serenade from the guest next door. Ah, college towns.

How is it they know?

How is it they know? I am an American. Is it my quick, tunnel-vision walk? Is it my request for decaf? Is it the white that peers from under my pant leg? Is it my t-shirt that lacks a fake jersey number? Is it my hair, cut short and without bounce? Is it my untattered edges, clean from manufacture? Is it my sunglasses, diminutive and ungarish?

How is it they know?

Even the pigeons know. They recognize an outsider. They recognize opportunity. Their aggressiveness grows. My meal, still in process, becomes the prize. I think it’s the Fanta. Pigeons love Fanta’s orange fizziness.

At first I am embarrassed that they know. And then, somehow, unknowingly, I have changed, and I am mistaken. Not always, but sometimes. Mistaken for native, for knowledgeable, for things I am not. And I realize the safe embarrassment I once enjoyed, the ease with which one escapes responsibility and consequences as an American tourist. People assume you are stupid, which is nice, because you really are, or for the safety of all, you should be treated as such.

Lunch in Coimbra where Fanta frenzied pigeons embraced my visit.

Although back in Hong Kong now, I have several posts that I have been working on since my time in Portugal. This is one of them.

So, So, Tired

It’s 9:30am and all I can think about is sleep. My body calls out silently in its droopy, moaning wail. It calls and calls. But I must refuse. I must stave off. I must. I must. For the moment, my reasoning skills are surpassing my instinctual yearnings, but I doubt I can hold on. We arrived back home Monday morning after an 11 hour flight. Almost speedy by comparison to the 14 hour flight it took to get to Europe and the 16 hour flight between here and Chicago.

Perhaps the worst thing about international travel is the difficulty that can come with a significant change in time zones. While I have started to get used to this adjustment, it’s impossible. The drugged feeling of daily existence can stretch for a week or so after a big trip and can cast a complete sense of helplessness upon you.

I’d always known of jet lag, and even experienced it a couple of times myself, but I don’t think until the last year have I really begun to understand it, to see it, and to feel it. When Eric began traveling more internationally over the last year and a half, I became an observer of jet lag. I realized, perhaps a little too slowly, that my expectation for a jubilant greeting upon arrival home was perhaps unrealistic. Jubilation at the end of a long journey comes more easily in a smile than what we traditionally see in movies on TV. Mustering the energy to stand tall, keep eyes open, and in general to walk forward are all of more importance than the running hug, bouncing glee, or other Hallmark greeting moments. Now, I have learned to give space and allow for completely unexpected reincorporation affects for Eric, and in turn, for myself.

Take this trip for example, although Eric and I changed time zones at all the same times and largely were on the same waking and sleeping schedules in Europe, our schedules (or shhedules, as our British captain liked to repeat on our most recent flight) on getting home could not be much more different. We arrived in HK at about 7am on Monday morning. After customs, passport control, and the train ride home, it was about 9am. Neither Eric or I had slept on the flight so our bodies had been awake a long time and were feeling as if it were really 2am. Surprisingly, I felt pretty good and was more overwhelmed with work to do and mail that had arrived than the need for sleep. Eric crashed. 10am to 3pm. Lights off. For me, at 1pm, I lost it and slept until 3pm. Eric would remain awake from that point until about 8am today, a day later, and now is enjoying a 2 hour nap before a conference call. I fell asleep at 9pm last night and slept until about 4am and am now trying to hold off sleep until the afternoon. If I can make it until then, then I will have almost established a pattern. Nap in the afternoon. Sleep at night.

Must get pattern. Something. Please. That’s really what jet lag is. Lack of pattern. Adjustment.

A Ride on Lisbon's Subway

A large M marks the spot. Visible in a way; invisible in many more. Leaving the busy streets above, I enter the station or remnants of what could have respectably been called a station some years earlier. Several stories below surface, a train enters its last stop from one direction and exits in reverse. I ride, sitting.

A woman with high eyes and heavy face jockies her head for a position I cannot understand. It contrived, somehow unnatural. It must be her mother who she travels with. They share the eyes and many other features but the younger woman’s hair is darker, more potent. Her eyes, too, are more searching, less content.

Two old men enter the car and sit down across from me, 2/3rds of a seat. My eyeglasses from elementary school would fit in well with them. Tinted from top to bottom, their glasses like my old ones were meant more for practicality than fashion. They talk and talk. Stops come and go until the squatter, grayer of the two rises to leave. But their friendship and their conversation, all in a tongue foreign to my ear but for pattern and tone, ties them tighter than geographical rationale. The squatter man returns to his seat and dismisses the gesture of exit and fully embraces the friendship.

Tap. Tap. Tap. To the left, a man moves steadily towards our car, walking stick in front of him, shades drawn, and voice repetitive. I have no idea what he is saying. No jar is apparent, no cup sitting empty. Does he want a seat? Is he out for change? He walks a step at a time, each step homogenous, no testing for seats to the sides, simple movement forwards, and steps to the side to avoid central poles. Once per car he pauses to check his location with the tap, tap, tap of his metal walking stick on the metal pole of the subway car.

The mother exits the car with no words to the daughter. They must be a fictional family, existing only in my mind or the state’s sealed adoption records. I look around and realize that on this particular car, all the women appear to be family. They all have the same top heavy brow. Strange. I haven’t noticed this elsewhere in Portugal.

Empty stops are replaced with quick movement and many people. A busy stop. The car quickly fills with riders, but a weird dynamic takes over them. Seats stand empty but remain empty. Are they cursed? By the nature of them being empty, are they bad seats, filled with smelly neighbors or unaligned cushions? Silently a crowd logic seems to emerge, and while odd to the observer, remains. He shall stand. She shall stand. They shall all stand. I don’t mind. I like space and covet the remaining elbow room to my left.

A couple in their 60’s, standing, switches sides of the car so that we are separated by only inches of metal pole. In motion, they fall romantically, playfully into each other. I can feel their blushing cheeks and rushing blood ignite the metal and warm the surrounding car.

A nearly empty stop returns to claim its position of dominance. Two riders enter and quickly take seats. They are from a different culture, a different group, than the previous stop. They see opportunity where others saw only emptiness. Even the seat next to me is taken. The seat next to me is nearly always the last one to be occupied – my pretty face too imposing or my broad back end too impeding? Or perhaps it’s all perception on my part, mislaid fears of being the scary smelly guy that you must sit next to on a crowded flight. I know I am not, but then those men never seem to know. I might be. But, not today. I am clean, despite my travels, and despite my limited wardrobe and laundering options. I smell, quickly though, just to make sure.

Still good.

Lighting Up

It is strange to be in a place where smoking is so common. In the US and in HK, smoking has been relegated to a personal activity, with most signs of its once public place obliterated. It is rarer and rarer to see an ashtray in a restaurant. Even rarer is the restaurant with no segregation of its smoking and non customers. In Portugal, this would be the norm, and while from appearances I am not sure that there are significantly more numbers of Portuguese that smoke compared to the US population, they are not outcasts.

I have seen a man, cigarette limp, check into the Marriott. I have seen a woman descending the escalator into the subway station, hair curled with age and intention, take a prolonged drag, and with a flick of the wrist, abandon the lit end on the passing stair step.

Said woman on staircase going into the Subway.

And, it is not as if the Portuguese are not aware of the dangers of smoking. I don’t think many people are anymore, but it certainly seems like Portuguese packaging leaves nothing to the fine print or the imagination. Consider this discarded package from the beach in Nazare:

Roughly translated, the package reads cigarettes kill.

Yarn Shopping

Blatant stereotypes. We all make them, no matter how accepting or progressive.

Few are probably aware that I have taken up a rather unusual hobby for a man in his 20’s – knitting. It came about a couple of years ago when I read a story about a movement in the United States that involved young people getting together to knit and talk – a stitch ‘n bitch. Having crocheted as a child with my grandmother and as a new resident to Kansas City looking to meet people, the idea had some appeal. Eric gave me my first how-to-book, needles, and carrying case while a friend from my first job in Kansas City at the Federal Reserve provide some coaching and encouragement. At that point in my life, the theory of knitting was better than the practice as I became very busy with changing job responsibilities and an ever increasing community role. My needles would sit idle in their box through several moves and eventually wind up in HK.

Our first week in HK was a busy one with all the unpacking, connecting of services, and attempted new schedules, but during that time I ran across a posting on a website for expatriots for a HK stitch ‘n bitch. Intrigued, I contacted the group leader and was welcomed to attend an upcoming meeting. Since that time, stitch ‘n bitch has been my most consistent extracurricular HK activity. I am enjoying re-learning the process and making connections with some very nice people – two of which are Midwesterners from Chicago. In what I consider one of the most telling signs of HK’s acceptance of all, I have received few looks of curiosity or notice while attending a stitch ‘n bitch, which are regularly held in busy coffee shops.

Our quiet group on a recent Saturday afternoon.

I cannot say that Portugal has been as quickly accepting. While I haven’t actually pulled out the yarn and needle on the train, tram, or the pasterleria, I have purchased yarn and materials for a new project that I plan to start when I return to HK. Surly not. A mistake. What does he think he is doing? The faces have said it all. Even as I am purchasing materials, well beyond the point of accidental entry, the women have continued to treat me gingerly. I am a cow out of pasture. Perhaps I am the hundredth American male to purchase yarn from them that week, but I suspect not.

Do you think I made the dinner table conversation?

Nazare

As I said in a previous post, I spent some time in Nazare on Sunday. While once a dainty seaside town that was engrossed by the fishing and textile industries, I think the world has discovered Nazare’s natural beauty and come knocked down the door. It was by far the busiest of places that I have visited yet but that distinction could also be a byproduct of the weekend.

With strikingly long and sandy beaches and an even longer commercial viewing corridor, Nazare looks as I have always imagined the Boardwalk to have looked like. Everyone out, just to be out. Some sit on the beach but more occupy coffee and ice cream shops. Two people toss a frisbie for twenty minutes before heading to the ocean’s shore. I abandon my good senses and lie directly on the sand and am a coated with the remnants of past waves, rock, and sea shell, causing me to shine and sparkle in the sunlight. Among the amazingly homogenous kernels lay an occasional brilliantly blue clam, radiant like an opal. There were not many, and while I have no idea of this is actually true or not, I cannot help but feel that I have found the inspiration. The one. I’ve wondered since we began exploring Portugal what could have inspired such an obsession with blue paintings. Whether fictional or not, now I have an answer that satisfies me.

After soaking things up for a while, I packed my “tennies” and flip-flopped away. Nazare has one escalator (tram) that takes locals and visitors from the beach level a couple of hundred feet diagonally up to the city’s second half which is perched above. With the gorgeous ocean views, this area seems another haven for tourists and those wishing to sell to them. While I was expecting to see pottery, clothes, and other such little trinkets, I was not expecting to see nuts. Yes, nuts. Lots of them being sold by a glut of vendors. Haven’t seen nuts sold anywhere but Nazare on the street.

While I did gnaw on a few cashews, I snuck in a more an adventurous snack of mussels on my way back to the bus depot. I am not a seafood guy, but the crowds at this little restaurant were impressive, so after initially walking past in defeat, I turned around and sat down. In about 3 minutes, my order was out, and I was loving it. Yummy sauce, onions, and great toasted but soft bread were a great compliment to the natural freshness of the day’s catch.

Where do I exist?

I hate to get all existential, but I think it’s a valid question. In the past few months, I’ve seen a lot of changes to the way in which I live and interact with people. I am seeing new places and experiencing new things. I have begun to share more and more about my life on the Internet through this blog. There are moments in which I zone out on a bus, fall asleep in a hotel, or round a corner and am blind to where I am. I have to think hard, and once even when I did that on this trip, I still got it wrong the first time. KC? HK? Now, this can be a good thing as you get more comfortable in a place, but it can also be discomforting and out-of-body-esk.

Sunday I traveled through a town north of Lisbon called Nazare that is along the Atlantic Coast that was recommended to me by a work colleague – Bob. At certain times, I found myself snapping photos of the crashing waves, sandy beach, and soaring cliffs, absorbed in a crowd of people doing just the same. I knew none of them, and yet by happenstance, as of today, I have inevitably ended up in one of their photos, captured by mistake (or intent) in the camera frame and soon to be plastered into a scrap book or cast aside in a shoebox. My non-posing face forever digitized or chemically burned in mid stride or stare. But is this existence?

You know the story. Tree falls. Empty forest. Is it heard?

You are reading the story. Boy travels. Foreign place. Is it real?

The strange thing about living a life is that it hardly feels like you are living if you have no one to share it with. That’s one of those things that is always said but I’ve learned just how true it is. For that, I count my blessing daily for having Eric, close family, and friends. On these quick journies, few lasting connections are made, and for me if it were left to that, to the checking off of tourist spots from some book, that it would be a waste. Not an existence. For me, it is the talking about it, it is the writing about it, it is the sharing of a life that brings it into form and brings with it some meaning.

Thank you for sharing with me an existence and helping to keep some semblance of place in an unbounded world.

Two Worlds of Taxis

In Hong Kong, we have found the taxis to be a safe and predictable mode of transportation. All vehicles are identical Toyota models, painted alike, metered, led by their honking horns, and driven by men whom with we struggle to communicate and whom show little positive emotion. The last is true except for two incidents, the first, a driver who upon our commenting on our hunger and love of chips actually gave Eric’s mother a hand full of his sour cream an onion. The second anomaly was in having a female driver. To this day I think I have only had this one female taxi driver anywhere in the world. Even with the occasional anomaly, HK taxis are a beast of mass transport that tend to belch constant noise and anger in traffic, which HK is not lacking.

Lisbon taxis are as unique as the people that drive them. Many Americans would be surprised to get in the back of a Mercedes or BMW taxi, but that is the standard here. Leather seats and black interior are the norm. Compact, station wagon – you just never know. The horns of the taxi seem more a means of long-distance greeting than confrontation as we see with protracted HK honks in backed up traffic or an unfriendly lane change. I’ve seen more drivers cower in quiet almost Midwestern disgust, internalizing and not daring to touch the horn in similar situations. There are beeps for greetings, salutations, and as the vocal accompaniment to a short wave. On our ride from the airport to the train station, our driver, window down, spent a few minutes in traffic giving directions to another passing driver. On a ride tonight, my driver checked to see if it was “hurry?” I am not sure what he would have done had I said yes as runners in an adjacent park were steadily passing our deadlocked rush hour location. I must admit it is nice to be in place where language is less of a barrier in the taxi. We’ve actually had several nice discussions with our drivers, whether in English in one instance or in butchered Spanish in the other.

Unencumbered Portugal

Routes are plotted.

Plans are made.

Packages are bought.

Signs are followed.

Destinations are achieved.

Sound familiar? Probably a lot like your last vacation. Disneyland. Bahamas.

AAA-assisted adventures.

As we get busier and busier, as the tourism industry becomes more commercialized, and as the sheer number of tourists in the U.S. reaches perceived capacity in many places, rigidity, assistance, and limits are necessary evils of travel. We set them ourselves and the places that we travel to impose them upon us. And while there is no doubt that Portugalis facing some similar pressures, it doesn't appear to be setting any rules and neither are it's travelers. In Eric's words, this is "unecumbered" travel.

View from inside St. Vincent De Fore's.

Thus far, our explorations have seemed amazingly untethered by nosey security guards, pesky ropes, security screenings, or many of the things we have become accustomed to in the U.S. For example, we spent several hours on Saturday exploring the St. Vincent De Fore’s, one of Portugal’s oldest churches and for centuries the state home of Catholicism. We were able to walk freely among the remains of Portugal’s kings and queens, unwatched and unnoticed among winding halls, few tourists, golden artifacts, and tiled murals. Unencumbered.

The royal crypt. The two main sarcophagi shown are of King Carlos I and his son who were killed in 1908 in an end to Portugal's monarchy. The statue between is their wife and mother.

A reverse, unencumbered, view.

In the afternoon, we headed out to Expo 98, former site of the European Exhibition and now huge commercial development. Passing through the gates to Europe’s second largest aquarium, again we were freed into an oceanic world where we would see amazing things – dancing, out-of-water stingrays and a baby sea otter, for example – and be put literally face to face with animals. In the most graphic example, we turned a corner to find a penguin-like bird standing on the human side of the railing. Cowering and scared, it stood almost petrified as people walked by and in some cases reached to touch the bird. After seeing no staff for about 15 minutes of our journey in the area, we finally encountered an Oceanarium representative and helped to rectify the situation. Unencumbered.

I could go on and on about the access we’ve been given within castles and other sites. The freedom to explore openly is wonderful but frightening in many ways because it’s as if you are a teenager who is for the first time being sent off to college. You come to expect a certain amount of security which in return provides you with structure for your experiences. As it was, I found myself constantly questioning our right to be where we were, but to my knowledge we’ve broken no laws, begun no international disputes, and in no way have dampened the reception anyone reading this should expect on their own adventure in Portugal.

Cabo da Roca

With sore feet and salty skin, we were coming to an end of our time in Sintra. As such, Eric and I broke from the advice of our innkeeper and set out at about 6pm for the Cabo da Roca. As the western most point in continental Europe, the Cabo da Roca has developed into relaxed retreat area with many getaways and low-key restaurants.

The major problem with our desire to visit the Cabo was transportation. To get there, we hailed a taxi and were off. After 30 minutes or so, we wound our way into the circular drive near the point. It was only then that we realized the isolation of the spot and the near fatal flaw in our decision not to pay the taxi that brought us to remain and takes us back in half an hour. Lucky for us, there were two scheduled buses to come the rest of the night, including one that would take us back to Sintra.

As we set off exploring, it was hard not to be impressed by the geography and charm of the location, even with the less than perfect weather in which we found it. As with any seaside location, cloudiness can come and go, and for the hour of our occupation, it had come. The wind swept over the cliffs with regularity and strength. A short walk to the point, and you could see the infinite possibilities that generations had felt in similar locations. While I know the world that lies across the Atlantic, many to stand before had only known possibilities and imagined routes.

Cliff side view of monument.

The site is dominated by a tired lighthouse that but for its location, and with a small squinting of the eyes, could be a farm and silo from the Kansas prairie. A large cross stands at the utmost western point, strong in it defiance of the huge drop-off and crashing waters below. The country that surrounds is rolling and green with little flowers and fields of grass. It was Eric’s first time to see seaside cliffs in person, and I think they made a good impression.

A bus did arrive, much to our relief; however, the bus was not the one we needed. Luckily, a nice bus driver and empty bus meant that we got a free ride and drop off to an area of restaurants near the Cabo. With a promise to return when his route reversed in an hour, we left the bus and went for dinner. Although not really open, we found a restaurant and with it a rich dinner of salmon and beef filets. While very fresh, we seemed to have found the salted scent of the sea - but plated (even coating the salad!). A little salt was a small price for the beautiful and relaxed setting.

At the promised time, the bus pulled back in, and we were off for a winding journey back to the hotel and an end to our Sintra time.

Sara

As a tourist, you see what seems like an endless stream of new people in a given day, and it is always a shock when you begin to recognize one person. While it seems like an unlikely phenomenon, in reality, it happens, and in that instant you are rushed with dueling feels of paranoia, competition, and allegiance. Paranoia for the sense that someone is following you; competition because first come first serve mentality takes over when facing busy attractions; and intrigue for in that instance you begin to have a history with said other person(s). For me, a majority of the time, it is usually at least sighting three before there is much intrigue. By that point fate has come into play.

As Eric and I climbed to the top of the Castelo dos Mouros last Thursday, the ocean dampness enclosed the air around the castle and scattered our view of the Palacio, causing us to remain atop longer than would be the norm as we hope for dissipation. Although the fog never cleared, I think it was a divine cosmos that placed it there for in our waiting we made a new friend – Sara.

Sara was traveling alone and as such I offered to take a picture of her at the top of the Castelo for even with the splotchy fog there were still some stunning views to be had. Realizing we both spoke English, Sara declined as she had no camera but that was enough to spark discussion. While short-lived at first, we would encounter Sara later (sighting #3 – intrigue) during our descent back into the town. Amazingly we would learn that Sara came from Malmo, Sweden, my ancestral home and Eric’s often destination as his boss is located in Malmo. Of all the places in the world for the three of us to meet, it would be in Portugal interim destination for all.

It is always nice to make a friend, especially an interesting one. Sara was likely in her thirties, a curly blond that showed signs of Swedish heritage. She was a gardener by trade but was in the process of retraining to be a dance instructor. She was in Portugal to study African dance, and she had spent many previous months traveling abroad on the same endeavors in Africa and even Brazil. We spent but an hour or so together, exchanging stories of home and present over a coffee before she headed back to Lisbon on the train. Sara was on the last leg of a journey that seemed to have strengthened roots to a home and a place which she had been away from for a long time. Soon she would return to Sweden and to Malmo where she hopes to open the city’s first dance school.

Eric and I snapped a photo for Sara so that she would be able to remember her day in Sintra, and perhaps yet this week we will meet for coffee again or one day in Malmo.