15,000 miles of travel in Europe without an itinerary
yielded many stories.
Here are some from a favorite country.
Karon begins part 2 as she leaves the Algarve Coast.
Seeking a more Portuguese flavor, I boarded a train north to Aveiro. Only the locals in Lagos seemed to know the town, verifying for me that my western European dinner companions had not seen much of Portugal. I was told to eat the Ovos moles, where chocolate takes on a whole new meaning of flavor. And buy the salt scrub.
So I headed north again, this time staying on the Atlantic coast. I arrived a bit south of Porto. Aviero lives up to its title of “Portuguese Venice.” It is a working community of canals and boats, with a nod to tourism. Two months later I spent a few days in Venice, Italy and decided that I liked Aviero better. Why? Because I discovered Aviero’s prolific use of Azulejo blue tiles, its ever present cathedrals whose bells rang merrily each hour on Sunday, Art Nouveau buildings around every corner, and a music store hidden in a small plaza blasting Fado.
Only a few weeks into my 90 day journey, I’ve primarily learned how little I know about art, music, literature, or politics across the pond. Others probably already knew, for example, that Art Nouveau is both a philosophy and style of art and architecture that was popular in the 1890-1910s. I assumed that I would stumble across examples in Paris, Vienna, Prague, or Brussels—which I eventually did. I was stunned, however, to step outside my 10-room hotel one early Sunday morning to see the beauty of delicately crafted flowers and birds on iron railings surrounding six foot windows in a fishing village of 60,000 people.
I also did not expect to see the intensity and numbers of the beautiful blue, polished stone tiles set as murals or window decorations. Oh my! I had grown accustomed to seeing the ornamental polychrome tiles in train stations, restaurants, subways, and churches, often set at angles, in a pleasing pattern. But in Aviero, the tiles themselves were lost in allegorical scenes of peasants harvesting seaweed, or sacrifices at the church alter. I was told by a student who shared a coffee with me that the style originally came from the Moors, which I was able to see examples firsthand a few days later in the Arab Room in the Sintra, Portugal National Palace. Aviero, however, took this art form beyond wall covering and efforts to control temperatures in their buildings. Aviero’s craftsmen built on the Muslim efficiency of cover-everything-in-sight, and combined the pottery skills of 16th century Spain to perfect glorious scenes of saints and sinners. These works of art are in every public place. Stateside, I miss their beauty in the sterile environment of our public restrooms.
I also fell in love with Fado music. Days earlier in Lisbo, I was told by a girl crying over a missed train connection, that Fado relieves pain. She insisted that this “music of destiny or fate is the answer to my problems.” My hosts in Evora had earlier insisted that I accompany them to an after, after hours show that featured a popular male Fado singer. No one was speaking English, and so it took me a while, and two glasses of port, to understand the passionate discussion on whether to cough or applaud in appreciation of the mournful music. The etiquette is different from city to city. I’d found no Fado bars in Lagos, where sunshine and beach music reigned. I had almost forgotten the music until seeking a snack of the famed chocolate eggs while contemplating a gondola ride. I heard the distinctive sounds of a solo female singer, accompanied by wire string instruments, leaking out into the courtyard where I ate. I followed the pied piper to the music store.
For me, Fado music sneaks into your soul. Part melancholy, resignation, and acceptance, perhaps because one has a life associated with the sea, or are poor in love or resources, or long for anything but what one has. The expressive nature and sheer poetry of the words, however, offers hope that a resolution to one’s torments can be found. I was told on this beautiful Sunday morning in the shadow of yet another enormous Cathedral merrily swinging its bells, by the twenty-something crowd that Fado music is ultimately one of hope. As an example, they told me that several of them had protested Portugal’s 2015 elections. My head was swimming with their mix of languages as they explained the impact of a coalition of left-wing socialist Party, Portuguese Communist Party, Ecologist Party, and the Left Bloc who argued for, and won, a say in the government formation. I did not know that Portugal’s representative democracy only arrived in 1976, a mere forty years ago. I can understand why this music, first on the scene in the 1820s, is a touchstone for the decades of economic, political, and social changes in Portugal. I was reminded, once again, of my ignorance.
I woke one day and realized that I’d never see any of the other 27 countries on my Eurail pass if I didn’t leave Portugal. So I left. I visited dozens of cities, traveling 15,000 miles through countryside remarkably similar to that I’ve enjoyed in my cross-country train travel in the United States. I reflected on the history hidden beneath the soil, behind the curtains, and in the very train stations I came to call home. I focused on the people I met each day, while eating my way through food I’ll never find an equivalent for in the U.S. I drank endless tiny cups of rich, black coffee. In the end, Portugal remains my favorite place, outside of Talkeetna. ###
