15,000 miles of travel in Europe without an itinerary
yielded many stories.
Here are some from a favorite country.
Last February, I sat shivering in a taxi on a cold morning as the driver asked me “a donde quieres ir?” He’d thoughtfully spoken in Spanish, as that was the language I’d used when I slid, gratefully, into the warmth of his backseat. Thirty minutes earlier I’d jumped off the train, tote slung over my shoulder, and marched purposely through the small station in Evora Portugal. In my search for early morning coffee I’d barely noticed the exquisite blue-tile murals or the lone taxi. Failing my quest, I’d returned to the train station, the only constant in my 90 days of travel with no itinerary. Staring out the window, and for the first time in my life, I answered the question all taxi drivers ask stating: “I have absolutely no idea.” He smiled, and replied in perfect English: “I will drop you in front of the Tourist Information Center.”
I’d selected Evora simply because it was on a UNESCO list of World Heritage sites—and its population was under 50,000. I could walk to see my first Roman Temple. The two hour, crack-of-dawn, journey to the west, away from the Atlantic Ocean and Portugal’s capital city of Lisboa, was a welcome contrast to the 12-hour overnight trip from Madrid Spain. I saw my first white-washed buildings, capped with red tiled roofs. I admired the colorful laundry hanging from windows. And the big, bold, graffiti cheek-to-jowl with stunning tile-work. I was told by the train personnel that the 1200 kilometers (750 mile) border that Portugal shares with Spain is the longest in Europe. He seemed proud that the Celts, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, and Moors had all laid claim to his country and its peoples. Romans, he said, had conquered Evora in 57BC, and immediately built a wall.
I finally found my first cup of um pingado (oong pingardoo), an espresso with a drop of milk, along with a savory item in Praca de Giraldo. The sun was bright, my gloves were warm, and I had this treat all to myself. Apparently, the weather was unseasonably cold, with a forecast of storms and wind on the way. I looked at the tourist brochure, ignoring the people huddling under the awnings of empty shops and restaurants. I’d found a comfortable hostel that overlooked this main plaza. The owners were surprised at my solo travel, and ultimately delighted to mother me while I added day after day to my stay. By the third day, I was considered a local. My euro was pushed back at me when I paid for my morning coffee. Elbows at the stand-up counter parted to allow me to squeeze in and point, apologetically, to whatever goodies I desired. Ignorance can be bliss in an unplanned itinerary. So it wasn’t until after I left Evora that I learned that the Plaza where I’d enjoyed so many conversations, meals, and laughs was also the regional court for the Spanish Inquisitions. Ultimately 22,000 Jews and others were killed on this plaza, including burning people alive in the center. Directly across from the Tourist Information Office.
During my stay, I’d joined a group of pre-teens on a scavenger hunt for human bones. We explored the various historic buildings, checking off our list of famous or unknown skeletons. We ate our lunch in the Roman Baths. I nodded wisely as their high school teacher explained the issues that resulted in the current debt of Portugal to the EU. I learned that the Jesuits, who had offered intellectual and religious enlightenment since the 16th century when they founded Evora University, were kicked out in the 18th century. I was reminded, once again, how complicated the Catholic religion is. And how Catholic Portugal is.
My hosts in Evora had presented me with an itinerary of their country. They suggested I go south, to Lagos, to seek warmth. Then return north to Aviero, Portugal’s Venice. They encouraged me to stop in Lisboa and Porto, where wine, wars, (think Napoleon) and water collide. I agreed that I would give my coat a chance to dry out. I returned to Lisboa, and boarded a regional train to Lagos, an ancient maritime town situated along the beautiful Algarve coast. I hoped to learn more about Henry The Navigator, eat salted cod, and enjoy the warmth of the Mediterranean.
History claims that King John the First’s fleets left Lagos on Aug 21, 1415 to conquer Ceuta, Africa (modern day Spain). His action successfully established Portugal as a powerhouse. He opened the Muslim world to medieval Europe. His, and his offspring’s, ships scouted the African coast seeking routes to India. They left from the exact same spot in Lagos where I was eating a Pastel de Nata. I considered the irony that seven centuries earlier they had sailed to find the spices to add to this yummy custard tart. And captured slaves to grow the plants for the crust and filling. I walked over to the area loosely designated as the former slave market. Fortunately, there was no boutique shop or art gallery to mark its location. Prince Henry the Navigator, by the 1450s, dispersed thousands of slaves throughout Europe from Lagos. The coffee I drank to the last drop still comes from Brazil, a country claimed by Portugal as one of their many discoveries, during the Age of Discovery.
I wanted to see more of the fabled Algarve coast, and decided to accept an offer from a Brit who had spent the last 40 winters in the area. He drove a sporty-type car, and arrived at my hotel wearing leather driving gloves, a brown plaid scarf, a yellow vest over a light blue shirt, and white slacks. I paused for a moment of reflection to recall the warning from other groups of Canadians and Brits who I had met while enjoying steaming bowls of Caldeirada and conversation. Alarmed to discover that I travel alone, and had no plans other than to leave Lagos in a few days, they rigorously insisted that I “be careful of foreigners.” As I picked out the mussel shells from my bowl of fish stew, I suspected their warning didn’t apply to them. Now I wasn’t quite so certain.
The Algarve coast is stunning with its drop-to-the ocean cliffs, beaches of golden sands, and bays that surprise you with their Mediterranean blue beauty around each curve of the road. My Septuagenarian driver frequently mistook my knee for the gear shift, but usually managed to return the car to the right side of the road. The Portuguese are smart, and have painted large, curved, white arrows onto the asphalt to remind European visitors to get into the proper lane. I saw scores of comfortable-looking places to stay, along with family-run food and beverage cafes. Each small commune had made an effort to make visitors welcome by providing “Hamburgers and Gin” happy hours, along with golf, re-sale books (and expat book clubs), —all while speaking English. If I was seeking a winter escape for families or retirees I would choose the Algarve coast. After I returned home to Talkeetna, I’d still have money left over to pay for college or a hip replacement.
