Camino Portugues
Alentenjo
Thursday 31 October
The end of our travels is looming. In fact today we started talking about it like it was already the end. This time next month we’re already making our way back to Geneva. We said goodbye to this beautiful city of Sevilla this morning. It is not surprising that it has inspired so many operas. It seems odd for such an inspirational city to not have its version of La Scala.
We had the usual wake up of whinging and whining, fighting – “I want this”. “It’s not fair”. “It’s his fault not mine”, “I didn’t do it”. Pushing, shoving, swearing at one another. It turns Lisa into a raging mad Medusa, particularly with the added stress that we had to get out of the apartment on time to get to the station in time to buy tickets, package two bikes and get on the train. We got away on time, had a super efficient ticket seller and were able to pack two of the bikes while loading the three other bikes on the train and removing and storing each of the bike bags. We’ve got it down to a pretty efficient system but it doesn’t work as well when the day has started in the way it did. Instead of playing as a team, it was “I want to do my own bike”. “Don’t touch my bike”. “Your stupid number plate is really annoying” and all that. The crappy attitude continued after the train took off. The only way to break it up was to get the boys to work. Oreste continued with his fractions, Arsène was revising his timetable and Léon eventually started his maths Worksheet, after counting the grains he’d kept in the spent shotgun bullet he found.
After an hour and a half we made it to Huelva. By that stage Arsène’s words and arrogant attitude had reached a level of deafening acuteness. Oreste’s rude answering back and taunting playfulness were starting to whip Lisa and Xavier into a frenzy, even though they were trying to focus on getting the bikes ready to ride and to get on the right route. We eventually made it to the shopping centre in town and again the crap continued.
The massive storm was about to break. Oreste intentionally rode off the bike track and Lisa spiralled out of control. Screaming she got off her bike, threw it on the roadside and had absolutely no intention of picking it up again but rather just running a million miles. In an instant she felt she hated the whole fucking thing and wanted out. She threw her jumper down, she took off her shoes and threw them, she smashed her helmet as hard as she could on the ground. Xavier stood there silently watching this all unfold. The kids rode on out of Lisa’s sight. She couldn’t bear to even look at them anymore. Lisa made it clear to Xavier that she had reached the end of the road. Her road. She couldn’t cope with the unrelenting crap anymore. She cursed herself for having thought she could do this trip, for thinking that it was a good idea. Like an enclosed bull she picked up her bike and started riding hard and fast towards the boys. The next 45 minutes were spent reading them their social contract – their responsibilities. It was one of the ugliest family moments. A hacking of the umbilical cord.
Exhausted by the entire saga the rest of the day was spent riding in silence. Our lunch break in what felt like a cemetery, was fitting. The only thing we could hear was the wind running through the pine trees and the occasional bird call. The funerary ambiance suited Lisa’s senses and made her profoundly sad and she couldn’t talk for the rest of the day. We reached our last camp ground in Spain. The boys pitched the tent while Lisa and Oreste cooked. Mosquitoes made a reappearance and within no time the irritation of them added to the annoyance of the day. We had dinner. Had our showers. Lisa was in the tent falling asleep when the boys started again. In exasperated disbelief Lisa just simply couldn’t believe after a day like today, after everything that was said and done, that it was still possible for these children to even consider behaving the way they were. She told them she was leaving this trip. She made up her mind. She was going to leave. It was time to abort this mission.
Friday 1 November
Hard day out of Spain. Having to push against strong wind all day today. So tiring. Especially after the emotional fatigue of yesterday. Completely demoralising. We rode past a strong, muscly, white horse tied to the side of a shed wall with a very short rope. It couldn’t move in any direction. Every muscle restrained with enforced patience. Claustrophobic. Tyres were glued to the ground. Every pedal was a challenge. Caught the boat across the river from Spain to Portugal. A difficult days ride in the Algave region. We were spoilt in Spain by the exemplary courtesy of the drivers which simply doesn’t exist in Portugal. Don’t feel safe on these roads at all. Tonight we slept in a camp ground at Fuseta, in the Algarve region. We met a South African woman who told us about how she came to live in Portugal. A story of romance gone wrong but with two children mixed in the equation, she stayed on to be with them. Not a beautiful area but dappled with the occasional pretty, eye ball bleaching white houses, there’s a rawness without fluidity nor warmth. Practicality overrides a sense of tenderness. Love feels very thin. Harshness in the landscape. Salt pans, cacti, rocks, abandoned homes, what used to be homes that have become ruins.
A very sombre start to the day. Lisa couldn’t bring herself to talk, didn’t want to wake up. Lisa told Xavier she was leaving. He asked whether they could talk about it first. The boys were sent away for an hour while they talked through the situation – that is, undertaking a bike trip of 6000kms that requires 24/7 cohabitation, is a big challenge for everyone. If we separated, we would spend more time worrying about one another and the very real sense of regret that Lisa will feel later and never be able to recover. What would abandoning achieve? Lisa knew that she could never forgive herself if she walked away. Although the idea of more of the same made her sick. We were so close. This will never happen again. It’s now or never. This time will never be able to be made up later. Nothing could ever match this experience. Lisa didn’t want to miss out watching her boys grow, experience, live, become. She couldn’t bare that regret.
We went to the beach. The Atlantic Ocean. Our furthest point south. Fittingly. Thoughts of the northern sea, where we dipped our toes next to The Hague, the Adriatic after riding around the Alpes, the Mediterranean we sailed across. Already memories, but that we still carry in our bodies. The boys found a variety of different coloured Coquille Saint Jacques. Special shells.
Saturday 2 November
Left the camp ground after sending a very irritated email to the bank who has blocked our credit cards meaning we can’t top up our telephone and internet credit which is starting to have an impact on our movements. Luckily we can get by with accommodation because we know we’ve got access to camping grounds.
Rode through what felt like a no man’s land. Crabs scrambling in the marshes, the salt dams and a wild, harsh waterside scenery that had its own rough charm. We had to eventually get back on the main road which wasn’t too bad only because there was a shoulder we could ride in. The moment there was no shoulder we were at the mercy of the drivers. Of course there were a hand full of dangerously close drivers. Go figure what they’ve got in their heads. The roadside filth is appalling. Topped by the filthy cars and trucks billowing thick black smoke. All motorised vehicles, just like rubbish that collects on the roadside, should pay extra for polluting the world. The new currency is in the reduction of pollution and the creation of green energy, in whatever form that may be – planting trees, riding a bike, switching to renewable energy, building homes more sustainably, supporting ethical practices that restore every individual’s sense of dignity all around the world, irrespective of race, colour or religion. People’s brains need a radical shift and participate in a collectively relevant better future.
We had lunch after a very quick visit to Faro, a small, cute but not particularly attractive city, despite its rich history. Lunch was in a very hard desolate cemented public area with replicas of the same apartment blocks. It would be awfully hot here in the summer. We saw a few people pass by but they don’t say hello or bonne appétit as the Spaniards and French do, but they do stop doing what they’re doing to look at us.
We got back on our bikes for another 40 km ride which took us up into the mountains overlooking Faro. It was much nicer up there. Already there were a lot less cars to deal with but the scenery was so much more picturesque. The landscape was greener, browner, more rugged, undulating. But again we were struck by the number of abandoned houses. Perfect for squatting. The area we rode through today was part Bundeena and part Blue Mountains. There are so many eucalyptus trees here. Married with the red earth, the bushyness of the area, one would be forgiven for thinking that we were back in Australia. One guy we rode by, who was clearly pickled in good spirits, was squatting in one of the places. Strangely, these abandoned houses are amongst other houses or villas that are well maintained and protected, although fearful seems to be a better word. Alarms, lights that automatically come on when you’re no where next to the property boundary. The have and the have-nots are clearly defined. An interesting landscape on many fronts, not least because of the presence and absence. Presence of life but absence of love. We needed to find a place to sleep tonight. Were we going to wild camp or stay in accommodation with a shower? We could have pitched behind some ruined walls but along the way we rode by the Tourismo Rurale residence and on checking the prices, decided it was worth staying there and possibly avoid the rain as well. We went up to our rooms after checking in and were told that the only place to go for dinner was the bar on the corner where they make kebabs and sandwiches. We went and were told that they could only make toasted cheese sandwichs and that she only had one left. We went back to the hotel, and when the guy found out what happened, he offered to cook for us. We deeply appreciated his generous offer which we gladly accepted. After a shower were treated to a very nice dinner of sardine pate, olives, delicious marinated carrots in parsley and garlic, pork fillets, salad and French fries. The cook then prepared the table for his family. We became an extension. Digestion ensured that the only thing we could manage next was sleep. The boys went into their triple room, as has become customary of late, and Lisa and Xavier into the double. Hard wind today. Very strong. Exhausting.
Sunday 3 November
A very quiet night’s sleep with no lights like last night. Thoughts on the criticalness of living in the moment, shaped by the past, for a life lived fully. How future thinking is a distraction to the magic of pure simple moments like Oreste skipping down the hill to join his brothers at the roadside toilet and then to help Lisa up the very steep hill. They can be so incredibly sweet. How sad it would have been to have not experienced that.
Today was one of the most difficult riding days we’ve had. Perhaps it’s because we are getting closer but the 10%’s, the 15%’s the 20%’s that we once used to take on without any issues today were simply unbearable. We really struggled and took the longest we ever have. The wind factor was just crushing. It was a strong headwind the entire way. We cursed the wind, we cursed the road but we also got to enjoy the mountain views and the cork trees of which there were plenty. We left Tourismo Rurale in Quinta with the blessing of our wonderfully generous host and made our way to Salir where we stumbled upon the village market where there was a variety of small stalls, offering everything from sweets, hand knitted toys, arts and crafts, fresh fruit and vegies, baskets, mechanical tools. After eating some of our buys and after the drizzle stopped, we continued our way to Almodóvar which by the time we got there, felt like we had finally reached the promised land. It was a very difficult ride where we reach only 600 metres altitude but with alll the steep ascents and descents we climbed some 1200 metres again. We were meant to get to Castro Verde tonight but there was no way we were going to be able to take on another 20 kms after eating a very late and somewhat unsatisfying lunch in Almodóvar. We were so hungry that we went into the first supermarket and bought rice and a quiche that were no where as good as the bread.
We went to the local tourism office to find out if there was an albergues in the town and it turned out they didn’t have one but we found relatively cheap and respectable accomodation nonetheless. The wind – thoughts on the nature of wind are constant. This wind that has travelled from far to reach us which is an expansive thought, one that is an olive branch if you can unshackle yourself from the reality of climbing at 15% on the lowest gear possible, struggling to turn the wheels with a strong wind pushing you back. We got off our bikes on several occasions today to push them. This wind that has been unrelentingly forcefully carving into our resolve and has put us behind a few days. You have to meditate on the wind, with the wind, especially when going up hills because otherwise you simply want to throw the thing over the edge and off the cliff and start walking. What an awful thought. These incredible, humble, simple , ingenious, machines. No. We could never do that but the wind constantly weighing you down while wickedly skittering, like sinister sprites in and around your ears is a maddening distraction. Van Gogh. Yes. A distraction from absorbing what the light has cast in front of you. A competition of the senses. A test in acceptance, resilience and fundamentally faith in its lessons and your ability to accept them, for what they are, as part of your life, that shape your life, that are your life. The parallels with parenting is clear. And then there’s a moment when you think you can start to play with it. Question the lessons, how far will they go? How far can you go? With every push, you are reminded and taunted about your place in this banter. How shallow is your patience? How easy is it to pierce? Almost teased about how much more you need it than it needs you. Now.
A few kilometres out of Almodóvar and we stumbled across a farm of sheep and the boys noticed that there were two lambs that had just been born. Still covered in blood, with hanging umbilical cord and trembling. As one was trying to find the strength to walk, the other seemed a great deal weaker and although it attempted to get up a couple of times, it managed to get its hind legs up straight but the front legs just couldn’t get to full extension. There was another flop and another roll in the dirt. The farmer came over, picked them up brusquely with his big hands and proudly proclaimed that in a few weeks they’ll be good to eat. The boys struggled with that thought and found themselves at an existential cross roads. The sacrosanct bubble protecting young life was burst by the sharp prick of usage, practicality, production, servitude. Churning out these little lambs to feed minds unconscious of this moment. The moment of birth. Dismissively we stuff our faces with yet another burger, another kebab, another roast without recognition for the mother’s womb and the unconditional life forces that sustained it. There’s no reason why we should assume the depths of a parent’s love is not replicated in other circles of life. Sheep hand over their young to feed humans, but what do we humans hand our children over to feed? As we were leaving two vultures circled overhead. Their hunger locked into the frail lamb for their own to feed.
It drizzled for the most part of the morning meaning that we had to stop often, recalibrate, put our wet weather gear on, make sure no water was getting into the bags. We started to feel like it was the ride through the national park that we didn’t have in Taiwan. Although this was the Serra do Caldeirao. It was as up and down and up and down, as Taiwan, and subsequently as soul destroying.
Arsène and Lisa started to think about the first menu on our return to Geneva. We decided that it would be truffle and cream pasta for entree followed by a leg of lamb cooked over the open fire with baked potatoes and Nonno Rico’s special tomatoes. And we would always remember the little lambs. Lisa’s thoughts turned to Vacherin Mont d’Or although they quickly faded because the season for that cheese is now and well – we’re not there. It’s almost like we are starting to loose our ability to plan, to think straight. We are just thinking in the moment but that can be dangerous especially when it comes to food and drink. Léon was so hungry this afternoon before we reached Almodóvar that he dropped his bike on the side of the road to just stop and get over the stomach cramps. Lisa pulled out what she could from the food bag and gave it to him. We thought Portugal was going to be a little less demanding than Spain but we’re going to have to go hard right to the very end it seems. Tomorrow we have another 700 metres ascent/descent the next day the same and so it continues until we ride to the coast. Then there will be a break for a few days and then we start again until we get to Santiago de Compostela. Need to sleep. Need to gather our forces and rebuild our strength without the end beating us to it.
Monday 4 November
Sleeping on the floor of the hotel room last night was not the most comfortable nor the warmest so woke up this morning feeling worse for wear. The communal belly isn’t very happy either. We had a very basic dinner last night of garlic, rice and butter with the remainder of the dried fruits we had. We’re all in desperate need of fresh fruit and veges but we had such a messy day yesterday where everything seemed to be arse up. We have to be careful from here on in because we are getting closer to the end but it’s not the end. We still have so many kilometres to do and if we lapse now we could find ourselves in a real pickle because we will not ride the distances we need to, not eat as well as we need to, not sleep as well as we need to and all of that is a receipe for disaster. This is the trickiest part of the trip. Where we all start letting our guard down a little and then we’re hit with our oversights. This morning we had the choice of three different paths to set off from. We made sure that we took the path to the supermarket first because we were not going to take on the day without water and lunch at the ready, even though we did a very short 30 kms today to Castro Verde.
The moment we got on our bikes after the supermarket we all were hit with a feeling of fatigue. The wind was unbearably harsh again, it was grey, cold although not raining. The worst part was the arsehole driver who seemed to be patient and then all of a sudden floored his car and left a trail of disgusting black smoke behind him for us to breath. The trucks that give you less than a metre when they overtake. There were some nicer drivers but they are found in the smaller towns where time is much slower and they don’t seem to think that an extra 30 seconds is potentially worth a life.
The terrain wasn’t as demanding as yesterday even if the wind was, which made it all a little more bearable. The landscape seems to be an extension of Australia. If it weren’t for the cork trees who have had their trunks stripped and numbered, we could quite easily be in the Blue Mountains. The many centipedes that roam the roads are the only form of amusement to watch out for. As well as the boys with their sticks pretending to ride horses. They even noted just before lunch that their horses were getting hungry so we had to stop for lunch. They were convinced that when they slapped the horses bottom (aka their bags) that they were going much faster. We reach Castro Verde at about 2pm which gave us plenty of time to do a proper shop for fruit and veges for tonight’s dinner, a load of washing and pitching the tent before the 6pm rain came down.
We rode a little more than 65 kms today and unfortunately got poured on just an hour into the ride. After lunch perched up against a gate like wall from one vast expanse of an orange field to another. The wall was the only thing to protect us from the merciless wind that was streaming through every piece of clothing turning us into jittery Michelin men.
Arsène and Oreste both had their kick stands removed because the screws had snapped inside the bike frame. The boys were all back on their horses today and just before nightfall we managed to pitch the tent. Its getting dark by 6:15pm now with the change in time zone for Portugal. While we pitched the tent the boys were playing a slide game with a thick stick and ‘surfing’ the camp ground. We went out to dinner to celebrate Orestes 11th birthday and although we started in one place we migrated over to another – Casa de Pasto a Pipa – which turned out to be an absolute delicious delight. Not only was the host very warm and went to great efforts to help us understand the menu, but the food was real. We had Portugal’s number one dish known as the « Migas » and «Acorda Alentejana » which was essentially Bacalhau in soup. The meat cooked in bay leave was cooking just like home. We finished off the meal with chocolate mousse.
Tuesday 5 November
The family Birthday season has truly kicked in. Mum last week and today Oreste’s 11th birthday. Lisa and Xavier woke up thinking what it was like the day he was born.
Remembering all of this, remembering him over the years, remembering his gorgeous eye brow raising moments when he was about a year old, remembering his softness, gentleness, cherub like roundness and his devilish sweetness, his fascination with dinosaures, Lisa walked over to the tent, opened up the door only to find Oreste already waiting with open arms as she wished him happy birthday smothering him with hugs and kisses. He was so happy. Even more so when Xavier did the same and was chuffed to receive Zia Rita’s birthday wishes via email. We had a more elaborate breakfast than usual in celebration with yoghurt and pears with our cereal before heading off from Castro Verde to Beja.
On the way back home – to the cheapest camping we’ve payed on this entire trip, 5 Euros – we went via the Cultural Centre which was open until midnight. A great idea to keep these venues open late. It’s very cold tonight. Lisa had to have a boiling hot shower to thaw out before bed. Time for leggings is definitely here as is four or five layers. Léon is still coughing badly even though he refuses to get dressed for the winter weather we’ve come upon. There’s a cold wind coming through the tent. It was late by the time we got to bed but we know that we are not doing the 80 kms to Évora tomorrow it’s just too far given the wind. We will ride 50kms and do the remaining 30 kms the next day.
Wednesday 6 November
Xavier didn’t book the acccommodation for tonight when he had it under his nose and now there were no more affordable options. Lisa checked the map and realised that there was an albeurgue in Viana de Alentjo so we decided that we would be going for that when we arrived.
We left and shortly after we had to stop because the rope around Arsène’s rack bag wasn’t done up before he started riding and it jammed in his gearshift. Mechanical work on a narrow footpath meant greasy hands and shorter fuses all round, although the locals were very patient with us.
After that hiccup, we went to visit the convent – Nossa Senhora da Conceição – astonishing in its detail at every level; painting, sculpture, relief work, metal work, architecture, but has become more famous in literary circles for the love story between a young nun and a French army officer in town as part of the resistance between Spain and Portugal around 1665. The convent itself, built in 1495 is run down in some areas which gave it a particularly authentically old and mysterious charm. The wooden figures were beautifully rounded and wholesome. The intensity of the detail raises so many questions about the approach of the artists that realised it. Did they know what they going to do before starting? Did they have a plan? How many of them were there? Did they just set out and in a trance like state just keep going until they reached the end? Releasing these forms and figures from within the wood, the clay? There is something deeply mystical, religious, about each of these charming figures. Each curve is felt, your hand attracted to it like a charm that craves to be rubbed, to be loved. Xavier was overwhelmed by the young nun’s letters and the iron work of the barrier which she and her French soldier were separated by – in the form of a cross. There were so many small and tiny nooks and each was acknowledged with a story. The paintings in these tiny sections were like priceless peepholes into the culture that made this country and these people. The decorative painting on the vaulted ceilings like medieval cave paintings. Overwhelming in its desire to communicate. Words replaced by lines, colour, depth, texture and within every detail a hook that keeps you delving, plunging, swimming, swirling in this timeless language. Mesmerised, we emerged into the ruinous garden with its beautiful red roses before we made our way to the Beja Castle and a local church. In the church we noticed the particularly Portuguese practice that is, the use of blue and white tiles to tell biblical stories.
It was midday by the time we did the shopping and witnessed the local police officer having a very open, verbal banter with a local while waiting in the supermarket queue. Some of the people of this region have very particular features. The guy giving the police officer a mouthful seemed to be of Romani descent. Tall, dark, chiselled, strong, big hands. The lady behind the police officer also had Romani-like features. Her dress suggested the same. Dark hair bundled up in a two fold fashion, angular features, beautiful dark piercing eyes, a light moustache, tanned skin. Purple hairy jumper, long skirt. We definitely could be related. Many think we are.
We rode passed a camp of Gypsies when we were riding from Huelva to Isla Cristina along the canal. It looked hard, it was defiantly a struggle but there was a sense of independence and strength that function well beyond the realms of the programmed zombie-like consumers with their well-to-do skins stretched out over a humanlike void.
Rode along rough dirt tracks in the cold greyness of the day. We got prepared for the rain which did eventually come – on and off. We were glad when we finally arrived into Viana do Alentejo and were told that although the albergues was closed for the season that we could call on Maria de Jesus who had apartments where we could stay for a reasonable price. What a great name. We rode straight on to see de Jesus and were very happily in our rooms as we could see the cold, dark, heavy, grey clouds make their way over. After our showers we head out for dinner which was similar to last night and again very reasonably priced. Before dinner Lisa taught the boys how to play one of the card games she used to play with her father all the time – Scopa – an Italian card game we played with napoletane cards we bought from Civitavecchia before getting on the boat. The boys fell in love with it immediately and we continued to play under the orange street lights on the bonnet of a ute as we waited for Xavier and Arsène to return from the supermarket. It was a lot of fun. Lisa and Xavier got happily tipsy on the local vino Tinto and we had a fun family stroll home arm in arm.
Thursday 7 November
This morning we left Viana do Alentejo but not before visiting the 15th century castle and stopping by at the local potters store where we found a number of beautifully decorated platters by Rosa and one of Felicciano’s masterpieces which was not decorated at all.
The castle had some astounding leadlights. The colour and the detail was so rich, so liquid, so crisp, so fresh despite being done some 400 years ago.
Before leaving the hotel the water was cut off, leaving Xavier with hands covered in soap and no water to rinse with. Left with no other choice but sheer invention, we flushed the toilet and he washed his hands with the water cascading in the toilet bowl. It was one of those fabulous travelling moments we won’t ever forget. A bit like when he ate the soap thinking it was food in Taiwan. We went downstairs to ask what was going on and they told us that all the water had been cut in the village because they had a problem of some sort. This would explain why last night we had to ‘call’ the hot water in the shower by turning on the hot water in sink first. As soon as the water in the sink started getting warm the tap had to be turned off so the hot water could go to the shower. Another experience for all of us.
We left at about 11am and saddled up out the front where we could see a big chute of water a little further down the street.
There was unfortunately only one road to Evora and it was crawling with crazy drivers. Very few actually gave us the required 1.5 metres they’re supposed to but the worst were the truck drivers who we figured were probably high on amphetamines or something like that because they were not stopping or even slowing down, speeding like crazy to the point that a long truck over took a van that had just overtaken us, meaning the van was already in the middle of a road with only two lanes, one in each direction. The truck only braked at the last second to avoid ramming into the van. We decided that the Swiss and Portuguese drivers are cut from the same cloth, but just inverted. That is, the Swiss have an inflated sense of superiority and the Portuguese have an inflated sense of detachment.
We eventually made it alive to Evora and headed straight for the train station after getting some lunch and calming the nerves. We bought our tickets for Lisboa tomorrow. We refuse to ride against the wind and on these roads. We just don’t feel safe enough.
Tonight camping ground. It’s starting to get very cold at night. We expect at least 4 degrees tonight. Lisa has been riding with four layers on, even during the day to block the cold wind that cuts straight through you as you ride. The sun is the only saving grace. Found out that Amy had her baby boy on the same day as Oreste’s 11th birthday. We cooked dinner in the communal lounge area tonight which offered protection from the cold and wind. It felt comfortable.
Just before bed Léon announced that their tent door was broken. Both zippers had come off track and the zipper itself had buckled. There is no way it can be repaired now and by us. We knew that it would be lucky to finish the trip with the tent still in tact. Thoughts immediately went to Abbas and his work on our home. We will always remember him.
Friday 8 November
Woke up in a very cold Evora this morning. It felt like it was about 6 degrees perhaps a little less. We scrambled to the sun desperately seeking even its lightest touch. After breakfast we went through the usual routine of packing up the tent – inside and out, saddling up our bikes and wishing those that we met a good continuation. It is starting to get seriously cold so it seems like the end of our epic trip in three weeks is well timed. Like the landscape that has become barren, sleeping and in waiting, ever since mid October we can see the demographic of those in the camp grounds change into a place for the old seeking refuge from the colder Northern European countries. No children, a few dogs along the way but we are now the youngest and of course the loudest.
We headed over to the old town of Evora to see the Roman Temple which was surprisingly well preserved, the local cathedrals and churches, the Aquaduct and the little town itself, which although pretty and charming in its own way, didn’t seem to really excite. Perhaps if we would have had the time to take in the many cultural performances on offer including the contemporary dance festival, it might have been different. We started looking for places to have a serious lunch so we could have a smaller dinner tonight given that we’ll be arriving late into Lisbon. We stumbled across a Portuguese Buffet where we spent a good part of 2 hours eating, chatting and watching some comical football matches. We made our way back to the station where we found Mr Scruffy again. The boys hung out with him for a good half hour before we started playing Scopa again while waiting for the train to arrive. At 4pm we started making our way over to the train, packing up Oreste’s bike and taking our time getting bikes and baggage on for a 16:57 departure.
The disappointment and sadness in Leon’s eyes as we pulled out of Evora station and his concern for Mr Scruffy was moving. His gentleness, concern and empathy shone through the tender eyes of a child in an adolescent body. It’s such a difficult age trying to make sense of this world where so much is as it shouldn’t be, yet still managing to be happy in it. He tried to continue carving a hole into his St Jacques shell. But stopped often, distracted, looking out the window.
As we travelled the sun went down. All this land we could have travelled, experienced but didn’t. Arrival into Lisbon. The platform was crawling with people so it was difficult to negotiate getting the bikes and bags out. A lady helped by holding Lisa’s bike as Lisa continued going back and forth with Léon to get our things out from our carriage while Xavier, Arsène and Oreste were busy doing the same from their carriage ahead.
The moment we arrived we were struck by the size of the city but more importantly, the diversity of the people. Nowhere else where we have been did we get such a strong sense of an ease and therefore an equality in diversity.
We exited the station and the air was perfumed with marijuana, filled with chatter, clinking of bottles, music and the sense that it was the beginning of the weekend. It was buzzing. Energetic cosmopolitanism. Train stations all of a sudden seemed like such an obvious choice as a hang out. It was a great place for people to meet that doesn’t come with the same turf war sentiment of meeting in parking lots. It felt safe. We made our way through the centre streets of Lisbon to our apartment where we will be staying for the next three nights. The cycleways are designed on the same principle as the Barcelona model where bikes, skaters, roller skaters, scooters – all travel on the bike path. Nothing really beats the openness and organisation of Barcelona but one got the sense that they were having a good crack at in Lisbon. Having the bike path in the centre of a wide, long plaza created a safe dynamic spaciousness permitting serendipitous human exchanges and interventions. We made it to the apartment, were given our code and didn’t bother with dinner given we were all still full from lunch and went straight to bed. The apartment block reminded Lisa of her days squatting in Rue des Gare in Geneva with gorgeous, fragile Alex who would wake up in the morning, put nothing but a tie on and slippers, make his way into the kitchen, do a few lines and have a Budweiser for breakfast. Art Deco, tall ceilings, simple yet elegant doors, windows and shutters. We were very comfortable, except for Léon who was afraid that someone was going to enter into his bedroom from the window. These windows into the world.