Home Sweet Home

On Thursday at about 9:30 a.m. I pulled out of Sintra to drive to the Lisbon airport. I was on my way home and I was excited to say the least. The plan was to fly to Amsterdam from Lisbon, spend the night in Amsterdam, then Friday morning fly to Atlanta and on into Tri-Cities. I was happy because this was a much more civilized route than my original route home.

After easily returning my rental car, finding out that I could check my bags all the way to Atlanta, and getting all of my boarding passes I should have known that things were moving along a bit too smoothly. I traveled along this smooth and easy projectory until about 10 minutes before we were set to land in Atlanta. I noticed we were circling, not an uncommon event at the Atlanta airport. After a bit of time, it is hard to say how long because the flight was already running at close to 10 hours, the pilot came on and said there was no way to land in Atlanta, they closed the airport. We were going to Charlotte, NC to see what our fate would be.

At this point we were only about 30 minutes from Charlotte and I was excited because I figured I could get to Tri-Cities faster from Charlotte than Atlanta, in my mind landing ni Charlotte, meant we would be de-planing there was well. After landing the plane ended up in a part of the airport that you knew wasn’t made for big commercial planes—out the window all I could see were private planes and helicopters.

After about an hour or so the pilot came back on and said no one was getting off here and we were on our way to a gate to re-fuel and go BACK to Atlanta—just as soon as the helicopter to our left got out of the way.

Three hours later we’re back in the air. As we climbed out of Charlotte the turbulence was so bad I really thought we might crash—I put my book away and made sure my shoes were on. I usually like a little turbulence, but this was insane. After a few minutes it smoothed out.

The pilot came on again and said that it might take us a while to land because of all the traffic, but if we were lucky we would get preference because we were an international flight. It turns out we landed without having to circle around. At this point we had been on this one plane for 14 hours. It was also about 6:15 and my flight to Tri-Cities was due to take off in 15 minutes.

After clearing customs I went to the ticket counter and asked the woman how I could get home. The next Tri-Cities flight was full so I re-routed to Lexington. I got on standby for an 8:00 flight and got a seat on the 9:05. Not too bad considering, I would still make it home at a reasonable hour. I told the woman why all these people from the Amsterdam flight were coming to the counter and she felt sorry enough for me to say she’d try and get my luggage re-routed as well.

After waiting until about 8:35 for the 8:00 flight to take off—the Atlanta storm had moved due north and so now flights weren’t landing in Lex—I decided to throw caution to the wind and hold out for a flight on which I had an actual seat. At this point I’m still in a pretty jovial mood—people are chatting to each other, most of us are getting a good laugh out of what’s happening.

So I get to B34 the gate monitor says Charleston, SC and that the next flight was Houston, TX. I sat here for a while I went up to a counter with no line, at this point my carryons weigh about 3 times as much as when I started, and asked where the Lex flight was taking off. She said B34, I said in a distressed tone, but there it isn’t on the sign. She could see I was about to loose it and so her response was—The flight isn’t scheduled to take off till 9:45, just sit in the gate area until they call your zone and then hand them your ticket. Had she been from eastern Kentucky she would have dropped “honey” in there a few times. After this I went to the bathroom and sat in a stall and cried for about 10 minutes.

Once I got back to B34 I saw some of my new friends from the 8:00 flight. So I started talking to a really nice guy who just graduated from EKU. I felt even better after I started talking to him, so he became my new best friend, I totally latched onto him.

At a certain point I called my mom and dad who were waiting for me in Lexington, in a moment of optimism, earlier in the evening, I told them to head on to Lexington because no matter what flight I got on I would beat them there, it was only a 45 minute flight. This statement of course came back to bite me in the butt. As I was talking to my dad I saw this line flash on the LED screen—Flight 331 has moved to B5. Then it was gone—poof. That was our flight, there was no announcement or even a person behind the desk at this point. So we all hoofed it down to B5.

We got there and it still said 9:45, we looked up the next minute and it said 10:35. Somehow it seemed promising though. Then they started boarding! It seemed like a miracle. As soon as I got on the plane I called my dad and said we’d be there in about an hour. This was about 10:15.

At 10:45 they came on the intercom and said that we didn’t have any pilots. That they wouldn’t have boarded the flight but they were told the pilots were walking to the gate when in fact their airplane hadn’t landed. Shortly there after a pilot walked on board and everyone started clapping. He took a seat and waited with the rest of us, he was just trying to get home too. When the real pilots got on no one clapped.

Eventually we taxi from the gate. I try to sleep but can’t, I need to know we are in the air before I can do that. Finally the pilots tell us that we are at least an hour before we reach the runway because of all the traffic. The good news he said was that planes were taking off. I’m fuzzy on the details at this point, but basically it took us close to 4 hours to get to Lexington, from the time I got on board to the time we landed. Just to refresh your memory, the flight is only a 45-minute flight.

When we landed everyone bounded out of their seats. Some of these people were actually trying to get to Louisville. After 5 minutes or so the flight attendant told us that they were having some problems with the jetway. The whole plane, which was full, moaned collectively. This last problem didn’t take too long, but it was the principle of the thing.
At 2:00 a.m. I finally saw my parents. My bags didn’t make it, but I could care less. After a 14-hour flight that was only supposed to be 9 hours and after taking 9 hours to get from Atlanta to Lexington, I was just happy to be at a point in the trip where I was in control whether the car went forward or not.

My saintly parents drove me to Whitesburg so I could wake up in my own bed. We pulled into my driveway at 5:00 in the morning. It is Tuesday now and I am starting to feel like I’ve recovered…

Going Back the Way You Came

Yesterday I drove back from the ocean the way I came. Today I walked 4km out the road I took to the ocean. I came back to Sintra. I often go back the way I came and return to places. It never fails that you see things differently, especially when you’re traveling in a place like Portugal. Even though tomorrow is my last day, I am ready to come back. In this way I am just like my dad. At the end of every trip he always asks when we’re coming back and my mom always rolls her eyes.

Today I walked out to Monserrate Park. I’ve never walked anywhere that reminded me so much of the road that takes you to the Narrows, my grandparents’ house in Oregon. It is a walk that we often did with my grandpa while visiting. This road was as green, the trees were as old, and the smells as rich. It was a very satisfying walk. I have been so lucky to experience spring in Portugal—today between the eucalyptus trees and wisteria I was in heaven. There were flowers blooming everywhere.

I was also able to see three different villas. When I drove by I was only able to see the gates and actually I was only able to see them from the vista on the walk back to town. I am pretty sure that these are private homes—I want one, but none were for sale.

In a lot of ways this trip was a challenge. I’ve never traveled in a country by myself like I have on this trip—driving and touring from place to place—and as far as I can tell this is a country not used to women traveling alone. In Paris I had Bob, Andy and Andre, last winter when I went to Venice I stayed with a friend. It is satisfying when you get to the end of a challenge, but I’ll be happy to get home.

Next on the agenda is packing and making sure I have sufficient presents for everyone! Tomorrow morning I drive to the airport in Lisbon, which I am totally and completely nervous about, and start my journey home.

What a Day

I saw a lot today—sandy beaches, wooded roads, eucalyptus forests, rocky outcrops, tumultuous waves, beautiful flowers, a 16th century convent with walls covered in cork—and I only drove about 50 kilometers, round trip. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll spare you the thousand words:











In the midst of all this I did work up an appetite. I stopped at a roadside restaurant that looked perfect—tables and a big grill outside.



The bow-tied waiter recommended grouper, I happily obliged.



The fish was so delicious. It tasted as fresh as any cooked fish could taste. The batter didn’t quite fit the fish—it was too big for the meat that was actually in there, so I mainly ate around it. The pinto beans and rice had been cooked together and could have used a little salt pork in them, but because they were cooked together it was more like one item. There were also two little garnishes—one was a pickled red cabbage and the other was a mixture of carrots, greens, and white cabbage with lemon juice. It was the perfect seaside meal.

Technical Difficulties

I'm having trouble with the program that uploads my pictures. I know they are missing, I'm on it. Hopefully in the morning it will feel like working. Sorry.

Mountains and Castles

Porto was dripping wet this morning. It rained so much last night that the even the clouds washed away and left a beautiful blue sky. After lying in bed listening to the jack-hammer making way for the new metro system, I rolled out of bed, ate my breakfast and hit the road. I was heading all the way south to Sintra—about 330km. I took the A-1 which is the main route heading south. It has about 6 lanes most of the way and is a toll road. I could have been anywhere, but I was interested in making time and I wanted to stop at one of the service station centers because they sell wine in juice boxes. I saw them on my way home from Barcelos and I wanted some for a souvenir.

After about 300 kilometers I got onto the N-8 still heading south but going from 6 wide lanes and 130 kilometers an hour to some eastern Kentucky style roads—I’m talking highway 7 out to Blakey kind of roads. I immediately wondered why I was so interested in making time, but I was excited to get back to Sintra.



I started to look at the map after taking this picture, but decided against it. Portugal is the only country I’ve ever driven in where looking at the map gets you in trouble. If I’ve learned nothing in the past 2 weeks, it’s follow the signs, they are more up to date, or rather out of date and so correct, than the map which is a up to date in a futuristic kind of way—a lot of the roads have yet to be built.

I wrote about Sintra early on, it was my first stop after Lisbon and I was charmed by the town. After struggling with new hotels every other night I decided that I would have a better go of things if I stayed put a bit more and if I went back to a place I liked. Hence four days in Porto and now 3 days here in Sintra.

As I drove into to town I knew I made a good choice—like they say you can take the girl out of the mountains but you can’t take the mountains out of the girl. It is so nice to feel be able to look up at the crisp green hills and hear dogs barking. It feels a little like home, except for the castle on top of the hill in one direction and the ocean in the other.

The town seemed a lot more alive than the first time I was here, there were loads of tourists and school kids. After finding my hotel and getting parked, I set out for some lunch. I settled on a pizza place. At first I sat outside, which I should know better by now—I had to move inside because this old Portuguese guy kept bugging me. This has been the norm at almost every meal.

My pizza arrived—thin crust with local sausage and roasted red peppers. I went over to the counter to get some salt and pepper and noticed this:



I asked the waiter what it was and he said a sweet with cinnamon. I saved room.



What it was, was a flaky puff pastry, sprinkled with sugar, and filled with the ovos moles—the egg yolks and sugar concoction. This was a bit smoother than what I had in Coimbra and less sweet. There wasn’t much cinnamon flavor, but with a little espresso it was a delicious dessert. I was fortified and ready to walk around town.

Tiles Part Duex

Azulejos is the Portuguese word for tiles and tiles dominate the facades of buildings from north to south and from city to village. Tiles came to Portugal via the Moors, hence the dominance of geometric patterns in my first tile post. However, around the middle of the 16th century the Portuguese began painting figures on their tiles. I snapped the designs below while strolling around Sintra this afternoon.

Manueline Architecture

From Porto to Sintra and from monuments to menus I am reminded that this country was the leader of the world during the 1500s. Wondering the streets of Porto this morning I started to think that globalization is such a new phenomenon.

Like any great world power, Portugal had it’s own style of architecture. I’ve seen a few examples of this style—it is ornate, often the stone work looks like vines wrapping around the various symbols. According to the Rough Guide, this late gothic style was named after King Manuel I (1495-1521). “…Characterized by a rich and, often, fantastical use of ornatmentation. Doors, windows and arcades are encrusted by elaborately carved stonework in which the imagery of the sea is freely combined with both symbols of Christianity and of the newly discovered lands.”



The Igreja de Santa Cruz, above, is in Coimbra. The Manueline masters, Joao de Castilho and Diogo de Boitaca had a hand in some of the many renovations of this church. The double entrance is especially elaborate and a good representation of the Manueline style.




These other shots are from the Convento dos Carmelitos a herimtage in the middle of the Bucao forest. Besides being an incredible example of Manueline architecture, when I was out driving through the forest I had no idea that there was a hermitage in the forest. The forest was thick with old growth cedar and blooming azaleas as I wound the Njoy up the coble stone road, at the top of the hill was this incredible structure. It was quite a sight. The grounds were incredible, there were wysteria vines that were easily twelve inches in diameter.

The style didn’t last long after King Manuel’s reign, but I’ve seen examples of it in most of the major cities. Not surprisingly Lisbon has one of the most “unified” examples of the style with the Jeronimos monastery that was supposedly built in honor of Vasco de Gama’s successful voyages. It now houses a couple of museums.

Douro River

I walked to the docks at 8:30, Saturday morning, shops were just beginning to open up and the snack bars serving coffee and pastries were full. At 10:00 I was leaving on a boat to float up the Douro River arriving at a port museum and tasting in Peso da Regua at 17:00, that’s 5:00 to us.

The Douro River starts in Spain and ends at the Atlantic Ocean in Porto. It has been the heart of the port wine trade since the distinction between port wine and other Portuguese wines was made towards the beginning of the eighteenth century. Because of bans by the British government on French wine, Portuguese wines became popular, so popular in fact that artificially colored and watered down Ports were passed off as the real thing. This lead, according to the Rough Guide, for Marques de Pombal “…to found the Companhia Geral de Agricultura dos Vinhos do Alto Douro in 1756 while, at the same time, demarcating the area from which port wine could legitimately come…Even now strictly speaking, the demarcated area liste on either side of the Douro from Barro, 8km downstream of Peso de Regua, to the Spanish frontier at Barca de Alva and on the Portuguese bank north to Freizo de Espada a Cinta and beyond.”

Even though the port wine region doesn’t officially start until just south of Regua, almost every house we floated past had a small patch of vines. Because I can be somewhat retarded, I didn’t realize that the official region started just below Regua. I thought it was nice that there were so many small family farms providing grapes to the multi-national port industry. As I imagined cellars full of homemade wine from leftover grapes, I asked the British couple on board about it and the man told me that it is basically an agri-business and the largest estates are north of Regua.



Before trucks, Port was transported downriver by barges from the vineyards to the lodges in Porto. As we crossed under two of Porto’s five bridges, the river was wide and languid. There are five dams on the river, the last built in 1985. However as late as 1848 there were series of rapids that made the river impossible to navigate beyond Cachao de Valeira, which is about two-thirds of the way up the approximately 300km river. Even at this point to make the journey from Regua to Porto took three days; it took us only 7 hours.

Of the five dams we went over two of them—the first had a 14 meter (about 42 feet or 4 basketball goals, which is how I provide a point of reference for myself on all things dealing with height) high lock and the second 35 meters (about 115 feet, or 10 basketball goals). I had no idea how a lock worked, in fact when we entered the first one I was a little nervous. The crew on deck consisted of what looked to be a 70-year-old man who was cute as could be, but I couldn’t imagine him being able to do much in case of an emergency.





We approached the second dam. The old man made sure to tell everyone that this lock was 35 meters. You could tell he was excited and a bit awe struck by it and wanted to make sure we knew it was the highest lock in Europe, he probably said in the world too, but my Portuguese isn’t that good yet. I have noticed however, that there is a flair for drama.



We entered the lock. A huge barrier went down behind us and in front was this wall that you see in the above picture. When went through the first lock I thought that after the back barrier closed this front one would open. Negatron. Instead the water has to fill up to the top basically. As it fills with water the boat goes with it.



It is totally amazing. You can see from this picture that we’ve reached the top. This top part is cranked down a bit and the boat floats on up the river. I can see why the old man was awe struck. All 50 passengers on board were! Some of the men were timing how long it took with their digital watches, other put fingers onto the wall and watched their arms move up with the boat, while others video taped the whole process. Lucky for their friends…

As we passed through the second dam the river changed drastically. It became wider and the land on either side had been cleared and I could tell now we were getting closer to the port wine vineyards. Everything was bigger and more open.



We arrived in Regua shortly after crossing through the lock. The hills on either side of the river looked almost like they had been strip mined, except that there were vines able to grow in this soil, it’s a pretty big difference I realize, although after going through the port museum, I can’t imagine making port wine is a very environmentally sound process.



The highlight of the day for me was getting a chance to see the green, green, green freshness of the hills below this last dam. I’ve been lucky to be here during spring—the azaleas are blooming, there was red bud in bloom in Lisbon, and during the river cruise I was able to see that fresh multi-colored green that makes the mountains in Kentucky home, making me less homesick for the spring time.

Markets and Roosters

Today I drove about 60 km to Barcelos. The town is famous for 2 things, as far as I can tell: the legend of the Barcelos Rooster and the Feria de Barcelos.

The legend of the Galo de Barcelos goes as follows, from the Rough Guide, “a miraculous roast fowl which rose from the dinner table of a judge to crow the innocence of a Galician pilgrim the judge had wrongly condemned to the gallows. The pilgrim having wisely proclaimed ‘As surely as I am innocent will that cock crow if I am hanged’, got his reprieve, although it was a close [call]. He was already in the noose when the bird stepped in but, but luck or maybe divine intervention, the knot caught and he survived. It’s a story that occurs in different forms in northern Spain, but the Barcelos rooster has taken special hold on popular folk art, becoming a national symbol of Portugal and now…the ubiquitous symbol of Portuguese tourism.” These roosters are all over the country. Made from pottery, wood, and metal.



There are an abundance of these little roosters at the Feria de Barcelos. Every Thursday this small river town hosts one of the largest markets in the southern Minho region. When I was first planning my trip I didn’t think there was anyway to make it to Barcelos on Thursday, luckily things worked out.

The market was massive. It was organized by product—baskets and woodcarvings, pottery and kitchen supplies, clothes, flowers, produce, bread and sweets, and souvenirs. I parked in the first spot I saw, about a 10-minute walk from the market, making sure to look at landmarks so I could find my car again later. Even so, as I walked around the market I could just imagine not being able to locate the car…

As I approached the square, which according to Frommer’s is 4,306 square feet, more and more people were walking towards me with plastic bags. I knew I was going in the right direction. The fist section I came upon were the baskets and woodcarvings, which included bowls, wooden clogs, and yokes for your oxen. Next was the huge aisle of produce and flowers. The main item for sale: greens. Greens, greens, and more greens. There were also a few cages of baby ducks and chicks thrown in.



The Minho is the province north of Porto and is one of the most rural areas of the country. According to the Rough Guide, it is full of lush river valleys where age-old traditions are maintained at dozens of markets throughout the region. My trip to Barcelos was my chance to see a small slice of this rural, traditional life in action.

The Rough Guide also notes, that this kind of tradition is starting to change as more money comes into the region both from tourists and the return of Portuguese who out migrated years ago. I saw signs of this from the huge, brand-new four-lane highway to the dominance of stalls selling jeans, sweaters, and CDs at the Feria.



I also saw a lot of short, round women walking with massive bags of greens on their heads. There was an abundance of old, round women hawking their produce and other wares. I also noticed a stall with 2 teenagers and their mother, selling dried beans, olives, chicks, ducks, and vegetables. From what I’ve seen of Portugal it has an incredible ability to mix the four-lane highway progress with things like traditional markets.

I've Taken Almost 300 Pictures So Far...

Here are a few:


The Fatima scene. I still don’t quite know what to make of it all…


The bright yellow building is my hotel here in Porto. Later in the week I will have to switch, because I decided to stay here longer than I originally intended. The city is totally beautiful. It has a lot more grit than Lisbon, it is known as the city that works. I have great view of the port lodges. Friday I will go tasting!


Just a cool sight from the city tour I did this afternoon.

Putting the Local in Local Ingredients

I am trying to articulate my thoughts about Portugal in words, it’s coming together slowly in my mind, but last night I had a meal that captured what I’m thinking concisely, probably more concisely than I will ever get in words. It goes something like this, in the 1960s Alice Waters had to bring seasonal, regional, and organic food into the capital “F” food world. It seems to me that Portugal never departed from that kind of cooking—from the cafes on the streets to the fancy place I ate at last night. I remember reading in the Lonely Planet World Food Guide that up until 15 years ago towns were making the same kind of wine with different names and never even knew about it because until the EU there was no cohesive road system so there was no history of transporting food from region to region.

I ate at the main restaurant of the Quinta das Lagrimas, quite a fancy place with Paris prices rather than Portugal ones, but worth absolutely every penny. I ordered black ham with a lentil sauce, goat confit with greens and potatoes, and pineapple carpaccio with a black pepper sauce. In between there were numerous little plates from the kitchen including a presunto (smoked ham) carpaccio, a cream of onion soup, and ovos mole in between my mains and dessert. Even the bread was of a local variety—an Irish soda bread but made with cornmeal. I also had a small bottle of the regional vinho verde.



Even with my limited knowledge I can say that every single one of these dishes used nothing but local ingredients. Goat has been on every menu I’ve seen north of Fatima, I saw hundreds of fields of greens being grown, the potatoes are famous, pig is appropriate for anything including desserts, and egg yolks (the ovos mole) have had a presence since the convents started making their famous desserts. It was all with a slightly modern take, but as far as I could tell there were no major twists or turns, except perhaps, the pineapple dessert.



The black ham was a thicker cut of meat and served cold. The sauce was a lentil puree and there was some rock salt sprinkled over the entire dish. The ham had a nice flavor and was barely cooked.



The goat, greens, and potatoes were incredible. The greens were boiled in water and served with some chopped garlic. I have never tasted such good greens and I know some folks who make good greens. I think that it was the freshness, these probably came from the large garden on the hotel grounds. The goat fell off the bone as I went to cut it with a knife. It had a really meaty flavor, more like lamb than anything, but not really like lamb.



Next came out the ovos mole. My server told me that the yolks were cooked in a double boiler with sugar. The taste is like a sweet custard, but more eggy. I am going to try this when I get home, I’m not sure I believe that it is just egg and sugar because there really is a custard kind of flavor. The texture however, is more like tapioca beads. It was served with cinnamon sprinkled on it.



Finally was the pineapple, the most unique dessert I remember having. Here’s what combined to make this so different: the pineapple was thinner than paper and there was a sugar syrup with black pepper in it. There were also the 2 sorbets and something made of pineapple in the middle, but they distracted from the essence of those thin, thin pineapple slices and the sauce. Pineapple is almost always served in chunks or thick slices, which emphasizes the sweetness of the fruit. In this case the sweetness was tempered both by the way the fruit was served and the pepper sauce.

Bollo de Arroz

This morning I left Fatima to drive the 90 km to Coimbra in the Beira Litoral region of the country. I asked the man checking me out how big Coimbra was. He told me that it wasn't very big but it was the capital of culture for the Portuguese. He said it is where the bishops and poets come from. The University has been here since 1190. The town is OLD. Most of the churches date from around this time, although there is a new cathedral from 1772.

My hotel, the Quinta das Lagrimas, is also a historical site where two star crossed lovers held their rondevous. The father of the man having the affair had the lady killed and her blood is still on the fountain of tears. Portugal seems to be nothing if not dramatic. There are 12 hectacres of gardens and the old manor is beautiful, even though the staff seems to be a bit pissy.

After getting settled I set out for the centro. The Rio Mondego runs through town and I crossed it via the Santa Clara bridge. The river was wide and a deep green. There was the smell of pine trees and wisteria in the air and sky was beautiful again. It was a very pleasant walk except for the fact that I was starving. I somehow missed breakfast in Fatima.

Right as I crossed the bridge there were about 3 snack bars with pastries and coffee. I scanned the counter and saw the Bollo de Arroz, a typical pastry of the north. The translation is rice cake and it is about 3 inches in diameter and 4 inches high with a rounded top kind of like a muffin. It even comes wrapped in paper that says bollo de arroz.



This is by far the best sweet I've had. The cake is yellow and tastes kind of like a sweet corn muffin even though it is made from rice and wheat flours. The texture, however, is much more moist than corn muffins, cakier. I would love to have a recipe for this and where I different kind of cook - namely one that could bake - I would eat 6 or 7 and come up with a recipe. Instead I'll just eat 6 or 7 and come up with nothing but fond memories!

PHOTOS AND GRAMMAR

I'm going to be working from public computers for the next couple days, at least, so no photos and no trust Microsoft word to check my spelling and typos. I know some people in my family who might take issue with said typos, but I'll fix things when I can use my own computer again.

Fatima

Tonight and tomorrow night I am staying in Fatima. I came here because the Rough Guide said there were a lot of kitschy religious souvenir shops. Most people flock here to see the sight where in 1917 the Virgin Mary visited three children. I knew this before I came, but I really didn’t put it together in my mind what that might mean, never having been to a religious sight in a Catholic country.

To reach Fatima my NJOY car (I’m not kidding friends, the make of my car is Njoy, which I noticed while peeing on the side of the road, the car as my sheild…) climbed to the top of a fire-scared hill. The town has 8,000 residents and 10,000 hotel rooms for pilgrims. There are also places to stay for what I assume to be the Xtreme pilgrims in some of the religious houses. There are 15 different male and 67 female seminaries and novitiates.

As I checked in I was handed a map of town with the Mass schedule on the back—there are 7 services. If you can’t make mass there are 5 chances to say the rosary and 3 miscellaneous services. This is everyday. In my not putting things together frame of mind earlier today I thought to myself, “Hmm. Tomorrow is Sunday, I’m going to be in Fatima, I should think about going to mass.” After seeing about 50 tour buses, I changed my mind, although with 15 different services, it is most likely unavoidable. The Baptists back home have nothing on these people. NOTE: I'm just back from walking around and mass was unavoidable. It was outside and you could hear it all over town. I will post some pictures later.

You’ll have to forgive my amazement with all of this but I can’t help myself, skip ahead if you want to read about what I had for dinner. Here’s what the Rough Guide has to say about it all:

“Fatima is the fountainhead of religious devotion in Portugal and one of the most important centres of pilgrimage in the Roman Catholic world. Its cult is founded on a series of six Apparitions of the Virgin Mary, in the first of which, on May 13, 1917, three peasant children from the village were confronted…with a flash of lightning and ‘a lady brighter than the sun’ sitting in the branches of a tree. According to the memoirs of lucia, who was the only one who could hear what was said – and the only one of the children to survive into their teens – the Lady announced I am from Heaven. I have come to ask you to return here six times, at this same hour on the thirteenth of every mone. Then in October, I will tell you who I am and what I want…

By the date of the final appearance…as many as 70,000 people had converged on Fatima where they witnessed the so-called Miracle of the Sun. Eyewitnesses described the skies clearing and the sun, intensified to a blinding swirling ball of fire…lifelong illnesses, supposedly, were cured…the three children remained the only ones actually to see the Virgin, and only Lucia could communicate with her.”

In brief, although it is probably too late for that, the three messages were as follows:
1. Peace and Hell. (The Virgin was visiting during World War I)
2. Russia will be converted and there will be peace. If not Russia will spread her errors through the world causing wars and persecution against the Church. (a few weeks before the Bolshevik take over in St. Petersburg, though not necessarily before the takeover could have been predicted)
3. The 1981 assination attempt on Pope John Paul II’s life. (this third one wasn’t revealed until May 2000 when more then 60,000 people flocked to Fatima to hear the announcement)
(all this info is from the Rough Guide)

In addition to the chapel, which looks to be the size of a football field on the map and was built in the 1950s, there are of course about one million souvenir shops. Part of my fascination is the combination of something that is supposed to be utterly sacred with the totally obvious money making aspect of it all. I really did see a gallon of holy water for sale. Sitting by my window this morning I’ve seen about 20 buses go by. It’s just amazing.

Given all this, one wouldn’t expect to find much in the way of food here, so instead of looking for a place I decided to just eat in my hotel. I studied the Portuguese and English menus and came up with an order of a regional blood sausage for an appetizer and vegetables with pasta. After a few minutes my waiter came out to tell me the blood sausage was no more. He suggested a “small fish” starter also typical of the region.

The plate came out, unfortunately I didn’t have my camera with me, with seven grilled sardines beautifully stacked and garnished with carrots and onions that had been sautéed and marinated in vinegar. The sardines were six inches long. I prayed that I would like them.

I picked up my fish knife and fork and went to work using the knife to slice across the bottom length the meat came right off with my fork. Each fish was about four delicious bites of salty, oily goodness that was perfectly offset with the vegetables and their vinegar flavor. It tasted like fish but wasn’t fishy and was meatier than a white fish. I loved them. I liked the taste but also liked the repetition of getting the meat off the bones.

Walking on Walls

To do:
1. Walk around the walls of Obidos. (CHECK)
2. Post my blog entries at the wireless hotspot in the middle of the walled, medieval city. (CHECK)
3. Drive to the monastery at Alcobaca. Be sure to check out the kitchen which has a huge chimney supported by 8 tree trunk size columns and a stream tapped from the river that allowed water and fish to flow directly into the kitchen. (CHECK)
4. Next drive through an incredible pine forest to Nazare, a popular seaside town for lunch and a ride up the funicular. (CHECK)
5. Stop briefly in Batalha to see the chapel. (CHECK)
6. End up in Fatima. (CHECK)

It was a pretty awesome day. The sky was calm and a beautiful, deep blue. Driving from one spot to the next was a treat, as I entered a town between Obidos and Alcobaca, they were having their weekly market. The pine forest on the way to Nazare was incredible. It was exactly how I hoped my trip would be going.

My lunch in Nazare was a traditional seafood soup with rice and a tomato base. Before the soup came out I was given a wooden mallet. The soup, which was more like porridge, arrived in a clay pot with shrimp hanging over the side. I went to spoon it out onto the plate and was stopped by the body of something, I couldn’t tell if it was lobster or crab. I finally was able to dig it out and turned out to be crab. There was a whole crab, along with little clams, the shrimp, and vegetables in the soup.



After making my way through all of the crab and most of the shrimp I only had two little spots on my pants, luckily had a black shirt on…The flavors of this porridge seemed to come more from the tomato base—garlic, salt, onion—that the seafood. It was delicious.



After this I was ready for a nap, but instead I strolled along the ocean and made my way back to my car. It was on the Batalha and Fatima!

Driving and Picnics

Today was a major day. I said good-bye to my quiet, charming bed and breakfast on the hill and below the castle to pick up my rental car. As I rolled out of the parking garage my knuckles were already white. The bed and breakfast owner said it could take an hour to drive the 25km to my first stop, Sintra. Would I even be able to find my way out of Lisbon?

In fact it was easier to exit the airport and find the road to Sintra than it is to find the road to Whitesburg from Tri-Cities, although I’m not sure that’s saying much! The drive was on a quickly moving four lane. I was excited to be out of Lisbon and on my own.

Sintra is a beautiful hill town west of Lisbon. Beginning with the Moorish lords of Portugal and continuing on with Portuguese royalty it was a cool, wooded escape from the summer heat of Lisbon. According to the Rough Guide “Byron stayed here in 1809 and began Childe Harold, his great mock-epic travel poem, in which the ‘horrid crags’ of ‘Cintra’s glorious Eden’ form a first location.”

It proved to be my escape as well. The wind was strong and the air cool and brisk. There were clouds rolling in the sky. I parked my car in what seemed like a good spot and set out towards the center of the village. As I was walking I noticed a cute little terrier mutt out for his morning stroll to town. On the other side of the street was a walled piece of land with about 5 dobermen pinchers who were going CRAZY with barking because of this little dog who as far as I could tell ignored them completely.

Once in town I walked through some of the streets and visited the main palace. The palace was standing when the Moors live there, but the current set up is from Dom Joao 1, 1385-1433. Inside there is a good deal of Moorish influence adaptede over the centers. The most interesting room besides the kitchen, was the Sala das Pegas. The Rough Guide describes it as a room that “…takes its name from the flock of magpies painted on the [ceiling]…reputedly the response of Joao I [who was] caught by his queen…in the act of kissing a lady-in-waiting. He had the room decorated with as many magpies as there were women at court in order to…put a stop to their gossiping.”

Before heading to Moorish castle that overlooks the town, I bought some picnic supplies—water, cheese, meat, bread. Just the basics.



The road to the castle wound its way through a thick, old pine forest. It was incredible. At the top of the hill I bought my ticket and started hiking up to the castle. I sat on a bench in the shade and a bit sheltered from the strong winds and enjoyed my lunch. It was what I hope to be the first of many picnics and it hit the spot.



After taking in the vistas I hit the road again to drive up the coast to Obidos stopping along the way, to look at the ocean and the map! I was pretty nervous about getting lost so of course I over compensated. I finally relaxed and enjoyed the drive. I didn’t get lost and even if I had who cares. I think I was extra nervous since it was my first day driving.

Obidos is known as the wedding city because it was the traditional bridal gift of Portuguese kings to their queens, a custom that began in 1282. It is a small medieval town completely enclosed by walls. 500 years ago when the nearby town of Peniche was an island, it is now connected to the mainland, the ocean reached Obidos.

I arrived to my hotel around 5 and got my things organized and went straight to town, my hotel is outside of the walls. The light was the same as my first night in Lisbon, warm and soft. Most of the tour buses were gone, there was only one remaining in the parking lot, so I had a pleasant stroll through the cobble-stoned streets.

As I watched the sunset I tried to decide what to do about dinner, I picked out a place and drove around a bit more to find the old castle:



Driving down from the castle because of the one way roads I basically ended up back at my hotel. I decided I didn’t need another restaurant meal and the meat and cheese leftover from lunch would be perfect. I also still have part of the honey cookie left.



I had a short chat with the goats and then went back to my room. It was the perfect end to a long, wonderful day!

TILES

Tiles are everywhere here: covering the buildings, the sidewalks, the churches, the bathroom walls.

Afternoon Sweets

Yesterday I was in Belem home to the famous pasteis de Belem. I had to try them:




They are a flaky crust with custard filling. Delicious.

Today I walked by a snack bar and could pass up this interesting honey
cookie, which is like a spice cake:

Most important meal of the day, you know.

A lovely European tradition is hotels that include breakfast. In
Portugal it is the same—all of my hotels include breakfast. Some of my
fondest food memories are of breakfast bars in France. French yogurt
and thinly sliced hams…

I'm not sure what to expect at my other places, but they are going to
have a tall order to live up to:



Every morning besides the singing birds this is what I've woken up to.
3 meats, 3 cheeses, 3 breads, fruit salad, a pastry or 2, jam, honey,
coffee, and the freshest, sweetest orange juice ever. It is a
delightful way to start the day and make it to my 2 o'clock lunches.

Caldo verde

The food in Portugal is extremely regional, which is one of the reasons I am excited to get out to the country, that and being hot in cities makes me feel grimy. As one imagines of a capital city, Lisbon seems to be a meeting point for all these regional varieties. Last night at dinner and today again at lunch I sampled the caldo verde, a soup from Minho, the northern most province of Portugal.

According to the Lonely Planet World Food Portugal, caldo verde is a Galician kale and potato soup that is best sampled in the Minho. It is served with a few slices of sausages and bread. The soup is made all over the country but other regions make it with different greens. It is suitable for breakfast, lunch or dinner.




The base is a medium thick potato soup and the kale is shredded as thin as you could possibly imagine. The shreds of kale are quite long and the overall flavor is mild. The first soup was down right bland with a few sausage slices on the side, while the second had been cooked with sausage and had some slices still in the broth.

Towards the end of next week I will have made my way to the Minho and look forward to trying the caldo verde with a glass of vinho verde, the green wine of the north. Until then, I give you the Lonely Planet's recipe for caldo verde, which is in metric, but gives you an idea of proportions.

500 grams cabbage or kale
150 grams chourico a garlicky sausage any pork sausage will do
500 grams potato
1-1.5 liters of water
1-2 tsp salt
1/3 cup olive oil
ground pepper and coriander

Shred the greens as close to paper-thin as you can. Prick the sausages and pan fry them until cooked. Cool and slice into thin rounds. Cook the potatoes in the water, strain the potatoes and reserve the cooking water. Mash the potatoes with a fork and return to the cooking water adding the olive oil and a dash of pepper. Bring to a boil and add the greens. Toss in the sausage and adjust the seasoning.

Fado

At the airport bookstore in Cincinnati, I bought a Robert Wilson spy novel, due to my perpetual fear of running out of things to read while traveling. A friend recommended and earlier book by Wilson, A Small Death in Lisbon, they didn't have it, but the bookstore employee suggested The Company of Strangers, also by Wilson and set in Lisbon. The front cover says it is "an espionage thriller of the first order." I am totally into it.

Last night as I was reading this passage between two of the main characters about fado, Portuguese blues, jumped out at me just after returning from a fado club:

"…You know where it comes from? This is a country with a magnificent past, a tremendously powerful empire with the world's wealth in their hands. Take the spice trade. The Portuguese controlled the trade that made food taste good…and then they lost it all and not only that…their capital was destroyed by a cataclysmic event."
"The earthquake."
"On All Souls' Day too," he said. "Most of the population were in church. Crushed by falling roofs…So that's were fado comes from. Swelling in and on the past. There are other things too. Men putting out to sea in boats and not always coming back. The women left behind to fend for themselves and to sing them back into existence. Yes, it's a sad place, Lisbon, and fado provides the anthems…"

It was an interesting evening. I chose my club after reading about my choices in Frommer's and the Rough Guide. I picked the Machado Fados.



The Rough Guide describes the club as being one of the oldest in the Barrio Alto neighborhood and as having fine Portuguese food. It also said that the music started at 9:15, which was another plus because I was starving. The Barrio Alto is on the hill opposite the Alfama. I walked down 301 stairs to get to the club.

The man outside the club said the music would start in 20 minutes. I didn't believe him because where in the world does live music ever start on time? Nonetheless I went in and was seated next to an older couple. Working with the Portuguese menu, the English menu, and my food book I made my choices: Caldo Verde and a Kebab of squid, shrimp, and smoked ham. I was happy with my choices and excited for the music.

As my soup arrived the lights dimmed and 2 musicians and a singer took their places on a small stage. It had been about 20 minutes! The man started to sing and the restaurant was filled with his strong, emotional voice. It was beautiful and I was looking forward to listening to him for the next half hour or so. After 3 songs he left the stage, I wasn't sure what was going on…By the end of the evening I saw 7 different performers. Each of them sang exactly 3 songs and getting progressively better.

After the first performer another couple was seated at the table next to me. I finished my soup during the break and another group came out along with my Kebab:



This was a truly unique main course: it tasted good and it is something that will influence my own cooking. That is one of the rare effects of eating. I never thought of mixing meat and seafood like this. The ham was like country ham but not nearly as salty. The range of textures was also really nice from the soft shrimp, to the tougher squid, to the smoked meat. I also never had squid this way. It was all scrumptious.

Eventually the older couple started chatting with me. They were from Germany and were nice and super-cute. After that the other couple, from California chatted with me. They were impressed with my traveling alone, I told them it was no big deal, they told me about the cruise they were getting ready to take. I was happy to be talking to both of these nice couples. It was so different than my experience in France where I was often sitting this close to tourists but no one ever said a word.

I finally got my check and the Californians offered to pay for my dinner. I refused and refused, but they definitely insisted. It seemed like from our conversation that I reminded them of their daughter. They told me to repay the favor to someone else one day…

Then as I was leaving a woman who I noticed earlier because she was also by herself, asked if she could walk a little ways with me. I was happy for the offer because the guidebooks talk so much about not walking alone in the Barrio Alto. The night before I walked just behind other groups of people so as not to seem alone. It turns out that she quit her corporate law job in September and has been traveling ever since. We had a lot in common. She had been in Australia, New Zealand, and Japan for 3 months. As I was walking back up the 301 steps to my hotel I thought there couldn't be a better end to such a nice evening.

Peacocks and Explorers

Here are the highlights from my day:



This little guy was at the castle. He wasn't little at all actually. At our ranch in Oregon there used to be a lone male peacock that ran with the wild turkeys. He really seemed to think he was one of them, but turkeys knew better.





I'm feeling the same way about this monument to the Explorers from Portugal that I felt about the Pyramids in Paris. It is totally awesome and mind blowing.

Melon and Prawns

Sleep came easy last night and I awoke to sunshine, birds, and a cute as could be barking dog. After a beautiful breakfast, (more on that later) I set out for a city tour leaving from the Praco do Commercio. The Praca is, according to the Rough Guide, “…the climax to Pombal’s [the city planner who redesigned the city after the 1775 earthquake] design surrounded by classical buildings and centered on an exuberant bronze of Dom Jose – the reigning monarch during the earthquake and the capital’s rebuilding.” After winding my way down the Alfama and past the Se Cathedral I found the magnificent square:



I learned a lot of travel tips from my parents, one of the best ones is—take a city tour the first chance you get. If it’s on the day you arrive, like it was in Rio, it keeps you awake. If it’s on your first day you actually have a chance to get your bearings. The tour of Lisboa that I chose was a double decker bus and it lasted an hour and a half. I got a chance to glance at all the major sights outside the Alfama.

After the tour I was hungry and indecisive. Not a good combo when you’re looking for a place to eat. I walked by about 20 different tourist restaurants on the pedestrian streets north of the Praca do Commercio and finally settled on one, even though I really didn’t want to eat at any of them. I have a general aversion, which is probably unfounded, to places that have waiters waving menus at you as you walk by.

Despite the waiters and the English menu, I had a pretty good lunch. Already I’m finding it hard to tackle a menu alone. There was a whole page of dishes for two. I finally settled on a starter of melon and smoked ham (there were 7 different hams hanging in the window) and grilled prawns.




The smoked ham was cut thicker and saltier than proscuitto is generally. I was expecting cantaloupe since that’s what we use at home. The melon that came is Brazilian and it was incredible. I don’t remember having anything like it in Rio. It was juicy and as sweet as fresh watermelon. The texture was softer than the melons we have. It was a real treat.

The prawns were grilled mostly in the shell and were overdone, but still had a good salty flavor to them. I liked it that the eyes were still on some of them. All the better to see the tourists walking by and lure them in with waving menus.

Arriving

Since January I’ve known that I would be spending the month of April in Portugal. In the past few weeks most of my reading time was spent with Portugal guidebooks. There’s been a lot of talk and a lot of time on the internet. Yesterday, after the requisite exhausting trip, I finally arrived. During my 6-hour layover in Paris I was wondering why I didn’t just stay at home. As soon as I set foot in my Lisboa bed and breakfast I remembered why, even through the haze of cracked-out-travel-mode.

My taxi driver dropped me off on a street straight out of the guidebooks in the Alfama. It was cobble stoned and curvy and the buildings were covered in tile. This is the only neighborhood in Lisboa that wasn’t destroyed in the earthquake of 1775 and it looks like some of the buildings haven’t been repaired since then. It is on one of the seven hills and home to the Castelo de Sao Jorge. According to Fodor’s “Locals speak of St. George as the cradle of their city, and it might have been where the Portuguese capital began. Its occupation is believed to have predated the Romans.” My window looks up to the castle.

After arriving in my attic room, my plan was to shower, take a quick nap, and then have dinner. I decided to skip the nap because the sun was setting and if I had gone to sleep I doubt I would have gotten up. The generous owner of the bed and breakfast recommended a place with tapas and a view across the Tagus River.

Perhaps it was the haze of my traveling, but I have never seen such soft, luxurious light from the setting sun. As it hit the terra-cotta rooftops of the city it softened them and made the buildings nearest me glow. There were birds chirping and the air smelled like candy because of the blooming trees, I couldn’t believe I was in the middle of a city.

After easily finding the recommended spot, I chose a table looking out towards the river and ordered tempura camaron and churrasco. Now you might be asking why I would order shrimp tempura at a random tapas bar. According to the Rough Guide, Portugal’s influence on world food reaches far. As early as the 1500s Portugal was searching for a spice route and as a result introduced an early form of tempura in Japan. Unfortunately this interesting tidbit did not make my tempura any good...



The churrasco on the other hand was divine. Churrasco is defined by the Lonely Planet’s World Food Portugal as garlicky pork sausage flavored with red pepper sauce that has been grilled on a spit or a skewer over hot coals. The sausage didn’t taste like it had much red pepper in it, but it did have garlic and some other herbs. It was so good. The outside was crispy and the inside meaty and juicy. I ate it with bread and the mayonnaise based dipping sauce that came with the tempura and thought ahead to the next 3 weeks exploring this country.