3/10/89
The wanderer within comes forth!
Up to this point, you've done every thing that was to be done. You got a job and rented a house and had dozens of people tramp through like so many undone pilgrims. You've broken bread and drunk lots of wine. You've enjoyed scant pleasures of the flesh that evaporated like tenderness. You've planted a garden and stoked the hearth. You've taken in the stray cat. You've paid the bills one day ahead of the turn-off notice. You've consoled the women next door who lost her son and then her husband. You've pushed a quartz crystal into the crotch of a stick and nailed it up on the roof for good luck. You've gone back to school. You've started to run, fast, meditate and then quit. You've walked down to the water at night, in the rain, and looked out at the dark shore beyond. And look here! The supreme and shameful token of your sloth: your ass has worn a hole in the rug where you've sat watching TV!
3/20/89
I hardly feel like someone about to undertake the (1st) journey of a lifetime, a freewheeling tour across Europe. I am morose, sluggish, practically depressed. It has to do possibly with the part of me that hates to surrender the familiar, comfortable surroundings carefully cultivated over the last ten years. A feeling of resistance and distress knots the stomach and clouds the outlook. A kind of leveling effect applied to experience: why the hell do anything? Here or there, it's all the same.
3/21/89
Airborne and London bound. Flight so far smooth and uneventful. Bear hugs at the boarding ramp for Dad and Doug, come back to us safely, amen. Watched out the window as the light bespeckled shore of Turtle Island slipped beneath me and gave way to vast black expanse of Ocean. Darkness outside all encompassing while inside this hurtling projectile there is warmth and light, polite conversation, food, drink, crying babies...
About an hour outside of Heathrow. Sun's up, clouds reflecting orange dawn light; the ocean, flecked-with-spittle in appearance. We are told it is raining in London. Breakfast is served. Tea, orange juice, bun. I don't believe any of the pretty English flight attendants are going to invite me back to their London flats. Oh well. Lisbon by mid-day. Over Ireland now, south of Cork. Rivers, farms, villages.
3/22/89
Lisbon - a mind-blowing assault on the senses that began with a reckless and diverting taxi ride from the airport. The ride to Pensao Ninho de Aguias was an astonishing tour of some of the older and stately, albeit crumbling parts of Lisbon.
Dinnertime. I take a stroll down Rua Dom Durate, which rapidly turns into about three other streets, all going in different directions. Narrow alleyways with steep steps lead endlessly upward toward colonial era buildings with red tiled roofs. I make my way to one of the local eateries, one of dozens along the way. I point to certain breaded delicacies and indicate how many I want, not really knowing what they are. The proprietor wraps them carefully - 350 escudos. Further up the street I turn into one of the narrow alleyways. On the first landing some kids are kicking a soccer ball around and there is a small, dark establishment selling wine. A pretty young woman waves me away from the bottled goods to the real stuff: vino tinto, stored in large oak casks, possibly a local or house brew. She draws off a liter into a used plastic mineral water bottle. I give her 200 escudos but she calls me back to hand over the 50 escudos in change. Back in my room, (atop a carpet and drapery store) I enjoy the delicious food and wine watching the street scenes below. Traffic noise, music, snatches of Portuguese.
Footnotes: Lisbon is the first truly foreign city I have ever visited. No longer in the good ol' U S of A! Whoopee and hallelujah! My impression of the Portuguese: proud, earthy, with warmth that extends graciously to the foreign visitor. Portuguese women are uniformly beautiful with (for the most part) dusky complexions, dark hair, and an easy predilection to smile. Men on the street stern faced, that gives way on the slightest pretext to open friendliness. One old man approached me as I surveyed a fabulous view of Lisbon from one of the many higher vantage points of the city. He, not a word of English and I, a few stumbling words of Portuguese and yet we managed to converse. He corrected my pronunciation and then spread his arms out towards the city below indicating the Castle, the Alfama, the Bairro Alto. We laughed, gestured, shook hands and took our leave.
3/23/89
A day spent wandering aimlessly. I'm beginning to love this place. It is the best possible city to begin an exploration of Europe getting use to the sights, sounds and customs of a large foreign capital where the people are friendly and unpretentious. The Alfama, a fascinating district of steep narrow stairways and that branch off from each other in totally unpredictable ways. I stopped and looked in amazement at the cave-like entrances to dwellings. The doorways and windows are veiled with lace-like hangings through which comes the smells of cooking, strange music, the soft (sometimes loud!) babblings of Portuguese. Children playing everywhere, the most beautiful and happy children I've ever seen. I stop to take their picture. They smile, mug and carry on shouting a few choice words of English with mischievous grins ("fuck you too!"). One little boy with a better than average command of English indicates my camera and watch and warns me to "be careful" while gently tugging at them, signifying their vulnerability to being ripped off. On landing after landing I see the same thing: children, young mothers washing laundry at the local fountain, old grandmothers watching from windows.
Earlier in the morning I walked through a more rustic district. Small flower and vegetable gardens dotted the landscape everywhere, vegetation spilling over into tiny dirt and gravel alleyways, everything saved from squalor by this unabashed closeness to the earth, to growing things and the trilling of songbirds, in fact, an almost paradisiacal arrangement of earth, family, and dwelling. The birds - there must be more caged birds in Lisbon than any other place on earth. They hang outside almost every window and balcony and they sing beautifully. My memories of Lisbon will always be associated with trilling of caged songbirds.
The Barrio Alto - another old part of Lisbon, a slightly larger version of the Alfama. Narrow winding streets, steep stairways, every street overflowing with humanity carrying on the everyday tasks of living. There is a strong sense of community, perhaps a shared sense of destiny as the inhabitants play with their children, converse with their neighbors, and carry on the job of providing for every (simple) conceivable need from their tiny storefronts and restaurants. Footnote: there is apparently a strong communist party presence here - I see communist slogans and graffiti everywhere.
Again, this area is saved from squalor by the sheer, uplifting spirit of the people who live here, their sense of themselves and their community. Their openness to outsiders is amazing. I snapped picture after picture under their tolerant gaze without complaint. The weather: three straight days of warm sunshine and cool nights. The food and drink are plentiful, delicious and cheap. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Portuguese patrons at a bar while feasting on fish, rice, salad, bread and beer, absorbing their language and ways, has been an education. Coffee comes in the Arab style, little doll house cups but very strong and stimulating.
Earlier in the day, lunch in the Barrio Alto, having just visited the tomb of Henry Fielding at the Englishman's Cemetery. The entrance was locked. I banged lightly on the large metal door and was ushered in by a little old man who at first seemed reluctant to let me pass. I entered and instantly all the sounds of the city fell away. A place of great restfulness and beauty towering cedar trees, palm trees and other tropical species, wisteria carpeting the ground with small purple flowers. Birds trilling, soft fragrances borne by gentle breezes. Found the resting place of Henry Fielding amongst the hundreds of other gravesites. Paid my respects after a fashion, gratitude for the feast of language he left us, his humanity and compassion. Returned to the outside world past the old grounds keeper who, it occurs to me, I probably should have tipped.
Lunch at the Flor de Estrela, one of the many neighborhood restaurants in the Barrio. Trutas e arroz e salada e pao. And good Dutch beer. A plain, working man's establishment. The magic of comprehension when you speak their language.
3/25/89
Leaving Lisbon via ferry across the Tagus River. Shady character approaches and offers first a golden ring (nao) and then a beautiful chunk of hashish, 750E. Tempting, but no thanks. Must have been the backpack and jeans, a kind of international releasing mechanism for underground characters to come forth and display their wares. "Mucho trouble, senior," I say and wave him off. He is persistent. "Nao, nao."
Tagus River quite polluted, a scummy grey-brown in appearance. As we pull away from the dock, I recall a dream I had the night before of Lisbon personified as a jealous paramour who refuses to let me go.... Adeus Lisbon, adeus, adeus.
(Last night, in the Pensao Gloria. I awake with a start to the sounds of doors being slammed as if in great anger, while a soft feminine singing arises up out of nowhere, now near, now far away.)
Out on the river, a dark cloud of smog quickly obscures the city and I realize how big it is. At the Barreieo station a short wait for the train to Evora. Walked along the shore of this bleak industrial area. A few small fishing boats and the ruins of a windmill are all that remain of a simpler existence. Train ride, with stops, to Evora. Mile after mile of cork and olive trees, an occasional orange or lemon orchard. One stop, at a tiny rural village, was like a snapshot of Portuguese country life. A small whitewashed house with red tiles, old man drawing water out of a well while another irrigated the adjacent gardens with a battered old watering can, old wife shuffling among the chickens, the area all about lush and green. I lean out the window taking pictures they smile and wave.
The countryside, once clear of the many cork plantations, reminds me of the American mid-west except for the occasional farmhouse with the ubiquitous red tiles. Gently rolling hills and fields as far as you can see on either side of the tracks, unmarred by power lines or billboards.
Evora - a fabulous medieval walled city with narrow, labyrinthine streets and whitewashed buildings. But first a strange encounter. Arriving late Saturday afternoon and running short of Escudos, I ask the French dame at the tourist center where I can change money. She points out a place next door, a run down looking establishment with shabby wooden steps. I am told to ascend and ask for "Mr. Mosquito." I do so and find myself in the realm of the moneychangers, glowering old men amidst dust and decay who regard me with suspicion. I feel foolish and out of place as I inquire after "Mr. Mosquito." I hear a cough and a shuffle of papers in the next room and there, seated at a long wooden bench, is the man I take for Mr. Mosquito himself. Stooped, white haired and unsmiling, he is counting over a pile of Escudos and making entries in a ledger. "Change money?" I ask and produce two U.S. twenties. Yes, yes, quite satisfactory as he nods and ruminates and then scribbles a figure on a small piece of paper: 8.080. That seems okay but just to make sure I make my own calculations on the same slip of paper and come up with 6.080. A mistake. He sees my figure and oh dear what an uproar! I'm trying to cheat him out of two thousand escudos and his offer promptly comes down to match my lower figure. "But you were going to give me eight! Hard currency monsieur!" He mutters French imprecations and waves me away. I grab my forty bucks and split.
Back out into fresh air and sunlight, I begin to explore this old, magical city. I head off towards Giraldo Square and without even trying, find the first genuine Roman ruin I am to set eyes upon, the beautiful Temple of Diana. Fourteen Corinthian columns support what is left of ancient stone lintel work, the whole edifice resting on crumbling stone steps. The upper portions of the temple catch the dusky orange evening light as swallows and sparrows, singing madly, flit between the columns.
I wander aimlessly as is my wont. One narrow cobblestone street leads to another, some straight, some curving away and disappearing. Whitewashed walls rise steeply on either side. An occasional doorway left ajar reveals a tantalizing glimpse of Evoran everyday life - tiny stairways lead up, sometimes down, to cramped but eloquent quarters; kitchen, dining and living room occupying a single, well appointed space. The upper chambers may lead to a balcony or a rooftop garden where small orange and lemon trees with overhanging fruit swoop down just out of reach.
3/28/89
The last twenty-four hours have been a real trip chuck full of the unexpected - but first to finish with Evora.
The twelfth century Se Cathedral, mid-morning Sunday. The sheer stone centerpiece of Evora. Stepped inside (before arrival of Sunday worshippers) and again the sensation of utter peacefulness, the falling away of mundane concerns. Vast, soaring space carved and shaped from stone, with barely a sense of containment, a quiet invitation to come forth out of your tawdry, cramped worldliness and fill these gigantic dimensions with peace and goodwill. Flickering candles illuminate iconography of Jesus, Mary and the saints. Took the usual tour up on part of the chapel roof to examine the ancient stone work and look down into the cloister, and then, via an ancient, spiral stone stairway, to the cloister itself. In one of the several turns down the stairway, you are in pitch-blackness, hands reaching out and touching stonework worn smooth from centuries of human contact. The cloister an ancient walkway surrounded by arches, inclosing a small courtyard with well.
An earlier visit to the famous "Chapel of Bones" at the Church of St. Francis. Not quite so ghoulish as I had been lead to believe, but definitely impressive. Numerous skulls and what appeared to be femur and tibia bones had been pressed into wet mortar, forming the columns, walls and archways of the chapel. Unfortunately, every skull within reach of the causal visitor had been desecrated with graffiti. Names, dates, and just plain rubbish had been inked and sometimes carved into the skulls, and some skulls appeared to have been chipped away by souvenir hunters. I could not resist the temptation of running a finger across the smooth cranial vaults and eye sockets of some of them. In less than fifteen minutes, my fingers had swept across the mortal remains of dozens of the deceased. "Our bones are here awaiting yours" seemed like a fitting riposte to all, both believers and non-believers alike.
It is time to leave Evora, marred as it is by commercialism and the tourist trade, but enough of the old city left to set the mind to contemplating opposite impressions: Evora, the name of a Renaissance virgin, and Saint Evora, black cloaked dowager lighting candles in the cathedral.
And so to the train station for a lengthy wait for the train back to Barriero, then south to the Algarve. Along the way, a spectacular tour of southern Portugal. Sandy loam and vast rolling grassland give way to weird scrub forests of pine pitched in sand, and finally to sods of deep earthy reds and browns. We pass through rural villages with names like Aquas do Moura, Pinhiero, Vale do Guizo, Lousal, Alvalade, Torre-Va, and finally, Funcheria. Along the way are the beautiful farms and haciendas of the Portuguese homesteader, the red tiled and white-washed houses and barns set upon hills overlooking lush valleys. There is a deep love here, as everywhere in Portugal, of the earth, the loving cultivation of the earth. Everywhere are to be found gardens, vineyards and orchards. Even in so appalling a place as the slummy outskirts of Setubal are to be found tiny vineyards and gardens set out along the railroad tracks, or anywhere space permits the putting in of cabbage, lettuce, peas and onions. In every village we stopped at were to be found an overflowing bounty of vegetation, neat rows of growing things, and always a small orchard, oranges and lemons practically incandescent against the background foliage.
At Funcheria, I share first class accommodations with a young mother and her two young boys. I am immediately aroused by the mother - her Portuguese with its many trills is more like music than speech. Why is it I think she is alone, separated or divorced, raising her two children by herself? Perhaps a manner she has, weariness about the eyes and mouth. Or several side long glances in my direction that linger too long, and a way of arching her back up out of her seat that I find deliciously suggestive. Or (more likely) these are merely the fantasies of a single traveling man who would like nothing better than to spend the night with such a woman. Asleep and in profile she is even more beautiful and it is all I can do to take my eyes off her. Meanwhile, the two boys engage in delightful monkeyshines, bouncing and cavorting, all a giggle and bubbling over with a warm and happy Portuguese. Out of their mouths, their native tongue is pure delight, and this is something I have noticed throughout. The Portuguese are an effusive, outgoing people, the young brash and naturally so. Older men gather in bars and side streets and engage in animated conversation. The women shout to each other from balconies while hanging out wash or just inside doorways of small produce establishments. The very old men gather in small groups, especially in public squares. They are more reserved, a small cabal, knowledgeable of old customs and ways, a lore past from elect to elect.
3/28/89
To Lagos. Arrive on the late train. There are no rooms to be found at this hour and I refuse to spend a lot of money on a hotel room. Back out behind the train station I find a field lush with grass and succulent-like vegetation. It’s cool and breezy, there's a gibbous moon, everything seems fine as I nestle down into my sleeping bag. Am awakened by rain. It's light and passes quickly, but every cloud that passes over leaves me with a face full of rain. I cover up with the tent flysheet, which helps a little, but by daybreak I'm pretty wet, not soaked but wet. I am accosted by a little old man who inquires if I'm looking for a room? 1000 E? You betcha and the next thing I know I'm being escorted into private quarters - a double bed, window, clean bathroom with hot water - a bargain in this town. I settle in and rest up, then head out for a little exploring.
Lagos - another old town - Prince Henry the Navigator launched his voyages of discovery from here in the fifteenth century. The center of town is totally given over to tourism - dozens of cafes, bars, and restaurants, tacky little gift shops - all overpriced. Would not have stayed here long if it had not been for the cheap accommodations. Glad I did - the scenery along the Atlantic coast is spectacular. High, steep lime and sandstone cliffs predominate. Huge piers of land jut out into the water forming caves, grottoes, coves and inlets. The abyss falls away on either side; one slip and you momentarily fly with the birds before smashing on the rocks below. I spend the day exchanging perspectives - climbing high up among footpaths and the crags of cliffs, then lengthy descents to the beach and rock strewn coastline. One stretch of beach leads straight into the diminishing light of day - evening lights of orange and yellow cast near perfect ovoid sculpted stones along the beach in a beautiful unearthly glow. I take off my boots and leap from boulder to boulder amidst the crash of waves, if only to hear the slap of my feet on their smooth surfaces.
4/3/89
Sevilla, Spain. How do you capture the essence of a great city in just a few days? All you can do is wander, ravished with wonderment, with only a perfunctory glance inside the guidebooks. They can point out thus and such, but for the solitary traveler, astonishment and delight are always a matter of personal unfoldment.
But, to finish with Portugal. Spent my last day there (3/31) in Sagres, or rather the environs thereof. Rented a small motorcycle and spent the day exploring country of unsurpassed beauty. The small country villages between Sagres and Lagos, villages with names like Hortas do Tabual, Figueira, Salema, Vale de Boi, Barao de St. Miguel, Raposiera, Praia do Zavial. All had a common quality of the surrounding country blending indistinguishably with the boundaries of the village; the country, the land spilling profusely over and across the boundaries of the village proper. Everywhere, the intense and loving cultivation of the earth. Wild flowers ran riot, their fragrance filling the air. Timeless scenes of villagers tilling the fields, herding flocks of goats and sheep, leading their beasts of burden through the narrow streets of the village. Here, as everywhere in Portugal, the dignified black-shawled old women amble through the streets filled with the cries of playing children. Heaps of manure and straw everywhere, donkey carts drawing this rich compost into the fields, the fields, as I have said, spilling everywhere over into the village. Paved roads turn to dirt and vanish into the surrounding greenery. The light of day, partly sunny, partly cloudy, conceals and then suddenly illuminates the red tiled rooftops of distant villages, a single tree, a single hilltop, then plunges everything back into a uniform gray. Flying down the highway on the whining little monster of a motorbike I have rented, I turn down dozens of little dirt roads that lead nowhere, but open up to vistas of lush rolling countryside densely carpeted with wildflowers. One of these roads leads down to a desolate but rugged shoreline along the ocean. Two parallel canyons have been cut from sheer rock into which huge waves crash with enormous force. One is drawn to such scenes of natural power and held fast. I stayed for over an hour, making feeble photographic attempts at capturing the grandeur of the place. Again, the sun would suddenly capture a distant sheer rock cliff and the manifestation of great natural power as geysers of seawater shot hundreds of feet into the air.
There are, sad to relate, scenes of modern encroachment. The little fishing village of Salema once consisted of a single steep street lined with picturesque little white-washed houses and a beautiful stretch of unspoiled beach. It is slowly being engulfed by high-rise condominiums, expensive European styled villas, and just plain ugly tourista crap. Some rich consortium of Europeans (mostly English speaking) discovered Salema and decided it was just a dandy place to despoil. They thought they could some how buy the beauty and tranquility of Salema and make it their own. The result is an ugly conglomeration that will never harmonize with the timeless spirit of this place. The villagers continue to fish for a living - their colorful boats lie along the beach and fathers stand by sons calking boats and repairing fishing nets, but their way of life is doomed. The single (and original) steep and balconied street of Salema commands a sweeping vista of the Atlantic that white, rich Europeans will one day own. It's a shame that such a place could not have been put aside as a national treasure, forever immune from the white European buck. Few things can resist the flood of big money its deadly undertow will pull down more than a few Salimas, an immemorial culture and way of life. I despair of a southern Portugal tidied up and Europeanized by tides of moneyed Northerners, who, to escape the smog and garbage filled landscape of their native lands, can do no better than visit the same misfortunes on impoverished cultures abroad. It was a relief to move on to villages where modernization was more in keeping with tradition.
But again, it is time to leave, time to leave Sagres, time to leave Portugal. Next day I take a bus back to Lagos. The Saturday open market is in full swing. All manner of items are being offered clothing, appliances, shoes, pots and pans, fruit and vegetables, heaps of dried beans, rice, fish a confused and delightful din of exchange, offer, and counter offer, the hawkers gathering piles of escudos as the bright sunny morning wears on. I wander around, watching and taking pictures.
I board the train in early afternoon for the last port of call in the Algarve, Villa Real de Saint Antonio. Along the way, more precious scenes of Portuguese rural life, perhaps the best I've seen so far. The afternoon warm and sunny, the air filled with the fragrance of orange blossoms. Green rolling fields filled with the fruits of loving labor, the soils of this region deep earthly reds and browns. Never far from view are the shores of the Atlantic. Outside of Faro are vast stretches of muddy flat lands, as far as the eye can see. Tiny figures of people can be seen digging for shellfish. I reach Villa Real and take the ferry to Ayamonte, Spain. The failing light of day scatters in ripples across the water and silhouettes the dark shore of Portugal. The white washed houses of Ayamonte glow like coals in the distance. Plunge into Spain, walking up and down the old streets of Ayamonte. I hear the distant strains of Spanish from shabby old watering holes along the waterfront. Out of the Centro and up high above the city, the crumbling remains of battlements from long ago wars with Portugal. It is dark, eerie and almost silent up here. Cool gusts of wind rustle through the grass and trees, the river below, a dark ribbon dotted with a few solitary lights. Stars leap out from a cloudless sky. I walk about with an idea of sleeping out. I'm tired, it's late, and my pack is wearing me down. Walk all the way back down, find nothing in the way of a room, walk all the way back up but take a different route; I now find myself in a large grassy field opposite the crumbling old church with a tolling bell that creaks like the spell of doom. Bed down exhausted in the tall grass and take my rest at last.
On to Sevilla, mid morning by bus. Am let out in the midst of teeming streets and simply plunge in.
|
