I have arrived. Or...have I? It's hard to distinguish real life from fiction here. This morning I blinked my eyes open to a tiny window leading out to the garden and rolling hills that I saw nothing of in the darkness of the last leg of my journey. The birds, the water, the trees, the sun, the kind hearts that greeted me the night before. Something about this place already feels really really....right.
The time had come for Teresa and I to say goodbye. What an incredible kindred spirit and friend I found in this woman. She surprised me my last morning by buying me a pastel de nata (Portugal's magnificent, signature egg tart, originally created by the monks at Monasteiro Jerónimos) for breakfast just before she ran out to test drive a motorcycle. While she as gone, I re-packed my things, attempted to organize myself, and tie up loose ends in advance of heading out once more towards the wild unknown. When she got back we took a short walk, toured marvelous Gare do Oriente, and had some crazy but incredible pizza with crust stuffed with cream cheese. And then I really had to go. We said goodbye, both said we are happy to know eachother. She waved at me from her balcony as I ran to catch my bus.
I had to get from Lisbon to a tiny town called São Teotónio. There I would be picked up by David and taken to the farm where I will, if all goes according to loose plan, stay for a month. The three hour or so journey was spent in the company of a German woman who, like Teresa, I'll probably go on to carry somewhere in my mind and memory for the rest of my life. She is what one would call a citizen of the world. She's been traveling most if her life, as she describes it, forever moving around like points of a star, deciding when and where to go the moment the feeling strikes her. She grew up in Berlin and for awhile kept an absurdly cheap flat there while she wandered the world, until, about ten years ago she decided that she didn't require a "base camp" any longer either, and at present, she is truly free. We talked about all sorts of things but never exchanged names. Some years back she almost died in the Amazon. It was a crazy story that she can only tell in bits. She knows she was gone over four months because her visa ran out, she had, among other ailments, a plant sickness that plagued her body and digestive system for two years until it just, one day, didn't. She described the aftermath of that experience as being the moment loneliness had first occurred to her. Not loneliness from not having people around all the time, but what she thinks of as real, actual loneliness. The impossibility of ever being able to share your life experience properly with anyone, to never really be understood. She says that otherwise she never feels it. She prefers to be by herself. Her choices are hers and she knows why she makes them. She said that sometimes you lose touch with a friend for some time and sometimes friends pass away while you're gone, unable to be reached. She knows that sometimes she hurts people who love her because she always wants to leave, wants always to be alone. She knows this, but she does what she does because she truly knows, deep inside, it's what she wants to do. At the moment I met her she was headed to Aljezur to camp in a tent, probably in a valley, but exactly where she have to see. She'd recently had some serious back problems and wants "a place to lie down for awhile". When we parted ways she wished me the best of luck in my life. We both agreed it was a pleasure. She told me to only think about the positive and the negative would go away. To let it and to always remember that. She said if I do, I will always be fine.
I walked off the bus to the tiniest of towns. No proper bus station to speak of, just a small stop, and.... not a soul around, neither future farm host nor citizen. I gave it a few minutes, maybe ten, before I began the process of finding the number I had copied down from the emails we had exchanged. My mobile service provider was having none of it, the text was invalid, the number not working. Eventually I tried to call the number, it would go through but ring once or twice and then drop or give only a busy tone. This went on for about an hour. During that time I wondered what I would do. How long I should wait before trying to walk to the centro noted on the minimal signage. How stupid I must be to schedule this trip so late, to not triple confirm with David, to be so naive as to just expect travel plans in the middle of nowhere to work out when I don't even know where I am, where I'm going, how to drive. I'm not even sure my credit cards work here. I thought about my German friend and how she said that she can't allow herself to feel fear in the moment. After, yes, but never during. To feel that would be death. In her case, at least in the Amazon, she meant that literally. In my case, David finally picked up. He'd completely forgotten, but he'd be to the bus stop in minutes, his phone had just been in the gray area of shoddy rural mobile reception.
There was, I admit, the threat of tears as soon as I hung up the phone. Suddenly my heart raced, my cheeks finally felt their anxious flush. Not during, but after.
And in the end I was fine. It would be fine, would have been fine. I need to trust myself that I will always be fine. And be grateful for the ride coming for you and the strangers you meet on the way.
Today finally marked my pilgrimage to Sintra.
About an hour by train outside of Lisbon, it's the stuff of dreams and, arguably, part if my initial inspiration for coming to this area in the first place. As it turns out, I could have spent awhile - days! - in this city and stayed fully occupied. If you know me at all, you know I love an old town and a monumento. Trust me when I tell you that after hours upon hours walking I had barely just begun in strange and wonderful Sintra, in spite legwork devoted to the cause. With that said: what a day.
Palacio de Pena and Quinta de Regaleira got most of my attention and, in a word: wow. How about you rustle up some renaissance architecture, throw in some mysticism, add some water features, and give yours truly a call? Perfection.
Let's start with the Palacio de Pena - except where do I begin? If you, like me, take issue with paying good money for transportation when you could just as easily walk, take note: ready yourself. Where in any documentation is it shared that we are talking an uphill battle in excess of hours? Not that I'm complaining, I'm really not. This cobbled road stroll immersed me fully in the wild world of Sintra. Once a getaway for the rich and famous, the voyeur in me was able ogle the luxurious quintas while soaking up the vibrations of the massive scale arboretum courtesy of King Ferdinand II's genius. I don't think I've ever experienced anything like this: thousands upon hectares of plant species not natively known to Portugal not to mention not known to cohabitate. It was as beautiful as it was mind blowing.
The Palacio itself is a drop in the bucket of the larger land mass encompassing the Parque. I entered this building with trepidation; the crowds of tourists were, as predicted, no joke. Everyone was corralled here and there through atelier and toilet, illuminating to me, among other things, tourism in the dawn of iPad as camera. Typically tolerant, I found myself claustrophobic more than once. It was hot, it was contained, people were loud, but, guess what: it was beautiful. To imagine oneself as royalty existing ing within these walls is the stuff of dreams. The tile work, the trompe l'oeil walls, the carvings, the view! Minimalist that I can be, I was sold.
Back outside, I wandered to and fro through non-natives, pathways, and lagos, finally extracting myself, ready to head downhill. I will spare you the details but the roadside short cut I created for myself was questionable at best. But no matter, I made it back into Sintra Historico in a fraction of the time, ready to tackle the next item of touristic business: Quinta de Regaleira.
Were there a blog presence in either the world or for me personally when, years ago, I explored Las Pozas in Xilitla, Mexico you can be sure I would link to it. The fact is, there wasn't. I bring it up to stress the first time my mind was completely blown by architecture with seemingly limitless financial backing resulting it what could be described as a surrealist's fairy tale slash wet dream. I am here to tell you, I have stumbled upon such a thing for the second time.
Again, as I understand it, Sintra at some point became an upstate getaway of sorts. Enter Carvalho Monteira. He lived the dream, he hired an architect, the result if which is wonderful, mysterious Quinta de Regaleira.
You've got your palace, your chapel, your, fountain, your tennis court. But what may come as a surprise to the casual visitor is the network of secret trails and underground secret tunnels you also built, all eventually linking to, among other things, an "Initiation Well", a 27 meters deep subterranean tower with its "esoteric and alchemical associations" is meant to make you intensely feel the relation of heaven and earth. And then there's the series of sometimes elaborate grottoes, all with particular themes, that you decided, seemingly with a sense of whimsy, to sprinkle about the perimeter. I could go on.
Let's face it: I was DAZZLED. I'd been walking for (literally) seven hours at this point and it was all I could do not to take that secret staircase to god knows where and end up on the other side. Twice I felt real fear: first while descending into the depths at the afore mentioned well and second within the otherwise unassuming but truly terrifying - and true to its name - Labrynthic Grotto. Here is where I stop once again to marvel at all other countries besides the US and their sense of social responsibility. You wanna venture up a set of stairs that lead to a tunnel without illumination and god only knows what creep or undead lurking within its chasms? Hey, go for it. Same if you're elderly but just emerged from said tunnel only to discover a lily pad-like set of stones to skip over in order to return to land, lest you fall into the murky lagoon. Enjoy!
Anyway, I love this sort of thing and I tip my hat to the creative genius who conceived of it (here's looking at you, Luigi Manini).
Back in the relative safety of the center of Sintra, I devoted still more time to its winding streets. Finally these legs could take no more and I made my way to the train. As is now typical, I dozed off completely, eventually landing in the Rossio again, within this wonderful familiar city I am almost boastfully becoming familiar with.
And then I couldn't help it. I'd gone to that terrace for two nights in a row, let's make it a third. Beer in hand, bowl of olives, perfect pink sunset. Cheers Lima. It's really been something.
Today felt a lot like a cold beer at the end of a long day overlooking a terrace and rooftops and the Rio Tejo. Or wait, that part actually happened?
Things remained slow this morning, however productive, with a series of administrative tasks left to tend to: bus tickets, correspondence, questionable tweaking of this very blog. I took my time while slowly drinking coffee along side bread, butter, and Teresa's homemade pumpkin jam. The breeze all the while blew through the balcony door, until finally I could linger no more. The sunshine was calling and the day was already passing like only those with loose schedules do.
I readied myself and soon made my way to a train, another train, a bus ticket, one more train and one sizable stroll, and finally arrived at the Monesteiro dos Jerónimos. Teresa told me she feels a deep connection to this UNESCO heritage site, and it's no wonder. It's a hugely (literally) awesome place. The kind of building so rich in history you could spend hours and barely scratch the surface of its lore. Largely funded by the spices from Vasca de Gama's inaugural voyage to India, it's an epic limestone structure of mind blowing scale filled with intricate stone-carved animals, greenery, and maritime references. According to historians its construction mirrors or tells the story of Portugal itself.
From there, more errands. Back to the Baixo to replace a few things left behind in haste. Commerce completed I wandered once more to the Castelo, a half hearted hustle given the time of day. With a few twisting streets left to climb, I settled instead at a "self-service" terrace I'd seen the day before. There I sat, overlooking the Alfama and the Rio as the sun slowly set, ice cold Super Bock in hand. Ah, relief.
I'm feeling like I'm here, but still in a state, the likes of which I can't yet define. I'm thinking back often today to who I was or how I felt in the beginning of my last long adventure. My naïveté, my absurdity. But here I am. I'm moving forward, I'm moving on. Certain I'll feel similarly looking back, in a few months, no matter where this takes me.
