Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2024/02/23/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-27-23-12-06-southwestern-spain-and-the-exit-to-africa/

There are several ferry routes from ports in southern Spain to Africa. While I figured out which route is the cheapest, I failed to read the departure schedule. Thus, I drive directly to the port of Algeciras so as to reduce the chance of missing a ferry by a few minutes and having a long wait. On arrival, I’m looking for the ticket office but end up at the port entrance with none in sight. A guy standing there asks me where I’m going and whether I’m ticketed and when I say, “No,” he says, “You have to hurry. Follow me,” and starts running toward the garage. I drive behind him, bewildered as to what’s going on.

At the garage entrance, this guy jogs up the ramp to an upper floor and then speeds down the length of the garage to guide me into a vacant space. Car parked, he leads me on foot — no longer running but at a very brisk pace — to the stairway, pointing out the ticket machine where I have to pay before leaving the garage. Then it’s back outside, a long walk to the port gate, then to a commercial block, and into a travel agency. When he suddenly disappears, I’m thinking this is some amazing customer service.

When the ticket agent gives me the ferry price, substantially higher than I had researched, I realize I’m dangerously ignorant as to what’s going on – i.e. in my usual state. My suspicions are allayed when he offers me a round trip deal that makes more sense — approximately double the lower one way fare I had seen online. I hadn’t planned to commit to returning via the same route but I want to get across the Strait of Gibraltar today, so I consent and buy the return ticket. By now, I’ve figured out this is not the ferry company office but a third party agency. Judging by the lines, it seems such agencies are where passengers buy tickets in person.

As I leave the office, my quick step guide is waiting outside. I thank him for the help and he asks me for a tip. Now I get it. He’s no one official, just a freelancer that hangs around assisting prospective ferry passengers. Regardless, he was a big help and deserves a tip but, unfortunately, I have no Euro cash on me, in fact no cash at all. In two months of traveling, virtually every transaction I made was on a credit card and what little cash I had is gone. I’m prepared for a scene when I have to tell him I can’t tip him but he is amazingly kind and instead of pressing me, fades into the crowd. I feel very guilty but then realize I have several Euros sitting in the Berlingo. I decide to hunt him down later once I’ve retrieved that money.

I make the long walk back to the car, leave the garage and pull into the line of waiting cars. Here is where my ignorance decreases a bit. Online, I was under the impression there was only one ferry company serving this route. Now I see there are three and I’m not booked on my intended line. This doubtless explains the fare variations. I get to the booth for my line and I’m issued the actual ticket. Once parked in the loading line, I ask how long the wait will be and am told about 90 minutes. Great, this is my chance to deliver the tip. I fish almost 5 Euros from the various slots and holes where the coins ended up, leave the car, and set out on foot to find my guide. After all, he must return to the entry gate regularly looking for new customers. My supposition doesn’t pan out. I walk around to various points in the port, in a light rain, for over an hour but can’t find a trace of him. When I ask other freelancers where he is, describing his physical appearance, a few of them say they’ll give him the money. That ignorant I ain’t. When I hear engines starting up I have to admit defeat and run for my car. Since I have to come back this way, I decide I’ll pay him on my return to Spain.

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Ahead of me in line is a rugged camper. You see these all over the world, usually with German license plates. They range from modest conversions such as this one, a remodeled Toyota Land Cruiser, to stem to stern rebuilds of full size military trucks, even 6x6es, into self contained expedition vehicles. The owners are typically on multi-year road trips and often ship their rigs between continents. They look really great and incredibly capable but if I had one it would be my undoing. That go anywhere design would, inevitably, someday get me trapped in a raging river or hanging off the edge of trail narrower than the truck. With just basic, not-high-clearance 4 wheel drive, I’m very careful not to exceed the car’s limits. Even so, I’ve been in places — with ruined shock absorbers and no muffler — where a final breakdown would have resulted in a $2,000 towing bill — or more if a helicopter lift was needed.

My ferry docks and cars are quickly driven off before we drive on.

Once the car is on board, I head upstairs to find a chair. Following my lifelong habit, I sit myself as far forward as possible. Through decades of riding the subway, I’ve always positioned myself so I could look out the front window, even in mostly featureless tunnels. As I sit down, a crew member walks by and warns me that I’m in the portion of the ship with the most up and down motion. Although the Strait of Gibraltar is one of the most famous waterways in history, the crossing is uneventful, however.

In about one hour of overcast skies and gray water, we dock in Ceuta, one of two small Spanish enclaves on Morocco’s Mediterranean coast. I get fuel (substantially cheaper than in Europe), and find a long line at the Spain-Morocco border.

Border formalities are no big deal, but each car requires about 5-10 minutes to get cleared. By the time I’m through, darkness has set in and I have about a one hour drive to Tangier, where I’ve booked a hostel bed. The road follows a hilly, sinuous coastal route, complicated by long patches of fog, but eventually I arrive in the correct spot in Tangier. My lodging has no identifying sign and after communicating with the owner a couple of times, I finally zero in on an apartment building, one of whose units is the hostel.

Once through the entry process, I find a 4-bed dorm room, 2 private rooms, and a refrigerator in more need of defrosting than Nancy Pelosi but no kitchen — I won’t be cooking here. In an effort to encourage proper guest behavior, the rooms are filled with professionally made signs posted on the wall — dozens of them. It’s pretty amusing but I know some hostel guests are barely housebroken.

There are two Chinese guests sitting on the couch, strangers to each other, and I get into an interesting conversation with the woman. She’s from Hong Kong, travels a lot on very little money, and appears to be looking for a new country to call home. The bunk beds are interesting. Instead of a ladder providing awkward access to each upper bunk, each has a full stairway to the floor at the foot. It’s a really nice design but the extra floor space required for it means most hostels will never adopt the idea. Fairly late in the evening, after walking the quiet streets to buy some fluids, I crawl into my lower bunk and fall rapidly asleep.

Thursday morning, I decide to sightsee Tangier. Credit card acceptance in Morocco is mostly limited to tourist establishments and gas stations, so my first task is to get some dirham currency from an ATM. I don’t miss the old days, pre-ATM, when we carried American Express or Thomas Cook travelers checks and traded those for local cash. In many countries, the official exchange rate was massively overstated so instead of banks it was necessary to go to currency shops or, dicier, street entrepreneurs. I vividly remember the universal pitch from these guys, “Change money?” — stated in whatever language got the message across. Typically, an affirmative response led to a semi-furtive trip into an alley, some rate negotiation, and a quick exchange. Plus, there was always the thrill of maybe being robbed, being given counterfeit bills, or arrested. Nope, don’t miss those days at all. Using the ATM now is even sweeter since my kids turned me on to Charles Schwab accounts. Not only does Schwab not charge a fee for ATM withdrawal, they reimburse the fee collected by the local machine, which in some places can run as high as 10% of the amount withdrawn. You can’t beat that with a stick.

I work my way up the street looking for a place to have lunch. It doesn’t take long to find a nice one. Reading the menu and knowing I will be eating plenty of tajines over the next several weeks — because it’s the Moroccan national dish — I decide to try something different. I opt for “tride au poulet et noix et oeufs seman”, which turns out to be chicken over some sort of pastry, with quail eggs, almonds, figs, and lemons. It is truly delicious.

After lunch, I continue my walk around Tangier. My first stop is the Punic-Roman cemetery. This may not sound interesting, but it is and, fortunately, trusty Atlas Obscura called my attention to it. Situated on a rocky outcrop high above the Mediterranean, the rectangular graves are carved directly into the rock. Tangier was founded about 3,000 years ago by the Punic people (also known as the Carthaginians, after the capital of there empire). the cemetery is on the site of an ancient city gate, now long gone. When the Romans conquered Tangier almost 2,000 years ago, the graves were simply emptied out for reuse. Archaeological excavations in 1910 revealed a number of important Roman funerary objects. The boxes carved in the rock are now empty and exposed.

In addition, to the historic aspect, the rock with it’s panoramic view of the Gibraltar Strait, is a popular gathering place for both locals and tourists. In addition to Tangier harbor below, the Spanish coast is also clearly visible.

Leaving the cemetery, I head for the Tangier medina, the citadel that long protected the city from attack. Typically, it’s a massive construction, laced with buildings and narrow alleyways within the walls.

Eventually, I find my way to the other side and exit downhill toward the city.

I take a break near a playground and watch kids playing and hijab-covered mothers and grandmothers talking.

I have to say that as someone who believes human rights completely trump religious and social rules, I’m never comfortable observing the Muslim strictures on women, whether formal, societal, or family imposed. Moroccan women have broader legal latitude than in other Arab countries. Some women, especially in urban areas, have professional careers and eschew head coverings. Of course, many who maintain various degrees of covering do it voluntarily, but for others social and family pressures leave them little room to choose. Every time I get on my high horse about this, I’m slowed up a bit by remembering we have, at least technically, a similar situation. In most of the U.S., women have the same right as men to be shirtless in public yet virtually none do. Society would exert substantial pressure on any women exercising that right although obviously the vast majority cover up by their own preference. Nonetheless, the two issues don’t seem equivalent. In New York City, every time I see a Muslim family walking the summer streets with the husband and children in shorts and t-shirts and the wife shrouded head to toe in a black covering, I find it impossible to believe she is dressed thus of her own free will. I will never believe organized religion, as opposed to personal belief in some higher power, is beneficial. It seems to me the hierarchy and power structure exist for elites to exploit believers, just as in many other human endeavors.

Moving on, I pass through the large indoor market (the souk) and emerge onto an adjacent street also humming with commerce. Here the products are displayed on the sidewalk while various trades operate in small work spaces in in an abutting building. Among them are metalworking and butchery of goats and sheep. For reasons unknown, the shopkeepers don’t want photos taken even though they’re working right out in public, so I retreat across the street and resort to telephoto.

Late in the afternoon, I return to my lodgings to find them deserted, so I decide it’s time to do some work and writing. Friday, I stay in for the day, taking advantage of the cheap price and lack of socializing to continue working, leaving only to get dinner at the same restaurant as yesterday, anticipating another delicious meal. I order tangia, a sort of pot roasted lamb. The menu says “one half kilogram” but when it arrives it’s a very small portion. When I ask about it, the server checks with the cook and comes back with the answer, “That’s the weight before cooking.” Although it tastes good, either I’m being cheated or the meat has shrunk down to almost nothing on the stove. The measly quantity makes it disappointing. Well, one good meal out of two is at least something when you pick a restaurant at random.

In the evening, another guest arrives and we get to talking and take a quick liking to each other. He is Raphael, on a long journey from São Paulo, Brazil. Since I’ve traveled extensively in his country, the conversation comes easily. He is going to Hercules’ Cave tomorrow before leaving Tangier by train. I want to visit the cave, too, so I offer him a ride.

Saturday morning, Rafael and I set out for the short drive to the cave. It has a rich legendary history, including that Hercules slept there, that it’s one end of a 15 mile tunnel to Europe, and that the Barbary macaque monkeys used that tunnel to reach Gibraltar, their present day home. The facts alone, are impressive, though. Archaeological studies show it was inhabited by Neolithic people about 8,000 years ago. The cave has openings both to the land and sea and it seems true that the seaward opening was artificially created by the seagoing Phoenicians. Berber people enlarged the cave by cutting stone mill wheels out of its walls.

The site of the cave is very scenic, perched above the ocean with a broad view down the coast. Since we’re west of the Strait of Gibraltar, the surf is fully oceanic and waves crash satisfyingly against the rocky coast.

Rafael and I walk down to the cave entrance and ticket office. The entry fee is $6 and since it’s a small cave, I decide it isn’t worth it. As Rafael buys a ticket, I turn back to leave but one of the staff motions me inside for free. I have no idea why but I don’t object when someone offers me celebrity status (this was the first time ever). Inside there’s a nice effect of the ocean swell breaking inside the cave mouth. I’ve read the sunset from here can be spectacular but I’m not waiting all day to see that, of course.

I’ve offered to drive Rafael to the train station after our cave visit but since I’m heading past his destination anyway, he decides to ride with me. We head south down the coast road and suddenly I’m waved to the curb at a Gendarme (national police) checkpoint. Apparently, I’ve been caught on radar going slightly over the speed limit. The police tell me I have to pay a $15 fine on the spot, in cash. This drops me immediately into my foreign police interaction mode, since it’s my policy never to pay cash to police on the roadside as that’s a very clear indicator of corruption. I do my best to”slow walk” the process but it’s made difficult because one of the policemen speaks some English. My first maneuver is claiming to have no cash on me. Do you take credit cards? No, of course not. Then I inquire about court hearings and reviewing the evidence in front of a judge. No, is the answer. You must pay here or we take your license. This is actually a feasible alternative for me since I carry two driver’s licenses, but it is a last resort. If this is corruption, I try to make it take so long that the officers decide there’s more money to be made by moving on to the next victim. Over the course of about 30 minutes, they’re not budging and I see no evidence that these guys are shaking me down for personal gain. They’re writing an official ticket and I get a copy, so it looks legitimate. Since the fine is nominal, it eventually “occurs” to me that I can ask my “hitchhiker” if he has the currency, which lets me back out of my initial “no cash” claim. Fine paid, we move on to the beach town of Asilah where I drop Rafael off at his booked hostel.

I continue on to Temara, a suburb of the Moroccan capital, Rabat, to have a reunion with a Moroccan I met 21 years ago.

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/01/06/road-trip-europe-22-12-21-german-christmas-singalong/

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First thing this morning, before dawn, I drive over to my property in Eggersdorf for my first eyeball look in 8 years. I’m still getting used to one major difference in German intersection design. In the US, traffic lights are typically hung in the center of the intersection or on its far side, so the light is visible anywhere you stop the car. In Germany, the lights are almost always placed on the near side of the intersection. Drivers must be careful to stop far enough back to see those lights. A little too far and they’re all out of easy sight and you won’t be able to see them change. Easily avoidable, but the first week or so, I’m constantly overshooting and either craning my neck to look straight up out of the very top of the windshield to glimpse the red light or being “advised” by the driver behind that it has changed and I’m blocking traffic.

I was sure I had left keys for the property gate with the erstwhile real estate agent in 2014 but he insists I did not. Susan is bringing the second set from NY but that does me no good now. I have a vague memory of talking to a neighboring business. Perhaps I left the keys with them so they could park a vehicle in the driveway rather than leave it completely unused. Which business? I don’t know.

On my arrival, I find a completely unexpected situation. In 2014, there was a wall between me and my neighbor and their backyard was occupied by a garage. Now, I find the wall and garage demolished, my gate broken through, and my lot used as driveway and construction yard for a new house nearing completion in that backyard. This despite that the neighbor’s existing driveway on the other side of their property provides equal access.

By German standards this is outrageous behavior but since I have no lawyer, it’s almost Christmas, I’m leaving town in 4 days, and it seems like more of a civil issue than a police matter, there’s nothing I can do right now. I take photographs of the damage and the extensive debris covering my property and head home.

Karl-Heinz and Edelgard are leaving for a holiday road trip to Copenhagen tomorrow, so a few days ago I arranged to leave Biesdorf Saturday morning to stay with another host over Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Dec 26 until I drive through the night to meet Susan’s arriving flight in Frankfurt at 6 AM on Dec 27. When I report my plan to Karl-Heinz I run into an unexpected obstacle. He is very worried about break-ins to his unoccupied house and asks me to stay through Dec 26. I can hardly say no to a generous old friend so I reluctantly adjust my plans to assuage his worries. Instead of spending the nights of Dec 24th and 25th with hosts, I’ll spend those days with them and come back to Biesdorf at night to stand “guard duty”.

At any rate, since my remaining days are spoken for; I have to spend this morning and afternoon cleaning up the apartment so as not to leave work for Edelgard next week. I gather up the bedding and my dirty clothes and head down the steep, cement cellar stairs to the laundry room. Now, after my two falls on the ice last week, I’m moving around much more carefully. With a sack of laundry in my right hand, I’m carefully descending the stairs in my bare feet holding the banister firmly with my left. It seems uneventful, but about 6 steps from the bottom my right foot loses traction and shoots off the step, followed immediately by the left. I end up riding the step edges on my right ribs before coming to rest at the bottom. Thanks to my grip on the handrail, the fall isn’t as bad as the earlier ones, but the pain is acute and the stream of cursing continuous. I don’t understand how it could have happened — perhaps some moisture on a step or the lack of a friction coating on the painted cement — but it did. For the third miraculous time, I realize I’m still mobile so I pull myself painfully to my feet and continue with laundering.

Although I’m sore as hell, I pursue my plan to meet Servas host Sabine for a long walk through the Christmas decorations of downtown Berlin. About 5:30 pm I drag myself to the Biesdorf train station for the hour ride to our Savignyplatz rendezvous.

Sabine is an engaging host who grew up in East Berlin until the wall fell when she was 20. Our conversation is nonstop as we walk first past the Gedächtniskirche (Memorial Church). In 1943, this prominent church in the center of Berlin was severely damaged in a bombing raid, yet remained standing. 12 years later, its ghostly profile made a deep impression on my 5 year old self as I visited the site with my mother and aunt. Today, the church has been replaced but the core of the damaged steeple preserved in the new design.

Sabine and I continue along Kurfürstendamm, Berlin’s version of Fifth Avenue, where all the big name stores have elaborate Christmas window displays.

Leaving the shopping area, still talking away, we walk through dark streets to the Bundesrat, the German legislature with it’s famous glass dome tourist attraction. Due to the building’s heavy security, there’s no way to enter without advance booking, so we proceed to nearby Brandenburger Tor, the famous city gate that for decades sat inaccessibly on the boundary between East and West Berlin. It re-opened to foot traffic when the Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and is a stop for virtually every tour and tourist in Berlin. As we walk through at about 8 PM it’s relatively uncrowded — that is, not thronged — and we can appreciate the Christmas lighting and a large menorah.

Since Sabine grew up in East Germany (which dissolved 33 years ago), I remark that some older, former East Germans that I talk to sort of dismiss life in East Germany as a bygone not worth discussing. She points out this may be because such people played roles that do not go over well today. For example, they may have been Communist party members with foreign travel or other privileges, or cooperated with the Stasi police to report on activities of their neighbors or even family (if you’ve never seen the movie “The Lives of Others, I highly recommend it). Nebbish that I am, this idea never occurred to me but it is thought provoking. Certainly, in a comparable system, after Germany lost World War II, “nobody” admitted to being a Nazi.

Continuing east along Unter den Linden, a famous [East] Berlin street that has been completely transformed by new construction since reunification, we end up at the Einstein restaurant for a late dinner of Austrian (i,e, to my crude palate, very similar to German) food. Traditional cuisine is surprisingly hard to find as Germany has become home to myriad ethnic restaurants operated by waves of immigrants. You’re far more likely to find Middle Eastern, Italian, Chinese, Thai, Indian, Vietnamese, and of course fast food.

After dinner, we say our goodbyes and I haul my aching body home on the subway to a long, recuperative sleep.

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2024/01/25/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-23-23-11-27-the-southern-coast-of-portugal-and-back-to-spain/

It’s well after dark when I arrive in Cortegana, Spain, a hill town in Andalucía. My host, Ana, has graciously consented to my post-9 PM arrival and has some dinner ready for me in her cozy row house.

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Rather than heat the whole place, she keeps a butane-fueled heater running under the small, round living room table at which we’re eating. It takes a little while for me to get used to the open flame within inches of my pants leg, but the wafting heat feels good in the winter chill.

One of her dogs takes an immediate shine to me (and I think to every visitor) which is always fun for a pet-lover-but-no-longer-owner like me.

After eating and chatting for an hour or so, Ana heads for bed and I go to sleep on the living room couch.

In the morning, I’m drafted as assistant dog walker for her 3 dogs. Alone, she has to take them out in two shifts but with me there we can take them all at once.

The walking route goes along a ridgetop road with beautiful views of the castle on the hill opposite.

The dog obligations fulfilled, Ana takes me on a walking tour of the town. She’s lived here all her life, taught thousands of students over decades, and knows everyone. She volunteers at the Red Cross and other organizations, so our progress by foot is frequently paused with greetings and exchange of news. About every third person is a former student. It feels like I’m accompanying a politician greeting her constituents.

Although, amazingly, I don’t remember when it happened, one of my pairs of blue jeans has a severe abrasion rip and brown discoloration, to the point where they’re no longer serviceable. Perhaps someone borrowed them while I was sleeping [grin]. Realistically, it must have happened 3 weeks ago in the national park where I lost and recovered my phone and I’m only now noticing. Ana takes me to a clothing store — where they know her, of course — and helps me get a good deal on a new pair. It’s much easier than trying to navigate the process in Spanish on my own.

We stop at the town cultural center, beautifully tiled and with a community cafe, then on to the Red Cross office where grocery bags are being packed for distribution to the needy.

Cortegana is a hill town, with many steep streets, stairways, and fortified houses built to withstand attacks by unfriendly visitors — presumably not a modern day problem.

Interestingly, many buildings have a tile mosaic on the sidewalk representing the trade carried on inside: clockmaker, magistrate, etc.

Although many Spaniards now find it cruel and distasteful, bullfighting is still widespread and Cortegana has an active plaza de toros (bullring) and a large sculpture honoring at least one slaughtered bull.

Late in the evening, Spanish style, Ana cooks a great fish dinner and a variety of roasted vegetables — eaten of course with the heater flaming at our knees under the table.

Wednesday, after the morning dog walk, Ana and I go to neighboring Almonaster la Real, home to a 9th century Islamic mosque and fortress high above the village.

On the narrow footpath up the hill Ana has us stop at a group of several low buildings which turn out to be a private museum built and operated by Carlos, one of her former students, and his father, They have spent years rebuilding and furnishing abandoned animal housing into several interesting, traditional, themed rooms: a doctor’s office, a bar, and others. This ongoing project is truly a labor of love, supported only by hard work of two men and the donations made by visitors. Carlos is always on the lookout for additional historical items to acquire. He and his father are continually renovating the next building. Without these efforts much of the material and context of bygone years would be lost. He calls his museum Exposición El Buscador de Setas (Mushroom Hunter’s Exposition).

The 10th-century mosque and fortress were built during the Moslem rule of Iberia using the stones of a pre-6th century Roman and Visigoth fort and temple. For those not familiar with the term, Iberia, it refers to the Iberian Peninsula, comprised of modern day Spain, Portugal, and tiny British Gibraltar, Although there were Christian modifications made after the Moors were expelled, much of the mosque character was preserved. This is a rarity since many Moorish buildings were destroyed or rebuilt after the Arabic conquerors were defeated and expelled by 1492. Moslem names still persist widely, though. Any Iberian name that starts with “al” (the definite article “the” in Arabic) is very likely from the Moorish era. A well known example is the Alhambra in Granada, Spain.

Back in the car, I detour slightly to a small road I saw on the map. Twisting our way up the narrow, steep route, we end up at the top of an adjacent mountain, Cerro San Cristóbal with panoramic views of the surrounding towns and valleys, including the fortress we just left. As is typical, the summit has a prominent communication tower that blocks the view from certain vantage points, but it’s easy to ignore the disturbance.

I bring Ana back home, say goodbye, and leave Cortegana for the fairly short drive to Sevilla, the major city in Andalucía. I’ve been invited at the last minute by a Servas host in the suburb of Palomares del Río. I arrive in the afternoon and meet another Ana, this one a very personable public radio newscaster in another city, Córdoba. She has a 16 year-old daughter, Sabina, and they are hosting 16-year old Delilah, an exchange student from Manhattan. The man of the house is Pola, who I assume to be Ana’s husband or long term partner. Later in the evening, he tells me he has been dating Ana and has only moved into the house in the last month or two. I’m surprised because he really seems to fit into the family very naturally. I would not have guessed.

I’m used to Servas hosts being older and retired. This visit is a bit different because Pola (a television news producer) and Ana both work pretty long hours in addition to their various family duties. About 40 minutes after my arrival, Pola and Ana are driving into Sevilla to see a movie produced by one of their friends, so we have only a short time to get initially acquainted.

I have an appointment (explained below) at 9 PM, so I decide to ride in with them and spend the evening sightseeing the city. When they drop me off, I start by walking through the pedestrian zone of the old town. It is lined, like many old towns, with stores selling absurdly high price merchandise. Who are these tourists that walk around a town buying enough $5,000 watches and handbags to keep 20 stores in business? Incongruously, along this strip is a very attractive tile mosaic reproducing a Studebaker automobile ad. Looking it up, I find it dates back to 1924.

A little further along, I see a long line in the street — at least 100 people. As I seek the head of the line, I see everyone is waiting to buy lottery tickets. It’s a perfect example of “hope dies last” since virtually every purchaser is guaranteed to lose their money.

Leaving the pedestrian zone, I approach the obligatory cathedral with a freakishly enormous extended kiosk selling figurines and other religious items.

I next find myself on a campus of city and university buildings. I soon realize the majority of them were built as pavilions of the Ibero-American Exposition of 1929, Most have the original country names engraved into the entrance along with a smaller sign indicating the building’s current use.

Continuing on, I reach the former exposition’s centerpiece, the Plaza de España. It’s a giant semicircular building originally housing all the Spain exhibits and now repurposed for various government agencies. It’s an ornate structure designed to evoke several historical architectural styles. Inside the semicircle is a D-shaped moat with paddleboats for rent. A very popular place.

Leaving the plaza, I walk through dark Maria Luisa Park, also built for the exposition, until I cross the old course of the Guadalquivir River, turned into a dead end canal 100 years ago to mitigate navigation and flooding problems.

My destination is a restaurant where a Servas host who is also a private detective and author, Juan-Carlos Arias, is debuting his new book, whose title translates as “Franco’s Forger”, the story of Eduardo Olaya, a talented art copyist who could paint apparently authentic masterpieces on demand.

Although Juan-Carlos cannot host me this week, he did invite me to the event. I’m ever so slightly a special guest because, by sheer coincidence, Susan has a second hand connection with one of the book’s prominent characters, New York art dealer and publisher, Stanley Moss.

I arrive at the restaurant early, trying to recognize Juan-Carlos when he walks in. While waiting, I order some tapas for dinner — by sight because none of them are labeled. The food is quite good but one of the items turns out to be sangre frita, fried blood. Edible, but not something I would order a second time,

As the 9 PM meeting time arrives, a number of patrons are avidly watching football (soccer). The restaurant isn’t looking like a particularly apt venue for a book discussion. Finally, I ask someone who looks the part if they are Juan-Carlos and the owner, who is also watching the game, chimes in that the meeting has just been moved to a nearby bookstore — because of the football telecast. Spaniards have clear priorities.

At the bookstore, I find Juan-Carlos, his wife, and about 3 fans — a disappointing turnout for sure, but good for me as I’ll have a reasonable chance of following the conversation of the other participants. I comprehend quite well when someone speaks Spanish directly to me, but it’s frustrating that I generally can’t understand two Spaniards speaking to each other in colloquial speed and enunciation. The discussion runs about an hour, with me trying desperately and only partially successfully to follow the content.

As the meeting breaks up, Juan-Carlos inscribes a gift copy of his book to me and Susan. He, his wife, and I agree to walk to a nearby bar for coffee. He’s an interesting guy, a real old time character. I look forward to getting to know him better on a future visit. As we leave the bar, I navigate to a bus stop and ride out to Ana’s house. The $1.50 fare is paid in cash but the drivers don’t accept bills larger than 5 Euros, which are all I have. A kindly passenger pays my fare.

I don’t get home until 10 PM but the evening meal in Spain is also quite late. Ana serves a quick dinner over which we spend some time talking, but it’s a work/school night, so everyone is in bed shortly thereafter.

Thursday, everyone is off to work and school in the morning but I get a late start and catch the bus into Sevilla around noon, heading for the House of Science museum. It’s very well done, with exhibitions addressing sustainable development, cetaceans, geology, an extensive explanation of crystals and their properties and uses, and Gaia, the European Space Agency’s star mapping satellite. I thoroughly enjoy my time there.

I decide to attend a flamenco dance show, of which there are several in Sevilla, all tourist-oriented of course. I choose the one that seems most serious, walk over and buy a ticket for the 5 PM show.

On the way, in every direction is Sevilla’s impressive architecture, for example, the Palacio de San Telmo. Built in 1682 by the Catholic Church’s “department” in charge of the Spanish Inquisition, I suspect its splendid architecture masks a sordid history. It was designed as a new facility of the University of Navigators and dedicated to training orphans as sailors. There must have been quite an excess of orphans to merit such an institution. Sailing was very hazardous work and sailors very expendable. The school was founded while the highly anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim punishments and executions run by the same people were still in progress. Executions, orphans, danger, sailors… Hmmm.

I cut through a small park, Cristina’s Garden and find an unheralded and unexpected poet’s walk. Every 100 feet or so is a tablet-like stone engraved with a verse from some well-known Spanish language poet.

Show ticket in hand, I spend the intervening time going through the museum. Flamenco is a complex tradition and the museum illustrates this with mind numbing detail on vocabulary, style variations, the significance of costume details, hand movements, and more.

When the show starts, the cast is three dancers, a guitarist, and two singers, performing in a small, brick basement theater with intimate bleacher seating. I’m sitting within 3 feet of the dancers and I’ve positioned my camera in my lap pointing at where I believe the primary action will be. I’m being subtle so as not to wave my bulky camera around in front of my seatmates during the show. I want to record some of it for Susan’s sake because she’s not here. When, during the pre-show announcements, a “no photos” rule is announced, I realize that I’ve prepared myself perfectly for this unexpected development. I’m not recording for any purpose other than Susan’s virtual attendance and a short illustration in this blog (trust me, read by very few people), so I don’t feel my violation is doing any harm. Throughout the hour long show, I video various dance numbers, although I have to settle for whatever framing my camera happens to capture. There’s a lot of loud foot stomping, flamenco guitar accompaniment, and singing that often sounds like painful caterwauling to me. The performers are obviously skilled and dedicated. In fact, they do only one show a night, doubtless due to the level of energy expended. The other two shows each have a completely separate company. Sadly, to my crude artistic taste it’s cultural overkill. In the future, I’ll leave the adoration of flamenco to others.

As I hit the bathroom after the show, I encounter unique Flamenco-ized privacy panels between the urinals.

Today, I get back to Ana and family in the early evening and we have some hours of social time. I get along very well with everyone, including the teenagers, and it’s turning out to be an excellent, if time-limited visit. Ana does her news broadcast from home once a week, so she doesn’t have to commute by train to Córdoba every day. She appears to be one of those superwomen, doing a demanding job, domestic work, and parenting. We stay up quite late, talking about work, radio, politics, and family.

Friday morning, it’s time for me to leave. Ana and Pola are going away for the weekend. Despite our fun visit, they don’t invite me to stay longer, probably for the implicit but very sensible reason that you don’t leave a man you’ve just met home alone with two teenage girls. I certainly wouldn’t have done that when Helene and Eric were young.

Since I want a couple of down days to do some work and writing, I check into a hostel on the other side of Sevilla. It’s super cheap, unheated, and situated at the end of a long dirt road, even though the surrounding neighborhoods are quite urban. It has spacious grounds and a sort of shabby, rural feel to it, yet I find it quite comfortable and pleasant. Even if it weren’t, the nightly charge is so low that, as the Jewish yentas in Brooklyn used to say, “For that price, you could hate it.”

Saturday, at a supermarket, I find fresh rainbow trout at a giveaway price, so I buy two large fish and cook an elaborate dinner in the hostel kitchen.

I’m now making a firm plan for taking the ferry to Morocco and decide on Sunday morning I want the car checked over for hidden problems prior to making the crossing. I text Ana, who is back home, and ask whether she can refer me to a repair shop that she trusts. She gives me the name of a national chain she uses and also invites me to come back for a second stay.

Since everything in Spain is closed on Sunday, I spend the remainder of the day at Ana’s house. There’s finally time for some real socializing. In the afternoon, the three of us go around the corner to a very convivial bar devoted to a regional Catholic “thing”, the Peña Rociera. It appears to relate to an annual procession in an Andalucian town named El Rocio but despite extensive online research, as usual, I can’t comprehend what it is or its significance. Given my enormous respect [sarcasm] for the Catholic Church, it really doesn’t matter to me. The interior of the bar is decorated with dozens of farm implements and historical photos in addition to Peña Rociera memorabilia.

We encounter a friend of Ana’s who buys us a round of beer, which leads to reciprocal rounds. The bar has a special supply of fresh must, a preliminary wine phase. I’d like to try it but after 4 beers, I’m done. In the U.S., four beers is about half my annual consumption. Back at home, Ana and Pola cook a great dinner while I plan my car repair strategy for tomorrow. I make an appointment for a full diagnostic first thing in the morning but I have another task as well. The ABS (brake) system failure light has come on several times. The problem goes away when I shut off the engine but it’s a warranty issue and I’ve just realized tomorrow is the final day of my 1 year warranty so I have to get to a Citroën dealer immediately to handle that. It’s going to be a busy day.

Monday morning, I’m at the repair shop before 8 AM. Their appointment email had promised “while you wait” service but in person they tell me I have to leave the car. I hop the bus back to the house but in less than 2 hours I’m notified the diagnostic is complete so it’s back to the shop. The only significant problem that turned up is a need for new front brakes. They say they can do that this evening, so in the meantime I drive over to the Citroén dealership to report the ABS symptom.

They are very friendly and diagnose the problem while I wait. It’s just a failing sensor/switch but they have to order the part so the repair can’t be completed until tomorrow. They’re also very cooperative making sure the failure is reported to the warranty company today, by the deadline.

I return home for a few more hours with the family and head back to the first repair shop for my brake appointment. The brake job and a tire rotation take over 3 hours. Since two of my tires are fairly worn and the other two also on their way, I’d like to replace them. Unfortunately, all-season winter-rated tires, which are mandated in Germany, where I’m heading after Morocco, are only available in warm, sunny Spain with a 7 day lead time. Reluctantly, I decide to travel in Africa with my existing tires, hoping my luck will carry me through for another 2 months or so. (Sneak peek: I did surprisingly well.)

Tuesday morning, I go back to Citroën for the ABS repair. We can find no way to submit the warranty claim for direct payment, so I pay the substantial bill myself knowing I will have to deal with reimbursement at a later time. Eric has warned me about the casual attitude toward customer service in Spain so I’m not expecting an easy resolution.

That task accomplished, it’s back to Ana’s for my final evening. To help out, I drive Delilah, the New York exchange student, to a friend’s house and enjoy the Christmas decoration lights along the way. I’m told downtown Sevilla has a very elaborate display, and I saw some of it being installed a few nights ago, but it’s not worth a 2 hour round trip bus ride to view it tonight.

Wednesday morning, we say our goodbyes before the family heads out the door and a couple of hours later I journey south to Algeciras on the Mediterranean coast, where I’ll catch the one hour ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Africa.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2024/03/11/road-trip-europe-ii-23-12-06-23-12-09-forsaking-europe-for-africa/

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/12/19/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-18-23-11-23-lisbon/

The southern part of Portugal has a generally milder climate than the north. A variety of citrus fruits can be grown and it’s a popular destination for Portuguese vacations. Portugal even grows a large banana crop but that’s misleading because the plantations are on Madeira, a Portuguese island at a latitude 300 miles south of the mainland.

South of Lisbon the road stays inland for quite a distance. The countryside isn’t of any obvious interest as it’s mainly commercial and agricultural. Eventually the route returns to the Atlantic coast with occasional ocean views.

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I stop for the night in Almograve, at a hostel run by the same management as the excellent one in Gerês National Park, the site of my dramatic phone loss and recovery over two weeks ago,

As I had hoped the lodging is just as excellent if not quite as inexpensive as the prior one. I have to pay a whole $20 for the night. Having dawdled through the day, I arrive late enough that I stay in, cooking dinner in their kitchen from the meager supplies I’m carrying and sacking out fairly early. I’m in a 4-bed room but I have it all to myself.

In the morning, there is a very ample buffet breakfast with lots of selections. I fuel up and spend the first part of the day working in the comfortable surroundings, later driving to the beach.

In addition to a busy beach bar, I encounter a steady trickle of backpackers.

It turns out the popular long distance Fisherman’s Trail follows the Atlantic coastline. It follows the waterline with constantly changing views of coves and bluffs. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.

Saturday morning, I fuel up again at breakfast and prepare to continue south. First I drive and walk the trail to a named beach just to the north. It’s interesting because a sandbar at low tide allows for both brackish and salt water bathing within meters of each other.

I’m there in the morning and have the place to myself. Heading back south, I find that the coastal hiking trail is also a road. Good walking, horrible driving. I follow this for about 15 miles, always on the bluffs high above the surf, passing hikers and powering my way through periodic deep puddles, rocky washouts, and sandy stretches, glad I have the 4WD in reserve although I never actually engage it.

Eventually the trail leads back to the highway. In the town of Zambujeira do Mar, I take a break at a small beach with tilted layers of sedimentary rock.

I’ve spent so much time dawdling along the water that I decide to stop only 25 miles south of where I started. Leonor, my Lisbon BeWelcome host, urged me to stop and see her brother in Odeceixe. I haven’t heard back after contacting him but since I’m going to stop there anyway, I send him one more message. I book a hostel bed in town, atypically expensive at $26 without breakfast, at the Bohemian Antique Guesthouse. On arrival, I find it unstaffed. Fortunately, the front door is open and some of the guests help me get oriented. Finally, a staff member arrives, I think by coincidence, and she tells me I should have gotten an email with instructions from booking.com. I have not, so she gets me straightened out. The email arrives the next day — big help.

Odeceixe is some miles from the beach and in the off season most businesses, including hotels and restaurants, are closed but the central plaza is far from deserted.

The food choices are pizza and a closed all you can eat Chinese restaurant. I text the latter and at 7 PM get a response that they are now open. I constantly forget that Iberian businesses are generally closed during midday then open again into the night. While talking to other travelers at the guesthouse, I’ve met a Lithuanian named Julian. He’s also interested in all you can eat so we walk across the street together.

The restaurant isn’t buffet style. Instead, for a flat price, you write the numbers of each portion you want on slip of paper and it’s made up to order. Julian and I spend a couple of hours eating a wide variety of items while having an equally wide ranging conversation. It’s a very pleasant evening.

Just as we’re finishing dinner, Leonor’s brother, Fernando, texts me apologizing for the long delay and inviting me to meet him just a block away at 11:30 PM — Portuguese social life runs late in the evening. At the appointed time, I knock on an unmarked door, thinking it’s Fernando’s home. There’s no response but the door is open so I walk in to immediate confusion. I’m in a very upscale, small hotel. Hearing voices, I penetrate past the empty reception desk to find several people talking in the inside courtyard. As that conversation breaks up, Fernando introduces himself and two of the women with him, one as his wife and the other as his “other wife”. I’m momentarily nonplussed until I figure out that all three are goofing on me. He explains that he has been hosting a holiday party for the employees of another company and it has just ended.

This is his hotel! He gives me a tour of the elegant premises, all in white, which he designed and built over several years. At the end of the tour, he shows me a guest room and more or less insists, even though the hotel is closed for the winter, that I spend the night there even though I’m already settled into the guesthouse. Yielding out of politeness, I move my things from a dormitory bed in a simple but convivial hostel to a fancy double room in Fernando’s deserted but doubtless very expensive inn. He asks me what time I’d like breakfast and says he’ll see me then. Literally disoriented by the sudden luxury and unexpected change of environment, I sack out between clean, soft sheets.

Emerging from my room in the morning, I find Fernando heading outside to shop for groceries. On his return, he prepares an elaborate breakfast for me and me alone. We spend an hour or so talking about his family, his hotel, and other ventures. After a while he says he has commitments but encourages me to stay as long as I wish. All in all an amazing amount of generous hospitality from someone whose only knowledge of me is a referral from his sister.

The quiet and comfort of the hotel reinforce my natural laziness and I don’t hit the road until 3 PM. The highway runs south parallel to the Atlantic coast but generally not in sight of the water. In the surfing town of Carrapateira, I come across an impressive 275 foot wall mural. It’s much too long to capture in one photo.

Further south in Sagres, I stop to admire a pair of araucaria. They’re favorite yard trees along the Portuguese coast and come in a variety of uniquely recognizable shapes. They always attract my attention because they’re so out of place, having been introduced from South America, where they’re at various levels of endangerment from logging, development, and climate change.

In the same way that the quinine taste of tonic water immediately evokes my 1984 experiences in the Suriname jungle, every off appearance of araucaria sends my head instantly back to the Andes mountains.

As sunset approaches, I veer off again to Cabo São Vicente, a cape and lighthouse perched at the very southwestern corner of Europe — another “land’s end” geographic feature. One of the first things I see is a monument claiming the start of the Atlantic Coast Bicycle Trail – Kilometer 00. Although it seems appropriate that it begin here, the marker is, in fact, a lie. The terminus of the trail is actually at the other end of Portugal, far to the north. Maybe the local tourist bureau has created this believable fraud to attract attention here.

This is a popular place to watch the sun set into the Atlantic Ocean and there are quite a few local and international vehicles gathered there. The lighthouse has a very prominent Fresnel lens and I hang around until the light comes on and the sun is below the horizon, taking photos and talking to various travelers. Lighthouses in Portugal generally have their light platforms shrouded in curtains during the day which are pulled back when the light is operating. This is to prevent the lens from focusing daytime sunlight to damaging temperatures and destroying the lighting element, or worse.

While crowds are gathered there, the cape is afflicted with modern disturbances to scenic appreciation. A noisy ultralight aircraft circles above the crowd and the marker lights and buzz of tourist-operated drones are seen and heard.

As it gets dark and the moon rises, I drive back to the highway — eastward because I can’t drive any further south without plunging into the ocean. Economical lodging choices are few here along Portugal’s southern coast so I settle for a nice but uninteresting single room in a simple guesthouse in Lagos. It sits at the end of a one lane dead end street.

As I leave Monday morning, my only challenge is backing up the narrow street for about 200 feet while scraping neither the parked cars on one side nor the building walls on the other. Heading into Lagos, I cross a cable stay bridge, reliably one of my favorite types of architecture.

I’ve arranged to have lunch with a BeWelcome member further east along the coast. Her schedule isn’t allowing her to host me overnight but we do spend about 5 hours together, having lunch, walking, and talking in her house before I move on. Maria João is very interesting, a dynamic, ambitious woman whose job it is to help stores sell a line of perfumes. She also has side gigs that keep her very busy — and the longest name I’ve ever encountered — even more unusual in that she’s never been married and thus has no add-on names of that sort: Maria João Gradim Rocha Casais de Oliveira. I think we both wish we could spend more time together but continuing our lively conversation will have to wait for another opportunity.

Leaving there, I head inland, north and east, again into the oncoming night, through hill country of southern Portugal.

A final stop for cheap fuel and then across the border into southwestern Spain. My destination is the small town of Cortegana where another Servas host is awaiting my arrival. I texted her to say I’m running later than I had planned but she assures me a 9 PM arrival is no problem.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2024/02/23/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-27-23-12-06-southwestern-spain-and-the-exit-to-africa/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/12/09/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-15-23-11-17-exploring-the-central-portuguese-coast/

Yard is a bit quirky, starting with its odd name. I’m one of the only travelers among a group of working people and others looking for work. Some are long term residents. There’s a whole Brazilian family living in one room but I never find out if they’re normal paying guests or connected to the management in some way.

Although Amora is not especially appealing, Yard’s interior environment is pleasant and I end up spending 3 nights there, working away and cooking food. One conversation with a Nigerian doctor studying for his Portuguese medical license test reveals how disruptive economic and political issues affect personal lives. He had been practicing in Ukraine until its war started and now is essentially starting again from scratch in Portugal. He has been learning the language while studying for the test, which is only administered in Portuguese. Along with hard work and studying, he is counting on god to help him succeed.

He and others looking for work come to Portugal because it’s the easiest place in the EU to get a work visa. Any specific job they get is not as important as its path to potential permanent residency, followed eventually by the holy grail of EU citizenship. Everyone I talked to planned to move to a more prosperous EU country if and when they got that golden ticket passport.

An Egyptian living at the hostel is a freelance software developer working away on a contract job on his laptop every day in the shaded outdoor patio area. He declares that he’s totally focused on work, putting off marriage and family, yet he obviously has a younger local girlfriend in tow. He spends at least an hour a day conversing in Arabic with friends back home.

A third man, a Mexican, is looking for a job, any job, to qualify for a work visa. I ask him three times what sort of job he wants or is qualified for, but the answer is always “Anything”.

In sum, there is a corps of foreigners in Portugal working the system to better their lives, despite cultural dislocation and language barriers. I doubt many Americans can imagine how hopeless things must be at home to make that worth it.

Saturday morning, I take the long walk to a supermarket to stock up before the Sunday closures. On my way back, I pass a South Asian barbershop advertising $5 haircuts. Since it’s been 8 months since my last one, I can’t resist. The clientele here is mostly African. While I’m waiting my turn, it’s interesting to see customer after customer sit down and pay to have their short hair shaved bald. I don’t go that far but I get mine quite short. I should be good for another 8 months.

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On my last morning, I meet the hostel’s owner, Carlos, an ambitious young man who owns a second hostel in Lisbon’s old town. That one, about 50% more expensive (but still cheap), he says is dominated by tourism guests rather than workers. He recounts how his expenses have increased recently and I believe it. He spends some of his time supplementing his employees by folding sheets and putting away linen.

I now have an invitation in Lisbon from a BeWelcome host. Lisbon is a very old city. There’s evidence of neolithic habitation going back an incredible 8 centuries. It’s recorded history begins about 800 BC with Phoenician and Greek trading posts, followed by successive occupations by Carthaginians, Romans, Suebi, Visogoths.

Leonor, my host, lives in the Alfama neighborhood, a hillside of steep, narrow streets and stairways. When the Moors conquered Lisbon in the 8th century, Alfama was the entire city of Lisbon.

There’s very little free parking in Lisbon and in Alfama I’m not even allowed to drive to Leonor’s house to unload — resident vehicles only. The area is regulated by remote controlled bollards that block entry. I’ve found that I can park for a reasonable $8 a day at the cruise ship terminal, a modest 14 minute uphill walk to her house. Rather than have to drag my heavy bag up the stairways, Leonor tells me to drive to the entry and she will try to get them to let me in for a few minutes to unload. When I arrive she is at the bollard and has to argue with a disembodied voice before the barrier magically slides out of sight. Although he doesn’t even know who she is, the operator saves face after giving in with, “OK, but this is the last time.”

Leonor is a retired child psychologist. She still does some counseling, helps run a community garden, and takes care of her elderly mother who lives across the estuary, about 40 minutes away by water taxi. As a result, she’s away from home a lot so our interactions are somewhat limited.

Tuesday morning, she takes me on a walking tour of her area of Lisbon, including some hilltop panoramic views of the city, along with a stop for coffee and pastry,

Then she peels off to a meeting and I continue on my own, eventually ending up at the Tagus, the longest river of Spain and Portugal.

Lisbon was almost destroyed in the earthquake, fires, and tsunami of 1755 and much of the city architecture dates from then onward. “Tsunami Evacuation Route” signs speak to the awareness that it could happen again. Even in November, the riverfront promenade is heavily populated with tourists.

In the evening, Leonor makes an excellent dinner and and we get further acquainted, She is a widow whose husband was a pilot and she has lived alone for many years since he died. We talk about her Alfama neighborhood and its long history. She says these days it’s overrun by tourists and residents are moving out to be replaced with Airbnbs and the like. She too is considering relocating but would have to pay much higher rent than she is now. The neighborhood is very charming and quaint but I can see how a round the clock infestation of tourists, some of them loud and drunk, could diminish the thrill of living there.

Wednesday, Leonor is heading across the river to her mother’s, so I fuel her up with sourdough pancakes. I start my touring day by riding the entire route of the famous E28 tram. This is both an important commuter route and a major tourist attraction. At the eastern terminus, there is a long line of foreigners waiting to board. As I stand in the queue, I spend some time talking to two Lithuanians who drive around Europe setting up display booths at various expositions. When they finish up early, they can sightsee, which is what they’re doing now.

To reduce crowding on board, there are signs in the tram reminding tourists to get off at the end of the line rather than continuing to occupy a seat on the return trip.

The remodeled old tram cars clank along at frequent intervals through the hilly parts of the city. The E28 runs through many narrow winding streets including the Alfama neighborhood. Certain sections are controlled by traffic lights as the streets are only wide enough for one track, which is also the only vehicle lane. It’s a really cool system and it’s fortunate that it’s been preserved and maintained.

Beyond the tram’s western terminus lies a large park so I grab a bus up there in hopes of seeing a different panoramic view. Walking through the forested park is very pleasant but when I reach the prominent observation deck, I see it is fenced off and abandoned, apparently absorbed by the adjacent military base.

After a few hours I bus and subway back to the main part of town. Lisbon subways are a lot like New York’s, with one noticeable safety difference. The third rail (probably 600 VDC) here doesn’t have a wooden cover over it. If someone were to fall on the tracks they would drop right onto the live rail and be, literally, toast.

I navigate my way to the Museum of Lisbon. It’s late in the day so my plan is just to scope it out and come back in the morning. When I find out the admission is less than $3, I decide to get started now and return in the morning for part 2. While filled with exhibits telling the interesting story of Lisbon’s long history, the museum turns out be so compact that I can tour it fully on this trip.

With 30 minutes to go before closing, a guard points me to a second building at the rear of the grounds which turns out to be devoted to Saint Anthony. Born and raised in Lisbon, he is revered even though he left permanently at age 17. In fact, Anthony is, whew, really big here in Portugal. If the museum exhibits are to be believed it’s mainly because as a child and young man he lived a life of irreverence and debauchery before getting serious religion. The Portuguese seem to delight in that alleged transformation. He’s the patron saint of matchmaking (Saint Tinder?) and lost stuff. I guess the big things to control like drawn out war, drunken sailors, and primitive agriculture were already scooped up by more senior saints.

Going back to Leonor’s after dark offers a new perspective of Alfama’s narrow streets.

Thursday morning, Leonor is off early again, so we say our goodbyes and I pack up, drag my stuff down to the riverfront to the car. Before crossing the river back south. I drive around the city seeking out some of the street art for which Lisbon is notable.

Later, from the south side, I get a farewell view of Lisbon back across the water.

Next post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2024/01/25/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-23-23-11-27-the-southern-coast-of-portugal-and-back-to-spain/

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/30/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-12-23-11-15-what-is-this-tripe-what-is-this-tripe/

Wednesday, I say my goodbyes to Manuela and drive back south to another town north of Lisbon, not very far south of my previous stay in Marinha Grande.

I seem to have fully adapted to Spain and Portugal driving styles and traffic rules. It’s been weeks since I’ve even come close to killing a pedestrian. The three major issues here are crosswalks, traffic circles, and the white line.

Pedestrian crossings are the biggest thing. They’re everywhere, city and rural, marked by white stripes across the pavement but they come in two varieties. The uncontrolled ones always give pedestrians the right of way. If they step into the crosswalk it’s drivers’ 100% responsibility not to interfere with them. In Portugal, walkers check traffic briefly before crossing. In Spain, a significant fraction of crossers walk quickly and blindly across the street without a sideways glance. Since sight lines are often blocked by trees, vehicles, or buildings, these are the people that were most at risk in my first couple of weeks. As a driver, you have to scan ahead for crosswalks and then slow down even if they appear unoccupied. You never know when someone walking briskly, absorbed in their phone, will come darting out a side street and enter the crosswalk within a second or two of becoming visible. It seems like a Darwin test to me, yet these people seem to live into old age. In the US, we now also have pedestrian priority but sane walkers will stop at the curb and make eye contact with approaching drivers before stepping off. Portuguese pedestrians are typically a little more conscious of traffic than Spaniards. While crossing, they often give a wave of thanks for stopping.

The second kind of crosswalk — which in my opinion should definitely be painted a different color — has a conventional “Walk/Don’t Walk” signal governing when pedestrians can cross. Usually, these have a traffic light so when it’s green you can drive through with much less caution. Some of them don’t though which means you must approach slowly enough to yield until you’re so close you can see the red, pedestrian, Don’t Walk signal There’s also frequent jaywalking outside of crosswalks. I’m not sure whether, if I mow one of those people down, I get a free pass or not.

I’ve been invited by Servas host Sonia in Caldas da Rainha (Queen’s Hot Springs) but she’s warned me she’s very busy with work. On arrival, we introduce ourselves, She shows me the house layout and I meet teenage son, Gonçalo,. Sonia’s an assistant professor and within minutes she’s back on her computer working away. I’m so used to hosts being retired people, that it’s a shock to stay with someone young enough to still be working, but that’s the case here. Sonia is a single parent with a very demanding job and, except during brief meal interludes, over my stay we have little chance to get to know each other. She is either working at home or teaching and Gonçalo goes to the gym every day after school. Even so, she’s generously offered me hospitality, which I greatly appreciate.

The house is large and very comfortable, located in a suburb-like modern subdivision. In the morning, following suggestions from Sonia, I take off on a driving tour of the area. My first stop is nearby Óbidos, with a castle situated on the hill in the center of town.

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The castle is very large with an intact wall and a spacious interior courtyard. As I arrive, something strange is going on. Dozens of workers are assembling some big project. Most obvious is an ice skating rink and, adjacent, what looks like a ski jump except at the end of the ramp there’s no room to jump and land. I must be misinterpreting its purpose.

Just outside the castle gate is a replica (I assume it’s a replica) of a siege tower, a tall, heavy, timber platform on wheels as tall as the castle wall. It looks like they would load it up, outside of defensive range, with heavily armed soldiers, others would roll the platform against the exterior of the wall and mayhem would break loose. I would not like to be assigned to that duty.

Inside the castle walls, dozens of structures are being erected. Gradually, I figure out they’re building some sort of elaborate, temporary Christmas village.

The public is free to walk through the busy construction site and I choose to go up along the somewhat terrifying stone steps that access the castle wall high above the courtyard. Although they’re just wide enough to walk more or less safely, one misstep to the unprotected left would be tragic.

In an abundance of caution, especially because I’m a bit unbalanced by the heavy camera bag over my shoulder, I ascend using both hands to grip recesses in the stone wall. It makes me look like a chicken, but I hate dying on vacation. It ruins the trip.

Down on the flats, in Óbidos proper is a fully intact, 2 mile long, stone aqueduct. Roman? No. It was built in 1570 by the queen of Austria as a gift to the town, Why the queen of Austria? Because she was the wife of the king of Portugal. Marriages among the nobility were often made for purely political reasons, as well as to avoid marrying your first cousin and producing hemophiliac and deformed children. I’m sure some of these involved genuine devotion but many of them must have been hell.

Next is the Óbidos Lagoon, a large body of water connected to the ocean by a channel. It’s an unusual environment and kind of nice, but in common with much European oceanfront, much of it is overrun with summer homes and businesses catering to vacationers. Any unprotected stretch is eventually swamped by development, including high rise condo and rental blocks.

On to Baleal, in the middle ages, an island sitting on the whale migratory route. The name itself refers to its important whaing past until, that is, the sandbar formed creating an isthmus from the mainland.

Digression:
Q: Use “isthmus” in a sentence.
A: after a moment’s thought, “Isthmus be my lucky day.” Our Gang, 1933

This prevented whaling ships from anchoring. so they moved on to more navigable waters. This sort of sandy isthmus has its own geographic term, tombolo. The rocky promontory is now a densely built tourist destination but one big storm could make it an island again.

The sandbar beach is a popular surfing locale, even in November it’s populated by dilapidated motor homes, surfer vans, and wet-suited young people speaking a variety of languages.

Beyond the crowded tourist portion of the town is the ruin of a never completed French fort, built during Napoleon’s brief occupation of Portugal in 1808, and archaeological digs of shell mounds left by neolithic inhabitants. The geology here is a textbook example of tilted sedimentary layers. The original horizontal deposits have been pushed up by tectonic forces. Remember, the whole Iberian peninsula is a tectonic plate that drifted toward and then crashed into modern-day France. The layers are now tilted at about 45 degrees — very dramatic.

Baleal is at the foot of the larger Peniche peninsula, occupied by the town of the same name. Also a rocky promontory, Peniche was an island until the 12th century when an isthmus formed. It’s geology includes a unique feature, the Ponta do Trovão. Here, there is an exposed rock face of ancient seabed containing marine fossils covering the 25 million years of the Lower Jurassic, an important evolutionary transition period. Interestingly, at that time, Iberia was located adjacent to today’s Newfoundland.

All along the shoreline are interesting formations and a lot of Atlantic Ocean history, and at least one political protest.

As I’m leaving the peninsula, I see a tree I know well but is very out of place. It’s an araucaria, or monkey puzzle tree in English. These very recognizable but endangered trees are native to the lower slopes of the Andes in central Chile and Argentina where I never ceased to marvel at their unusual shapes. Here is one in central Portugal, an interesting visual reminiscence.

From Peniche, I head back to Sonia’s. She is still working away when I arrive and a few hours later she makes a satisfying dinner for the three of us.

Early Friday morning, we breakfast on sourdough pancakes, Sonia and Gonçalo head out to their respective schools, and I gradually pack up and drive a little further south toward Lisbon. I have no host lined up and I need a little time with no social obligations to work on client issues and travel “overhead”, so I’ve booked a couple of nights at a hostel called, simply, Yard in Amora, a little south of Lisbon.

In a small town called Cheleiros along the way, I pass a small sign saying “Roman bridge” and wend my way around some narrow lanes and very tight corners to reach it. Even by European historical age standards, the survival of intact Roman structures intrigues me. This little bridge, exposed to the weather for 2,000 years, is still intact and usable though overshadowed by the modern highway bridge 200 feet downstream.

Along the way, I side trip to Sintra, a well known tourist town along the Atlantic coast. Within moments of arrival, I spot an antique trolley running along the side of a winding, hilly street. After getting some lunch, I go down a modest rabbit hole, spending a couple of hours along the route taking way too many photos and videos of the 1940 car as it wends its way from the beach back to town. The beach is fogged in, but the trolley is what holds my interest.

There’s only one car, so any unexpected failure could cause it to disappear forever.

After I satisfy that urge, I drive to the touristy part of Sintra, set around a deep ravine. Unfortunately, the topography traps fog so I can’t really see more than about 200 feet.

By the time I continue to the hostel, daylight is fading and I drive through Lisbon to Amora in the dark.

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/20/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-10-23-10-12-i-become-a-servas-guinea-pig/

I had so much fun with Rita I decided to go back up north to the inland grape and fruit town of Lamego to spend some time with her Aunt Manuela Gama, who also invited me. So, this Sunday morning I’m driving 150 miles northeast. It’s not quite a backtrack, but definitely a reversal of my predominant southward direction.

Putting the address she gave me into Google Maps, I’m led, after dark, to a hilltop neighborhood of narrow, steep streets and unlit houses. On the target street I cannot find #5 and there’s no one to ask. Finally, I tuck the car into a vacant corner and text Manuela for last mile assistance. Her response is, “I’ll wait for you in front of the police station.” I can’t see anything in this quiet, dark neighborhood that could possibly be a police station.

After a while I look up “Lamego Police” and see that it’s miles away near the center of town. I realize Maps has led me astray and drive there to find Manuela waiting for me. The driveway to her family’s property is just 200 feet from the station. Once inside the gates and in her comfortable house we figure out what went wrong. She lives on an unnamed street but there is a postal designation for her house. Maps, unaware of that, added “street” to that designation, which points to the distant area where I was directed. Together, we fix Manuela’s Servas information to use the exact latitude and longitude of her entry gate so future travelers can find her.

Manuela, like Rita, is lively and talkative. She understands a lot of English but doesn’t speak it easily so we converse in Portuguese and when I (frequently) need to throw in an English word or phrase, she understands it. However, a couple of times, she launches into a topic in very good English.

She’s a retired teacher, still volunteering at a nearby school. In common with many teachers in the US, she found teaching challenging near the end of her career. Students’ family problems, electronic distractions, and administrative constraints have frustrated teachers’ goals across the Western world. She also hits the nearby physical fitness center daily to stay in shape.

The Gama family has been in Lamego for generations. Manuela and sister, Lena, both live on the same fruit tree studded property in separate houses. It’s the kind of stability most Americans don’t experience. I often describe the difference as, in the US, if you have a 25 year old child who still lives nearby, people start to ask, “What’s wrong with him?” In Europe, it’s not at all uncommon for offspring to live in the same town or region as their parents for most of their lives. Of course, the modern economy also causes many to move far away, and let’s not forget the millions of emigrants across history who went to the western hemisphere in search of a more prosperous life. My kids live 2,500 miles west of me and 3,800 miles east. Seems normal to me.

Manuela has two young medical doctors who board with her. I have a chance to speak with one, Ana. She works for the public health system and is very dedicated to it. She recently married and lives in another city. Her time off is spent driving home to her husband, then returning to work. It’s expensive (two homes and gasoline) and stressful. She said the system is very good in principle but is deteriorating due to staffing shortages and inadequate funding. The former is a problem with any society that offers free education and pays salaries uncompetitive on the world market. I believe it’s a factor in why some communist countries used to prevent their people from leaving. If the state trains, say, doctors for free and expects them to work in the country for a low salary (Cuba comes to mind), there’s a strong temptation to take those trained skills to another market where salaries are much higher. This creates a brain drain and a perpetual domestic shortage despite the free education. Portuguese public doctors earn much less than they can command elsewhere in the world so many skilled medicals emigrate or go into boutique practices that serve only those rich enough to bypass the universal public option. It’s a never ending problem, follow the money and abandon the non-affluent system even though it trained you.

Monday morning, Manuela gives me a brief walking tour on her way to the school and I spend the rest of the day exploring the town. Lamego isn’t a tourist destination but it has typical European attributes: museum, ornate church, castle on a hilltop, and lots of old stuff. The origins go back to pre-Roman times, perhaps the 5th century BC.

[NOTE: To enlarge any image, right click it and choose “Open image in New Tab” or similar.

In the afternoon, we walk to the supermarket to replenish my supply of flour for making sourdough and Manuela makes a tasty dinner. I’m planning to leave tomorrow but Manuela proposes I stay a third night and we take a hike. This takes me by surprise. Many people tolerate me and seem to enjoy my company but it’s not often they actually urge me not to leave [grin]. After all, I’m the guy who was once told at someone’s house, “I’m having a good time, John, but I’m going to bed. Shut the lights off when you leave.” Manuela is such a great audience, though. Many of the jokes that friends at home just complain about having heard before are new to her. She is particularly enamored of “cheerful pessimist” and my adoption of the Grateful Dead lyric, “Too much of everything is just enough”. I’m guessing her amusement stems mostly from the contrast between my New York-isms and the quiet life she chooses to lead in Lamego.

Tuesday morning, we fill up on sourdough pancakes and head out for an 8 mile walk to the neighboring town of Régua on the Douro River. We set out along various small lanes in tiny communities.

At one point we encounter two older women dressed in black. I’m suddenly inspired to ask if I can take their picture (I usually feel too awkward for that) and they demur. Manuela walks back a few feet and intercedes for me, explaining that I’m a tourist just taking personal photos, after which they consent to pose for me.

We continue through hillside scenery and suddenly turn onto private property, descending through a steep vineyard toward a reservoir.

When we run into owners working the land, Manuela has no problem making small talk and ensuring that we can proceed. We pass a hydroelectric dam, but rain has been sparse and it’s not releasing any water.

Then a steep climb up to a lookout terrace far above the canyon floor and another drop through private property.

The final stretch crosses a curved bridge spanning the valley, built for a railroad line that never came to fruition, after which we slowly approach the town. It’s late in November and we haven’t seen any other walkers along the route.

Régua is a river port, famous for shipping wine grapes downstream to Porto. Today, it’s a tourist town offering day cruises. Manuela has chosen a nice restaurant overlooking the river for lunch and at least one of the employees is family, the father of Angelo whom I got to know a week ago in Maia.

She asks what the lunch special is and when the answer is “tripe” (cow intestine), she tells the waiter, “That’s not appropriate for Americans”, but I’m in an adventurous mood and say “Bring it on”. We’re soon served a big pot of tripe, beans, and some chunks of a more normal meat.

The tripe tastes quite good, if a little gelatinous, except for a few pieces that are too gristly to get my teeth into. The beans and meat make for nice variety and together we finish off the large potful with two big helpings each. As we’re leaving, she says, “So you’ve eaten tripe before” and marvels at my “daring” when I tell her it’s my first time.

Manuela’s sister has driven over to pick us up and we’re quickly back home in Lamego. Manuela asks me what I eat at home and when I mention spanakopita, with which she’s unfamiliar, I suggest we prepare it tonight. I make a quick walk to the supermarket for ingredients and we eat late after she finishes an online local Servas meeting that goes on far longer than she feels necessary. She likes the spinach cheese pie, even though what I thought was flaky phyllo (whose Portuguese name translates “leaf dough”), when unwrapped, turns out to be closer to a pie crust.

It’s late, so we hit the sack and in the morning I reluctantly pack up and retrace my route to resume my southward journey. I’m heading for a host north of Lisbon, not too far from where I stayed several days ago. The detour was well worth it, though.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/12/09/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-15-23-11-17-exploring-the-central-portuguese-coast/