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.