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.

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

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.

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

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/

Prior post: http://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/19/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-06-23-11-10-my-first-portuguese-family-and-another-phone-disaster/

In the course of reading host profiles, I’ve become aware what a popular place Portugal is for expatriates, especially US retirees. The perceived proportion is much higher than I’ve seen in other countries.

When I asked Servas member Jai Parekh if he’d like to host me, he came back with a counter-proposal. He has friends who are possibly interested in being Servas hosts but would like to try it out before joining. As he put it, “You would be their first hosting experience and their decision to join Servas hinges totally on how engaging you are, how easy it is to get along with you, your eagerness to help with house chores, get along with their bratty pet bitch, etc. etc.  But hey, no pressure.” He then added, ” Then again, the husband is from Hannibal, MO so he shouldn’t be difficult to please.” I knew right away I would like Jai. By the way, to be clear, “bitch” referred to their dog.

When I responded, half jokingly, that there might be some possible misalignment in sending a Brooklyn-raised wise ass to stay with a “Missoura” native, his immediate answer was, “Don’t worry John, you will not have any issues with this Mississippi River local Hick [strike that, I mean “worldly citizen”].  He is well traveled, open minded (except when it comes to Portuguese food) and during his younger years, couldn’t wait to get the ***k outa good ol’ Hannibal, MO.”

This is not going to be your typical Servas visit. I got in touch with Paula and Mark and arranged the details. Rolling in about 5 PM, they show me their spacious home, introduce me to their adult son, and let me get settled in.

Paula is native Portuguese but having married an American, and lived in the US and England for years, her English is outstanding — and she’s not afraid to use it. Mark was career army, stationed in Germany and decided many years ago that he preferred living in Europe. Not long after I arrive, Jai, the instigator of this visit, and his wife Lynne arrive as well. Jai was born in India but has lived in the US for many years. Lynne was born in Brooklyn and has carried the brassy personality with her during her long residence in Europe. She and I have a lot of background in common.

The five of us sit around the table and the conversation is loud and continuous, with all of us frequently talking at the same time. It ranges among the Portuguese, expatriate life, American politics, Mark’s army stories, and Lynne’s Brooklyn background, and more. One topic is the ridiculous expensive egg creams in the millennial era. When I was in grade school, they cost 6 cents.

Jai is frequently outrageous, never more so declaring (I think sincerely) his political view that “if you put a gun to my head and made me choose between the clown and sleepy senile Joe, I would vote for the clown – only for his entertainment value.” This is the basis on which he would vote for Trump. Fortunately, although he’s a US citizen, he hasn’t voted in decades. He and I certainly agree on our view of the future — what I call cheerful pessimism and what he refers to as being a “doomer”.

The conversation is lubricated by wine, port, beer, and roasted chestnuts. It’s my first closeup view of expatriate thinking. Many Americans find living in Portugal, and other European countries, much more tranquil than in the US (even before our current political insanity). There seems to be an affinity for a less frenetic society. Of course, in many of their chosen countries, the US dollar buys a lot more, too. I have much more to learn about this topic.

I tried to capture the enjoyable intensity of the evening in one clip but it was just impossible. Thus, at the risk of overdoing it, I present several below. To get the most realistic effect, it’s best to turn the volume up full blast

Saturday afternoon, the five of us pile into the Berlingo and I’m taken sightseeing in the Marinha Grande area. First stop is the Atlantic coast which we reach by driving through many square miles of burn scars from the spate of deadly 2017 wildfires. It’s always nice to see the ocean and its ceaseless activity, especially since I live inland.

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

Next, Batalha, where there’s a well known monastery which to my untrained eye looks a lot like a cathedral. Apparently, the monks have abandoned ship. That vow of poverty, celibacy, and silence is a tough sell, although I did meet one genuinely devout monk in Bilbao, Spain.

By the way, “ship” is not necessarily an inapt reference. We learned in Scotland that the vaulted roofs of cathedrals and churches often used marine engineering to provide the long unsupported spans between the walls, i.e. they were essentially inverted ship hulls.

After a coffee stop, it’s on to Alcobaça for another scenic walk. Our final destination is another part of the coast, Nazaré to watch the sunset from the bluffs above the beach, along with many other lookers. We finish up by returning home for dinner. A nice guided tour.

Sunday morning, I cook a big batch of pancakes which are quickly devoured. I’ve decided to head back north (Portugal is a small nation) and accept the invitation from Rita’s aunt in inland Lamego, so Sunday morning I say my goodbyes and drive northeast on slow hilly roads. Only time will tell whether my stay persuaded Paula and Mark to become Servas hosts or permanently dissuaded them. I’ll watch the membership lists to see if they appear.

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

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/17/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-03-23-11-05-i-add-spains-lands-end-to-my-collection-of-alaskas-and-south-americas-versions/

Leaving the hostel in Caldas de Reis, I decide to visit one of Portugal’s national parks, Peneda-Gerês. It’s only 125 miles away but by sticking to the back roads it takes me a good part of the day. As I cross the border into Portugal for the first time ever, I simultaneously enter the park. It’s lush and green and, especially due to the recent rains, filled with fast flowing streams and gushing waterfalls.

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I check out a campground off to the side. It;s very nice but closed for the winter. In any case, I’ve reserved a night at the Pousada de Juventud, the Youth Hostel, in the park.

I take a “shortcut” there over a narrow road that goes over a modest pass to the next valley. Along the way, I’m delayed by a herd of goats ambling along the roadway. It takes a little close proximity of the car to finally convince the lead goat to move to the side for me.

The hostel is not what I expected. Back in the 70s and 80s, “youth hostel” generally meant a firetrap building with one or two giant dorm rooms filled with bunk beds, stained mattresses, and a powerful stench of unbathed travelers. Many of them locked you out at 10 AM and didn’t reopen until 5 PM. Well, times have changed. The Pousada is clean and modern with a full time, friendly staff.

As I arrive, the desk clerk offers me a choice of conversing in Portuguese or English. Normally, I would struggle along in Portuguese but since I’ve only been in Portugal a few hours and haven’t spoken what little I know in 4 years, every other word I try to say comes out in Spanish. Giving up, I’m grateful for the English at the moment. She informs me that since I’m the only guest requesting a dorm bed, they’re upgrading me to a standard double room. This is a nice surprise. I have room to spread out and a bathroom to myself.

There’s also an inviting lounge downstairs in which a fire burns through the evening. With breakfast included, I’m getting an awful lot for my measly $13.

After getting settled in, I decide to take advantage of the remaining daylight by taking a walk up the rocky, trailless hill behind the hostel. The clerk points me to the start of a primitive road that will get me to where I can bushwhack upward. It’s raining steadily and she warns me the rocks will be slippery, but who am I to heed cautious advice kindly given to some old guy?

The walk isn’t too difficult after I leave the road, alternating between large patches of bare rock and areas with 2 foot ground cover that would be difficult to navigate uphill if not for various animal trails which make it slightly easier.

I reach the summit and soak up the broad, rainy views and then decide to start back down as it’s late in the afternoon and the November days are quickly getting shorter. On my way down, I notice a primitive track going off to my left. Thinking it might lead more easily back to the pousada, I start following it. It doesn’t take too long to realize it’s continuing to go off at right angles to the way I ascended. I think it might eventually become or connect to my original road but I’m concerned about the hour.

I get out my phone and check sunset time. It will be dark in about an hour so I decide to play it safe and turn back to where I can more or less reverse my prior bushwhack route. I stick the phone back inside my layers of anti-hypothermia wear and hoof it back with some daylight to spare. As I squishily approach the hostel, I pull out my phone to check something — and it’s not there! A thorough search of my dozen or so pockets confirms it. This is bad, very bad. Replacing the phone and getting a new T-Mobile SIM card will be a giant, expensive task. At least all my data is backed up with Google, but that’s small consolation with the hardware gone.

I go back to my room and get on the laptop. Using a “Find my Phone” feature, Google and Samsung both pinpoint the exact latitude and longitude of the phone. It’s only about 400 meters away as the crow flies, but there are 3 problems. That 400 meters is actually much longer when walking the terrain, it’s now almost completely dark, and without another GPS-enabled phone I can’t navigate my way back to the phone anyway. I do manage to send a signal to the phone to go into extreme battery saving mode. If I do ever manage to get close to it, I may need it to scream at me, which it can’t do if the battery is dead. Although it’s sitting out exposed in the rain, clearly, there’s nothing more I can do tonight. I go to bed (without supper by the way because this hotel-like hostel has no guest cooking facilities) and defer further pondering until early morning.

At 6 AM, I’m up making a plan. I have to search for the phone with a GPS-enabled device. I’m going to accost people in the morning, explain the issue, and persuade someone to rent or lend me their phone for a couple of hours — or accompany me up the soggy mountain if they don’t want to hand over their device. These ideas seem forlorn because I think I’m one of the few guests at the hostel. The hallways are eerily silent. That leaves the staff, who have probably never gotten such a crazy request. And for sure, I’m not equipped to make it in Portuguese. I type and retype wording to Google Translate hoping I can concisely present the issue displayed on the laptop screen.

Finally, at 7 AM I head down to the front desk to test plead my case with the reception person. Maria speaks English, so that simplifies communication. I’ve barely explained the problem and my desperate need for a phone when she reaches hers out to me and says, “Take it.” I can barely believe it. I thank her profusely, add my Google account to her phone (only my Google and Samsung accounts can use the phone location features), leave the laptop behind and head out into the rain. Although I can’t walk to it directly, the GPS location lets me gradually zero in on it. I had feared it might be sitting invisible in dense ground cover. but eventually I find it lying in plain sight on the track near where I had looked up the sunset time. Apparently, when I reached inside my jacket to return it to my inside pocket, I missed and it was lightly held by my layers of clothes. It must have taken only a minute for it to work its way down and hit the ground.

The phone is working fine and I’m really glad that over 4½ years ago, I opted for a waterproof model. I did that because I had a bad record of going swimming with electronics still in my pockets. I broke that habit but finally the waterproofing has paid off.

I go back to the hostel, find Maria is not at the desk, so I leave her phone there for her. There’s still time to head over to the adjacent building for breakfast, which I do. As I enter, I see Maria and prostrate myself with thanks. There’s a big buffet laid out even though I can now confirm that I am one of only 3 guests in residence last night. The breakfast lady treats us royally in the virtually empty dining hall.

The other couple and I sit together and I find out they’re Portuguese particle physicists taking a brief vacation. Their English is quite good, so we can nerd out pretty well about science. After breakfast, I pack up and regretfully leave the hostel. I’m committed to arriving at a host tonight but would otherwise spend a couple of more days here exploring the park.

I drive out by another circuitous route, passing some very impressive scenery, partially cloud obscured this afternoon.

One side road I take through the high town of Germil is just 5 miles long, but extremely narrow, and all cobblestones. It takes me literally 30 minutes to navigate it through beautiful woods and expansive views.

The last half mile or so is through the incredibly narrow streets of a tiny village, carefully negotiating 90 degree turns with houses pressing against my side mirrors. Super cool.

Once out of the mountains, I’m on my way to Servas hosts in Maia, a suburb of Porto, home of port wine.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/19/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-06-23-11-10-my-first-portuguese-family-and-another-phone-disaster/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/

I head south from Gijón, arriving at the Valporquero cave a bit early. The access to it is the, by now obligatory, steep, serpentine road. The parking lot is deserted so I snooze out a bit. When I awake, a few more cars have appeared. I go into the park building and join a group of 9 other tourists. We sit around a table with hardhats and headlamps in front of each of us. The guide asks if I speak Spanish. I respond “more or less” and state that I’ll manage. The narration is not going to be in English. After a short orientation, we don our helmets and walk down an access path to the gaping maw of the cave entrance.

Valporquero is a large cave, well explored and developed with stairs, railings, and lighting (which is off by default to preserve the lightless environment). The upper, older level is relatively dry while the newer lower level has, in the wet season, a rushing river and other groundwater penetrations. I’ve come at the right time of year. Our guide, Juan Carlos, is very patient and thorough and the substantial portions of the lecture he gives at each stop that I miss aren’t too serious as I already know quite a lot about caves and limestone geology. My many childhood hours dogging the footsteps of countless US National Park Service naturalists educated me well.

We work our way through both levels, doing a lot of climbing and descending, using our headlamps except during stops in elaborately carved rooms where the lights are turned on for a few minutes. There are incredible stalactite, stalagmite, flowstone, and every other limestone formation you can imagine. At various times, we’re walking along a rushing river, past waterfalls spouting out of holes in the ceiling, and down narrow tunnels connecting large chambers. In one small pool, Juan Carlos points out tiny, swimming, white crustaceans, which I later determine are Parabathynellids, no more than an eighth inch long.

I could verbally describe dozens of cave features but despite my enthusiasm you would just quit reading. You just have to be there. The photos below show some of them, if in a very amateur quality. The very satisfying tour runs 3 hours and it’s only as we pass a larger group walking without safety gear that I realize I’ve luckily stumbled into the in depth version rather than the standard tourist access.

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Finally, Juan Carlos dismisses the group to exit the cave on their own and accompanies me back to the crustacean pool so I can try to get some photos. This dedicated attempt doesn’t do particularly well. Even with a macro lens, getting good images of tiny, wriggling, underwater creatures bu headlamp light is almost impossible. It’s very generous of him to give me the opportunity.

As the two of us emerge from the cave, we’re greeted by the unexpected — it’s snowing!

Back in the car, I decide to spend the night in nearby León. The Berlingo is due for an oil change and I want to cook tonight. I also want to calibrate the fuel gauge, which I try to do with each car I own. This involves carrying a can of spare fuel, purposely running the tank dry to measure how far I can go after the “Low Fuel” light comes on, and then refilling the tank to reach the next gas station. A few weeks ago, Jordi gave me an unneeded fuel can that I’ve been carrying around ever since. Before I run the tank dry, I want to be sure I can actually get fuel from my can into it. The can’s spout is missing, so at a Home Depot-like store I buy a cheap funnel with a long, flexible neck. I’m going to rehearse the fuel transfer ahead of time to avoid potential roadside embarrassment.

It’s a good thing I do because when I insert the funnel neck into the fill spout, it’s blocked. The little door that opens automatically when I insert the standard diesel nozzle at a gas station won’t move. A little online research reveals this is a safety measure to prevent accidentally putting gasoline into a diesel vehicle, but I can’t find a clear explanation of how to release the door when I’m away from a diesel pump.

Deferring that problem, I get some dinner supplies at a Lidl and then check into the likely looking Albergue de Santo Tomás de Canterbury. It’s my typical choice: clean, decently equipped, and cheap. It’s on the ground floor of a modern building with ample street parking outside. It turns out to be quite suitable but without social interaction. The dormitory room is shared with only one other guest, a seedy looking. middle aged Italian who spends, literally, hours on the phone with his mother back home arguing and cajoling at full volume. I wish I had recorded a bit of it.

I cook a good dinner but am shocked to find the kitchen doesn’t include a guest refrigerator. I’ve never come across a hostel without one. In the space where it should be is a giant, junk food vending machine. I’m forced to store my perishables inn the car even though it isn’t particularly cool this evening. I put great stock in a well equipped functional kitchen in a hostel but I seem to be in the minority. Most guests seem perfectly happy getting take out food, even (yecch) Dominos Pizza, which is apparently a global, rather than just US, disaster. Only occasionally do I encounter someone else cooking a meal.

I’m loaded and out early in the morning, heading to an internet-rated shop for an oil change. When the owner arrives, I make my request but, although sympathetic, he says he’s booked solid for days. While I have his attention, I ask about my fuel fill puzzler. He takes a look but doesn’t have an answer and is too busy to pursue it further. I ask him for a referral and drive to that nearby shop. The manager there first says come back at 2 PM. When I say that’s impossible, he says leave the car and it will be ready by noon.

I ask him, too, about the fuel fill. He insists that I just push the door aside with a screwdriver, but I already know that’s incorrect. I puzzle over the issue further and realize that since the door opens when the standard diesel nozzle is inserted, the release mechanism must be in the circumference of the tube. Fooling around with a pair of chopstick, I discover that pressing outward simultaneously at two specific points opens the door. Problem solved.

To while away the hours until noon, I improvise a walking tour of León. Of course, it has to start outside the cathedral – will the Catholic Church never give up? Despite its impressive architecture, the only unusual thing about it is an array of about ten police cars and officers arrayed in front. An obvious public relations flack (you can recognize them in every “advanced” culture) is yelling instructions to the officers while a photographers snaps pictures. I find it interesting that the chosen backdrop is the cathedral. Separation of church and state?

Continuing my walk, I pass the Museum of Emigrants, the second curious honoring of the many who couldn’t make it in Spain and left to create a better life elsewhere. It looks interesting enough to buy a ticket but it doesn’t open for two hours, so I pass it up.

At noon, I’m back to retrieve the car. A full synthetic oil change is fairly pricey here, about $120, but the intervals are long so it’s no burden. I head out of town toward the western coast, which faces the full Atlantic Ocean rather than the more protected Bay of Biscay to the north. Along the way, I run out of gas, as expected, and now know I can go about 115 miles after the “Low Fuel” light comes on. This knowledge is unimportant in Europe but could be essential in Morocco. Refueling is no problem even though the car, of course, decides to stop right at a construction zone lane drop so semi-trucks are whizzing by within a foot or two of me as I try to make myself paper thin while holding my gas can in the funnel. Had I not made a dry run earlier, I would have been stranded.

Later in the afternoon, I reach the coast and check in to another albergue. My drive is over after a productive day.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/17/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-03-23-11-05-i-add-spains-lands-end-to-my-collection-of-alaskas-and-south-americas-versions/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/13/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-29-23-10-31-surf-city-here-i-come-but-not-surf-city-usa/

Inés is a semi-retired teacher, living in a nice view apartment above the Gijón small boat harbor with a nephew as a part time boarder.

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She speaks no English, so I have to function totally in Spanish with her. By now, that’s not too difficult although much of the last few weeks I haven’t been speaking it. Damn Europeans. So many of them speak very fluent English. Luckily, I can street park the car but I have to pay $5 to the beginning of the holiday free period at 6 PM. I think that’s the first parking fee I’ve paid this trip.

Gijón is a bear for me to pronounce. In Spanish, the G and the J both have an H sound, but the G involves more phlegm and spittle, as in the German “ich”. I really have to work at it to make the two variant sounds in quick succession.

After she feeds me a simple but tasty lunch, I accompany Inés on an errand. She has to pick up some boxes of heavy ceramic tile from a warehouse. She takes along a rolling suitcase in lieu of a wheelbarrow. At the tile place, we load the material carefully into the suitcase and take a roundabout way home to avoid any stairways. The suitcase is ok to roll cautiously but impossibly heavy to lift. Even preventing a runaway while descending a ramp is a challenge. After that she takes me on a long, walking tour of the town.

Along the water near her house is what looks like a giant glass Christmas tree composed of green bottles. Inés explains that it’s a monument to “sidra”. Asturias is famous for producing prodigious amounts of hard apple cider. There’s a big festival for it in August. The shtick here is that the cider is poured into glasses at great height without spilling it, bottle and glass held as far apart as possible.

American Halloween has permeated Europe so there are many decorated balconies as well as costumed children seeking sweets from the stores. It’s impossible to go from home to home knocking on doors in Europe because apartment buildings have access security and detached houses have walled yards.

Part of our walk involves checking on the renovation progress of an apartment owned by a relative. Apparently, the tile we got is eventually destined for here. Inés seems very knowledgeable about renovation and engages the worker at length. I understand virtually nothing of their technical conversation.

Wednesday morning, I’m planning on sourdough pancakes. Inés has invited two friends to join us for breakfast, an Irish expatriate and his Spanish wife. We sit down at 9 AM but the two visitors have eaten breakfast earlier and Inés takes about one eighth of a pancake and then eats her normal cold cut and bread meal. I end up having to pull most of the load, a task for which I’m well suited but cooking for people is much more rewarding when they’re big eaters. In 2016, in Labrador we made tacos for a family we were staying with. They were the best because every time I said, “More?” the unanimous answer was an enthusiastic “Yes!” We did the same when they fed us an elaborate Saturday dinner that included bear meat.

After breakfast, we’re all going to take a walk but apparently I haven’t been paying attention. The four of us leave the apartment, me in sneakers without socks, no phone, no water, and no sun protection. By the time I come to my senses we’re on a 10 mile walk along the entire Gijón shoreline and back. Fortunately the sun isn’t fierce and there’s a coffee shop at the farthest point, but that distance without socks is likely to be hard on my feet.

As we stroll along the shore, we pass a number of statues and memorials. The most interesting is dedicated to the mothers who remained behind as many Asturian emigrants left to make a better life in Mexico, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. It’s a rather poignant representation.

Our outbound destination is the Mirador de la Providencia, a tower looking out to sea, built in the shape of a ship’s prow.

Nearby, we sit at a cafe for coffee and a pastry and then start the 5 mile return walk. By the time we get home, I’ve trodden carefully all day and just have one moderately abraded toe and no photographs.

The rest of the day is quiet as Inés takes a post-exercise nap and later makes another delicious, simple dinner. As is often the case, I’ve changed my plans at the last minute. I had planned on continuing west toward the northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula but Atlas Obscura highlighted a cavern to the south and since I’m a sucker for caves, I bought a $20 online ticket for 9:20 AM. The tour is limited to 10 people and only offered three times a week, so I’m lucky to have snagged a spot at the last minute. I’m up early Thursday, drag my bag to the car, and drive off in the dark at 6:30 AM.

As I pass the seawall, waves are furiously crashing into it with spray splashing onto the promenade. Just yesterday, at low tide, there was a broad, sandy beach with many people. I’m surprised at the change.

Leaving Gijón, I make the 90 minute drive to the south to my cave appointment.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/16/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-02-23-11-03-i-go-underground/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/10/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-27-23-10-29-picos-de-europa-national-park/

I have an invitation from a Servas host in the coastal town of Gijón beginning today, Sunday, but when I contacted her last night to confirm, she said she wouldn’t be home until Tuesday, so it’s a good time for a writing and working day. Using my well honed booking.com lodging picking techniques, I’ve located a likely place in Gijón – very cheap, highly rated, breakfasts included – so I’ve reserved two nights there.

Periodically, I scan through Atlas Obscura, a list of usually quirky places all over the world. I often find destinations worth a visit there and I’ve got two possibilities lined up for today. Because they’re not on my direct route to the hostel, I’m forced to retrace about 45 miles of yesterday’s northward drive to reach La Cuevona. This is a road through a natural cavern that is the only vehicle access to the town named, appropriately, Cuevas (Caves).

Along the way, in Cangas de Onis, I take a break to admire a surviving Roman arched bridge.

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Leaving the highway, I wind and twist up and down a narrow road. Shortly after it ducks under the east-west coastal expressway I see what looks at first glance like a typical tunnel entrance. In this case, though, it’s a natural tunnel. The road winds over 800 feet through a large cavern carved over thousands of years by the adjacent stream. I’ve never seen anything like this. Definitely cool.

After gawking and walking a while, I turn west to my next destination, The Jurassic Museum of Asturia. Scenically situated on a 500 foot hill with an expansive view of the Bay of Biscay coast, its outdoor area is full of life size dinosaur statues. I’ve arrived late in the day so I decide it’s not worth paying admission to the museum building, especially since I already know quite a bit about dinosaurs.

Continuing west, I wind through residential streets to the Gijón Surf Hostel (GSH). As I hoped, it turns out to be a great place. It’s a large building, obviously purpose built to serve as a hostel. The staff is Workaway volunteers from a variety of countries, so the lingua franca is English rather than Spanish, which suits the mostly young, international guests. The place has many of the best hostel features – good internet, two well equipped guest kitchens, a front patio with picnic tables, a lawn with hammocks, a comfortable common area with couches, and a giant table with desk chairs, perfect for working. There’s also a big, free parking lot around the corner where many RVs are parked (the owners would say they’re camped).

I check in, pay my measly $32 for two nights, stake out a bunk bed, refrigerate my perishables, and get online. GSH caters to surfers (water, not web) as well as other travelers. A whiteboard lays out the schedule for surfing lessons and gear rental charges. The basement garage has been converted to a surf shop. The beach is a few blocks away and there’s a constant trickle of guests and staff coming and going there. As evening approaches, being too lazy to go shopping and knowing that breakfast is coming in the morning, I cook an inadequate dinner of two small pancakes from a bit of leftover batter I’m carrying,. My conversations are limited to a few hellos and brief introductions. At 12:30 AM, the staff locks up the common lounge for the night, so I close up the laptop and head downstairs to bed.

Breakfast is at 8:30 AM and I’m very hungry, so I’m at the kitchen door a few minutes before, milling with other eager guests and staff. It’s a good breakfast, self service, all you can eat, but no hot dishes. It’s way better than I have a right to expect for the piddling overnight price. I load up and eat at one of the picnic tables in the mild morning sun. This is where the conversations start. Gijón is on the Camino de Santiago, originally a pilgrimage route for Catholics. Rather than my conception of a single trail, it’s actually a network of them, radiating inward (if that’s possible) from assorted origins in France, Spain, and Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, a locale that has some important religious significance. Some of the routes are easy, some mountainous, all have food and lodging options along the way, so there’s something for everyone.

In modern times, many of the walkers are still devout Catholics, but there are people out for the hiking experience, couples sharing some joint adventure, and many people who are walking solo while they sort out the next step in their lives.

Gijón is along the so-called Camino del Norte, one of the easier routes that stays along the coast and avoids most of the heavy climbing. Interestingly, the shortest and easiest option is named the Camino Inglés. I guess it’s targeted at candy-ass American and British walkers. My driving routes have intersected the Camino many times since I left Girona. The route is well-marked and there are walkers everywhere along it.

One flaw is that in many stretches, the Camino is on roads, although often separated from the traffic lanes by several feet. I suppose if you’re walking to find god, penitently flaying your back with willow branches (this is just my imagination), the route environment is irrelevant. As a hiking experience, though, road walking leaves a lot to be desired.

I have two long conversations with walkers. Lena, a young German woman in her late thirties had been a dancer for 20 years and found the professional opportunities becoming intermittent and the toll on her body significant. She dumped a long-standing but unsatisfactory boyfriend and is walking solo to contemplate her future. She’s learning guitar, and writes poetry in a couple of languages. She came off the trail with a miserable blister and has catered to it for two days. Even more or less healed, it’s the ugliest walking wound I’ve ever seen, but she can’t afford to tarry longer. During her stay, she spends hours in the lounge strumming and singing. She’s not at all a typical German.

Roger, a German-Swiss, is a devout believer in the validity of the stories in the bible. His religious intensity doesn’t prevent him from being social and friendly with atheists such as myself and we speak at length of our different approaches to the scientific evidence of earth’s longevity and the indications or lack thereof of godly existence. He and his wife are walking separate Camino routes to enhance the religious import and rendezvous every several days before resuming their solo journeys.

By contrast, the non-walkers are out for fun. One trio of Workaway women had planned to take surfing lessons today but blow them off in favor of a shopping expedition in town. Hannah, a young, long term traveler originally from British Columbia, spends at least an hour talking to another volunteer about her various options for getting her first tattoo, or two or three. This is a bit disconcerting to me as a parent as she has the physical appearance of a high school freshman although actually she has finished university. It took me years and long periods in Argentina where virtually every female has prominent tattoos to at least partially change my view of ink from bodily mutilation to a true expression of art. Another vivacious volunteer from rural Germany is making plans to move to Berlin, hit the techno clubs, and put more excitement in her life. The surfers talk about little but surf conditions. I mainly see them peeling in and out of wet suits.

In the afternoon, I get into a conversation with 3 guests, Tom (German carpenter), Hannah (German wanderer), and André (Belgian wanderer). They’re volunteering at the second home (finca) of the hostel’s owner, so as a fringe benefit they can stay here free on the weekends. They’re due back at the finca this afternoon but it’s a long bus ride and then a long walk to the rural site. Since I’m on vacation, I offer to drive them home and they gratefully accept.

About 3 PM, we take off heading back eastward, the direction I came from. During the ride, I tell them about La Cuevona. They weren’t aware of it and it turns out to be quite close to where they’re staying so they resolve to bike over there at some point. Tourist advice, just another service I provide.

It’s about an hour’s ride to the finca so, as a token of appreciation, they offer to show me the local sights before I drop them off. We ride small roads to a very attractive little waterfall and swimming hole and then proceed to an impressive rocky outcropping with panoramic views and constant, fierce wind.

By the time we get to their home, there isn’t much light left, so after a brief tour of phase I of the premises in their current state, I leave for Gijón.

To avoid backtracking, I pick a more circuitous route on Maps. I figure there’s just enough light left to drive it and get back to the expressway by full darkness.

You won’t be surprised to hear it doesn’t work out as planned. The route I’ve picked is a steep lane which then turns into a dirt logging road. I plug onward but finally there are so many branches across the narrow way that I’m starting to lose traction. Finally, I can’t proceed upward any further. I could back down a little and get a running start over that spot, but I have no idea whether I’ll encounter some more obstinate barrier further up the hill. This road clearly hasn’t been used in a long while. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decide to abandon the project. This is easier decided than accomplished.

The road is literally only a few inches wider than my wheel track, with a steep uphill embankment and a precipitous downhill drop with uncertain, crumbly edges. There is absolutely zero chance of a U-turn. My only choice is to reverse down the road until I find a spot wide enough for a 10-leg K turn, and I know that spot is a long way below. So now I’m backing down an impossibly narrow road, in the gathering dark, with extraordinary care because a 6 inch mistake could put one of my wheels over open air, or maybe the entire vehicle far below in the valley. I’m managing this, keeping the wheels in the appropriate spots. The road is generally straight but undulates gently so I can’t just back straight down. Every few meters I have to adjust the direction slightly. This is painstaking work with almost no tolerance for error. Many times I see I’m on the wrong track and have to pull uphill a bit to correct the car’s alignment. My backward progress is more suitable for measurement in furlongs per fortnight than miles per hour.

It’s now very close to totally dark so I have only my backup lights, and perhaps ESP, to keep the car on the road. At one point I’m ready just to put the brakes on and sleep until daylight, but that would mean missing my prepaid breakfast [joke!] so I plug on. I remember, i.e. I think I remember, seeing a wide spot not too much further down. It takes me about 90 minutes to back down about 1300 feet – an average speed of under 15 feet per minute – infants crawl faster — with total concentration the entire time. It’s with considerable relief I reach the wide spot, “wide” only by comparison, and take about 5 minutes to safely manage the U-turn. Once pointed downhill the remainder is a piece of cake. I mean I now have headlights to show me the eroded dropoff side of the road.

Of course, there are no photos of my predicament because when these things are in progress, I’m not thinking about recording them until the problem is solved. Too late, then.

I stop at a supermarket for groceries, get back to the hostel quite late, make myself a good dinner in the deserted kitchen, and get some well earned sleep.

Tuesday morning, Halloween, I pack up my stuff, gorge on breakfast, say goodbye to a few new acquaintances, and head across town to meet my host, Inés, at about noon.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/