Ponta de Sagres
I tossed a stone off the end of the world, and I never saw it hit bottom. At the farthest southwestern point of Europe, Ponta de Sagres, the spot at which the world stopped for civilized man before the Portuguese defined the continents beyond, we walked on the rocky cliffs, watching birds dive in and on the wind currents and fishermen defy the gales and gravity as they dropped their lines a few hundred feet into the waves crashing below. We stared out at the endless water under crystal blue skies as the constant roar of the westerly wind made speech and standing up straight all but impossible. This is the Portugal I imagined.
We have found our perfect idyllic beach spot. Tomorrow we will depart Lagos and head west along the coast to the tiny town of Salema, where we've secured a room from an ancient couple for Sunday and Monday nights, our last in this corner of the world before we head for Sevilla, Spain. It's time to sit on the beach, stare at the sea, and allow our bodies and minds to drift into glorious neutral. There are no highrises there, which seem surprisingly prevalent elsewhere along this coast, and we so look forward to their absence.
After visiting the lighthouse at Cape St. Vincente and the fortezza at Ponta de Sagres, a lonely and desolate (though strikingly beautiful) outpost if ever I saw one, we drove down the beach to a cafe on the sand for a light snack of sardines and boiled potatoes. These lovely little fish, much larger than their tinned counterparts, are delicious, fried whole to a crispy perfection, the flesh stripping from the comb of bones with little effort, the potatoes boiled in stock a staple that we have both come to love and depend on. Cafe leite loaded with sugar ensured our wakefulness for the ride back along along the coast to our room in Lagos. At the cafe we talked politics and beaches with a couple of surfer guys from London, of all places, a nice pair of fellows on a months-long wave quest, living the life indeed.
Tonight we will return to a fantastic restaurant we found last night, a multicourse feast of fish or fowl for just under 10 euros, very cheap for this part of the country. Last night I had a tuna steak the size of a small platter, Cathy the mixed meat grill, and tonight we will brave the prawns in a clay pot, served aflame (yes, I know, SO touristy!). They even hand over a tiny clay jug of port at the end of the meal, gratis. Little wonder we love the joint.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
Lagos
We've arrived at the southern coast of Portugal. Leaving Lisbon on Wednesday was a bit strange, as we'd become attached to the town and had finally figured out our neighborhood and the transport system and the surrounding area--just when you get comfortable, it's time to move on. But we had a great time there, and we're glad to be moving again. And moving we are. We've covered many miles since we left the city, and after a short stay in a town called Mertola, in a 'Natural Park' area near the Spanish border, we've headed south and then west, and here we are in Lagos.
(Cathy is insisting that I include something: On our last full day in Lisbon, setting out early in the morning to check out a street market in the Alfama section of town, walking through the square behind our pensao, we happened upon a couple trolleys, the streetcars run on electricity provided by a grid of electric wires suspended above the streets, that were a bit different from the norm. These were piloted by Santa Claus--two of them, both filled with the smiliest of children, all wearing santa hats and holding bags filled with toys, and holding balloon animals made by the clown also on board. The marquis that normally holds the trolley's (called 'electricos' here), said 'Electrico de Natal,' or the Christmas Trolley. It was absolutely hilarious. Both Santas were totally jolly (not the norm for electrico drivers), and even paused to ho ho ho in the doorway after Cathy briefly boarded to snap a couple photos. It was a very nice thing to see.)
For the past few days internet access has been hard to come by--and that's a good thing. It was nice, after making the move, to be out in the middle of nowhere, nothing but trees and empty road and animals grazing and sun sun sun. There are also more stray dogs out here, which Cathy has made it her mission to feed and pet. All of them. Every one. I swear. She's good like that. The Pied Piper of Poops. The driving was fantastic, and again all I could think of was how fun it'd be on a road bike. Smooth pavement, tight windy country roads, steep hills and amazing scenery.
So, now we're in Lagos. It's a bit more developed than I expected, though I'm glad to be here in the off-season, as it's fairly calm and quiet, at least compared to how it usually is. This is party central during high backpacker season, where all the kids come to soak up sun and beer and tear it up for a few weeks or months. The beaches now are empty, looooong stretches of sand that lead to large rocky outcroppings that stretch off as far as we can see. The city itself is gorgeous, very narrow streets, steep pitches, not much room to maneuver. I say this from experience. In trying to find a place where we hoped to get a room, just on the edge of the old city, we went a bit too far and found ourselves, behind the wheel of our 4-door VW Polo, stuck smack in the midst of the maze of these streets. A full circuit later, hoping to get out of there without scraping all the paint from the sides of the car, we missed the turn to get out and had no choice but to do the whole thing again. This time it was not so fun. I was tailgated the whole way through, and our map proved woefully inadequate to let us know where we really were. We almost missed the way out a third time, but some quick navigation and turning got us to a parking area where we left the car and found the address on foot. It was comedic, keystone-copslike, but we made it out with the vehicle and our marriage intact. Thank goodness.
So, we've had a pitcher of sangria at a sidewalk cafe, and after this, we'll clean up and head out for dinner. From here we'll do daytrips to Sagres and Porches and other sleepy seaside destinations. Can't wait.
Hope all are well.
We've arrived at the southern coast of Portugal. Leaving Lisbon on Wednesday was a bit strange, as we'd become attached to the town and had finally figured out our neighborhood and the transport system and the surrounding area--just when you get comfortable, it's time to move on. But we had a great time there, and we're glad to be moving again. And moving we are. We've covered many miles since we left the city, and after a short stay in a town called Mertola, in a 'Natural Park' area near the Spanish border, we've headed south and then west, and here we are in Lagos.
(Cathy is insisting that I include something: On our last full day in Lisbon, setting out early in the morning to check out a street market in the Alfama section of town, walking through the square behind our pensao, we happened upon a couple trolleys, the streetcars run on electricity provided by a grid of electric wires suspended above the streets, that were a bit different from the norm. These were piloted by Santa Claus--two of them, both filled with the smiliest of children, all wearing santa hats and holding bags filled with toys, and holding balloon animals made by the clown also on board. The marquis that normally holds the trolley's (called 'electricos' here), said 'Electrico de Natal,' or the Christmas Trolley. It was absolutely hilarious. Both Santas were totally jolly (not the norm for electrico drivers), and even paused to ho ho ho in the doorway after Cathy briefly boarded to snap a couple photos. It was a very nice thing to see.)
For the past few days internet access has been hard to come by--and that's a good thing. It was nice, after making the move, to be out in the middle of nowhere, nothing but trees and empty road and animals grazing and sun sun sun. There are also more stray dogs out here, which Cathy has made it her mission to feed and pet. All of them. Every one. I swear. She's good like that. The Pied Piper of Poops. The driving was fantastic, and again all I could think of was how fun it'd be on a road bike. Smooth pavement, tight windy country roads, steep hills and amazing scenery.
So, now we're in Lagos. It's a bit more developed than I expected, though I'm glad to be here in the off-season, as it's fairly calm and quiet, at least compared to how it usually is. This is party central during high backpacker season, where all the kids come to soak up sun and beer and tear it up for a few weeks or months. The beaches now are empty, looooong stretches of sand that lead to large rocky outcroppings that stretch off as far as we can see. The city itself is gorgeous, very narrow streets, steep pitches, not much room to maneuver. I say this from experience. In trying to find a place where we hoped to get a room, just on the edge of the old city, we went a bit too far and found ourselves, behind the wheel of our 4-door VW Polo, stuck smack in the midst of the maze of these streets. A full circuit later, hoping to get out of there without scraping all the paint from the sides of the car, we missed the turn to get out and had no choice but to do the whole thing again. This time it was not so fun. I was tailgated the whole way through, and our map proved woefully inadequate to let us know where we really were. We almost missed the way out a third time, but some quick navigation and turning got us to a parking area where we left the car and found the address on foot. It was comedic, keystone-copslike, but we made it out with the vehicle and our marriage intact. Thank goodness.
So, we've had a pitcher of sangria at a sidewalk cafe, and after this, we'll clean up and head out for dinner. From here we'll do daytrips to Sagres and Porches and other sleepy seaside destinations. Can't wait.
Hope all are well.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
In the Bar, After Church
This evening Cathy and I went to the Igreza de Sao Nicola to see a choir sing a Christmas concert. I was not exactly reluctant, but something in me gets a little nervy when I feel like I'm poking around in someone's church, especially when those people are there, going to church. But I'm glad I got over it, because the music we heard made me feel pretty good about being there. Five seconds into the first song I realized my mouth was hanging open. I felt like I understood why all churches are shaped around this long high arch (the acoustics!), and I sat rapt for the next hour and a half.
They performed a repertoire of traditional Portuguese songs in the first part, and then after a break they sang two in English before finishing with a trio of Portuguese songs. The harmonies upon harmonies and the changes in pitch and volume were all staggering in beauty and intensity. The crowd (congregation?) started out pretty thin, which had me pretty surprised--though I'm not sure why; with the number of churches in this town, I imagine all of these things can't draw big numbers. But, within the first couple songs, the pews filled considerably and the choir got the ovations they deserved. Glad I came along.
Cathy took some photos and some video of it. The paintings are on the cieling of the church (no flash, camera in her lap), and the statues are along the side. If we can get it posted, check that high note just past the half-way point. It was amazing.
So, after church, just to balance things out, I headed back to Bar Lisboa, a very cool little jazz pub on the edge of the Bairro Alto, just up the hill from where we're staying. I first came in here a few days ago, convinced there was no bar or pub life in this town--only clubs or cafeterias. I was wrong. It's a dimly lit high-ceilinged room with a half-dozen tables and a bar, along with a continuous stream of really great jazz music.
I sat and wrote in my journal for a while, and eventually struck up some conversation with the bartender, Nunes, who was eager enough to talk about the music they were playing. He and his brother Carlos co-owned the bar, Carlos also ran Trem Azul Records, a jazz label based in Lisbon--"The ONLY all-jazz label in all of Portugal!" Carlos proudly proclaims. So I spent the rest of that first night here scribbling in my journal and talking to these guys about every track they played, DJ-style with headphones back behind the bar, bringing the CD cases out and plunking them, conspiratorally, on the table in front of me.
"Carlos Gonzales, you know him. From Texas, yes?"
"Yep, from Dallas I think."
Then a squinty-eyed smile, head nodding, a murmured "Greeeaaat," and back behind the bar. It was a fantastic night here, meeting and talking to these guys and getting a solid fix of great new music. Who knew there was so much outstanding jazz being produced in Portugal?
After a good few hours of this, warmed in the belly now and still somewhat entranced by the music we heard earlier at the church, I moseyed down the hill toward home, humming some crazy Ken Vandermark tune, loving Lisbon thoroughly.
They performed a repertoire of traditional Portuguese songs in the first part, and then after a break they sang two in English before finishing with a trio of Portuguese songs. The harmonies upon harmonies and the changes in pitch and volume were all staggering in beauty and intensity. The crowd (congregation?) started out pretty thin, which had me pretty surprised--though I'm not sure why; with the number of churches in this town, I imagine all of these things can't draw big numbers. But, within the first couple songs, the pews filled considerably and the choir got the ovations they deserved. Glad I came along.
Cathy took some photos and some video of it. The paintings are on the cieling of the church (no flash, camera in her lap), and the statues are along the side. If we can get it posted, check that high note just past the half-way point. It was amazing.
So, after church, just to balance things out, I headed back to Bar Lisboa, a very cool little jazz pub on the edge of the Bairro Alto, just up the hill from where we're staying. I first came in here a few days ago, convinced there was no bar or pub life in this town--only clubs or cafeterias. I was wrong. It's a dimly lit high-ceilinged room with a half-dozen tables and a bar, along with a continuous stream of really great jazz music.
I sat and wrote in my journal for a while, and eventually struck up some conversation with the bartender, Nunes, who was eager enough to talk about the music they were playing. He and his brother Carlos co-owned the bar, Carlos also ran Trem Azul Records, a jazz label based in Lisbon--"The ONLY all-jazz label in all of Portugal!" Carlos proudly proclaims. So I spent the rest of that first night here scribbling in my journal and talking to these guys about every track they played, DJ-style with headphones back behind the bar, bringing the CD cases out and plunking them, conspiratorally, on the table in front of me.
"Carlos Gonzales, you know him. From Texas, yes?"
"Yep, from Dallas I think."
Then a squinty-eyed smile, head nodding, a murmured "Greeeaaat," and back behind the bar. It was a fantastic night here, meeting and talking to these guys and getting a solid fix of great new music. Who knew there was so much outstanding jazz being produced in Portugal?
After a good few hours of this, warmed in the belly now and still somewhat entranced by the music we heard earlier at the church, I moseyed down the hill toward home, humming some crazy Ken Vandermark tune, loving Lisbon thoroughly.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Port Wine Institute, LisbonWe visited the Port Wine Institute in Lisbon, the place that decides the quality and vintage of all port made here. Quite a lofty responsibility, and the bar that's attached to the place reflects the seriousness of this purpose.
We started with a pair that both won us over. A Warre late bottle vintage, 1994, came first, the red a ruby that was stunning, its legs thick as a linebackers, earthy cranberry nose that had a tobaccoey finish that was very nice.
Along with this one came a 40 year Dalva, a llighter color than the first, ruby almost, with a caramelly nose and a bit hotter approach to the tongue. IT was stupendous, though.
The second round consisted of a Graham's late bottle vintage from 97 and a Ferreira vintage from 97. The Graham's was fruitier than the rest, softer, with a stronger finish and less tanniny tones. The Ferreira was all dark beries, more acid and heat here, maybe the least favorite of the day.
Lastly we entered our normal realm--the cheapies. We had a Burmeister Sotto Voce Reserva and a Ramos Pinto Adriano, both just plain yummy, no heat, all porty fruit and warm stomach.
The Institute was a great experience, definitely recommended.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Domingo in Lisbon
Most of the town shuts down on Sundays, the only day folks get to stay home and rest, but you sure wouldn't know it with the bustle and activity still going on. Restaurants and cafes stay open, some of them, and the people are just out and walking around.
It's raining here today, the first we've had, and the mood and the streets are both a bit slipperier. The broken stone cobbles that comprise all sidewalks and roadways become slick at the least moisture, and to see these young guys traversing the steep hills on their motorcycles and scooters is fairly nervewracking.
Cathy and I wandered into a church after lunch to get out of the rain, and we were stunned at the magnitude of the building's interior. Cavernous, gigantic, with Christ and Mary occupying equal footing at the main altar, sundry saints and other lesser icons all having their places along the side walls. For a small fee you can get candles and pay homage to all of them, as many older ladies were doing, in a circuit, clockwise, with much crossing of selves and muttering and touching of stone toes.
Sometimes I feel I need a city, need the stimula and the crowds and the food options (ESPECIALLY the food options), that our current setup is just a bit too tame and too quiet and too Whidaho. But then, we stumble into a park, some greenspace, and feel the lack of all these things I think I need, or we find a quiet cafe and just sit and talk, or hear a familiar song and I realize that I love these other things most in their absence. It's a tough call, really, but I guess that's what makes traveling so wonderful--we experience these things, get to know them, sit and simmer in them a while and let them wash over us and get into our sinuses and brains and make themselves known in a deeper way, and then we get to leave and go back to our friends and families and dogs and beds and bikes (oh man I miss my bike--me and the Pinarello could be making mincemeat of these cobbled streets in the early part of the day!) and we know how good we have it.
We've still got a couple days to spend in Lisbon. We'll shop, we'll see a fado show, we'll revisit a bar where we've made friends with the owners and we'll visit the owner's jazz record store and recording label (more on that later) and we'll hang out and get ready to miss this place. Then it's southward, in a rental car, to the mountainous coast of the Algarve for a week's rural exploration. All this before we ever get to Seville. So much left!
Bom Dia.
Most of the town shuts down on Sundays, the only day folks get to stay home and rest, but you sure wouldn't know it with the bustle and activity still going on. Restaurants and cafes stay open, some of them, and the people are just out and walking around.
It's raining here today, the first we've had, and the mood and the streets are both a bit slipperier. The broken stone cobbles that comprise all sidewalks and roadways become slick at the least moisture, and to see these young guys traversing the steep hills on their motorcycles and scooters is fairly nervewracking.
Cathy and I wandered into a church after lunch to get out of the rain, and we were stunned at the magnitude of the building's interior. Cavernous, gigantic, with Christ and Mary occupying equal footing at the main altar, sundry saints and other lesser icons all having their places along the side walls. For a small fee you can get candles and pay homage to all of them, as many older ladies were doing, in a circuit, clockwise, with much crossing of selves and muttering and touching of stone toes.
Sometimes I feel I need a city, need the stimula and the crowds and the food options (ESPECIALLY the food options), that our current setup is just a bit too tame and too quiet and too Whidaho. But then, we stumble into a park, some greenspace, and feel the lack of all these things I think I need, or we find a quiet cafe and just sit and talk, or hear a familiar song and I realize that I love these other things most in their absence. It's a tough call, really, but I guess that's what makes traveling so wonderful--we experience these things, get to know them, sit and simmer in them a while and let them wash over us and get into our sinuses and brains and make themselves known in a deeper way, and then we get to leave and go back to our friends and families and dogs and beds and bikes (oh man I miss my bike--me and the Pinarello could be making mincemeat of these cobbled streets in the early part of the day!) and we know how good we have it.
We've still got a couple days to spend in Lisbon. We'll shop, we'll see a fado show, we'll revisit a bar where we've made friends with the owners and we'll visit the owner's jazz record store and recording label (more on that later) and we'll hang out and get ready to miss this place. Then it's southward, in a rental car, to the mountainous coast of the Algarve for a week's rural exploration. All this before we ever get to Seville. So much left!
Bom Dia.
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