leaving gold

(from Evora, Portugal)

Anyone worth their travel beans is going to make it to Sintra on their trip to Portugal. Though one Evora native claimed there are 59 monuments to see in his town (and it will remain our favorite place to visit here, I’m sure), Sintra really brings in tourism. It may not be the sheer number of sights, but certainly it has the WOW factor.

Still, it’s kind of sad (for me) to leave Evora. If ever there was a lovely place to stay – one where you have it all down solid: where the good treats and foods are, what the sights are like, how to spend one hour at a car rental place waiting for the forms to be completed and really grow to like the experience, how to fill up with a breakfast that will keep you going all day long, where to pick up the hot roasted chestnuts when the craving hits – Evora is it.

I feel almost as if we are leaving family when we say goodbye to the manager – the same guy who had stayed up late into the night chatting Ed up as to why their Internet seemed to hiccup for the past two weeks.

We have our breakfast...





...and our final walk past the great monuments of Evora – Roman temples and walls, ancient cathedrals, a beautiful university and as I later look at my photos, it strikes me that there is so much yellow in each one – as if truly everything we did there was golden.

So, our last walk through Evora (remember, accent on the E and don’t rest too long on the A).
































Then, a brief time out on the patio of our Albergaria (all those lovely yellow windows)...















... and we’re off, chugging our bags over to the bus terminal... (past one last good look at the Roman Aqueduct...)





... for the ride back to Lisbon, where we make our way to the train station, to catch the commuter line to Sintra.


(from Sintra, Portugal)

The train from Lisbon to Sintra is packed. Ed and I have this habit of running to get on trains that are about to depart and this is not the first time that one or the other gets wedged in a closing door. I feel the eyes of the commuters are on us as we find a spot to rest our bags for the 45 minute ride.

By the time we reach the final stop – Sintra – we are the only ones left in the car.

We get off and look around.





Sintra wraps itself around deeply forested hills. It feels wet – as if we’re in a rainforest. It feels hidden, too. There is the section by the rail and there are streets, cobbled and narrow, heading up mountains and somewhere there is a center, but we’ve not seen it yet.





Why do I keep thinking that the Sintra is sinister-a?

I talk to the agent at the tourist booth. She’s grumpy and I’m thinking their pay must be horrid because of the three tourist information agents I’ve spoken to in Portugal (the other two – in Lisbon and Evora), two have been very very grumpy. I ask for some literature but, surrounded that she is by pamphlets and such, she tells me she only has one map. I already have that map. She has no further wisdoms to offer and so we move on.

Our small guest house is up the hill and it is one steep climb. My little carry-on has protested all along the ramble through Portugal’s cobbled surfaces and I am wondering if it’ll stand up to the challenge here.

Finally, half an hour later, we are at the Casa Miradouro. I can tell that it is the type of place that will make Ed sulk, because it is beautifully ordered and prim and it puts me in the frame of wanting to reign him in – watch that carpet, don’t crumple the paper... until he retreats to bed with his computer, where he can do no harm.

But the views! If ever there was a room with views, this is it. We have the large balcony room – the one with windows on three sides, looking over the castle, the mansion, the mountains, and seemingly all of Portugal.








(to the east)


We ask our hostess about dinner and she sends us down the hill, by the Town Hall to a place that is a Tea House or a Restaurant or both (A Raposa), in any case, it is the lowest of low seasons and so we are the only patrons and the food selection is limited to three dishes. The cook explains this to us and she speaks quite good English. The waitstaff person (who, it turns out, is also the owner and a tennis champ) speaks Portuguese and Spanish and actually this does not exhaust our potential for communication because it appears that the cook was born and raised in Poland.





A Brazilian restaurateur and a Polish cook. Friends for years (they both lived in Brazil). She’s here with a husband and three daughters and she has the usual love/hate for Poland. (The restaurateur is here with a girlfriend, and he has a love for red wine and young women and a hate for wives, having sampled too many in the past.) Rarely have I met an expat from my homeland whose language (and I mean that in the broadest terms) I understood so completely. (I’m sure Ed found equal rapport with the restaurateur on the subject of the novia.)

The food? Oh, it is excellent. The cook has professional credentials – a former student of the French Culinary Institute in New York, she knows her knives and sauces. Shrimpy noodles, lamb couscous – fantastic!





In between dishes, we talk about what it’s like being from Poland and living elsewhere.

It is a long conversation.


The night is dark, or maybe it’s that light hides completely behind Sintra’s hills. The walk uphill is less strenuous the second time around. Could it be that I'm warming to the place already? Fickle hearts.

from the heart of Portugal

A sun dappled day in the town of Evora!





And yet, I want to know -- what's beyond this town?

You cannot do village hopping in a day without wheels. Sometime in the middle of the night, Ed located (thanks once again, argus car hire!) a local car rental place that would rent a car for a day for a mere 25 Euros. We are set for a drive through Alentejo -- the countryside to the east and south of Evora. (More on Ed's sleeping habits later.)

But not before we indulge in a heavenly breakfast at Albergaria do Calvario. I have to mention this because when a breakfast stands out, it really sets the mood for the day. At the Albergaria, most everything is freshly squeezed, pampered, organically touched and massaged and it is so delicious – the local fruits, the juices, the cakes, cheeses, slivers of aged ham – that we return for another helping, and another and that’s before the lovely person from the kitchen comes out and shyly asks – would you like some (free range) eggs?

The significance of this? Well, 1. I love this little hotel (rate: about 75 Euros per night, with this heavenly meal included) and 2. I want to note that I have learned that it puzzles the Portuguese as to why anyone would eat eggs in the morning.

Just east of Evora, the earth is rich in red clay and here is where much of the quite lovely Portuguese pottery is made. We drove through one such village – a potters’ village, because nearly every other house had a sign indicating that you could come in and browse their pottery.

And I did stop. I told myself that traveling light means no pottery purchases, but I also thought that were I to come across a pretty soft boiled egg cup, I’d buy it. I call it a needed rather than frivolous item as Ed has recently, inexplicably, developed a fondness for morning boiled eggs.

In the last shop I visited, I finally could not resist a pretty little olive dish. From this set, here:





I had asked about the egg cup thing and this salesperson knew some English and she explained that just this morning she mentioned to her husband that maybe he should be making egg holders because (and she said this with a puzzled shake of the head) some foreigners appear to eat eggs for breakfast and so there may be a market for these cups. And she asked, perhaps because she did not really believe this to be true – do you eat eggs for breakfast? I admitted that I did. Just this morning. Scrambled. With tomatoes actually.



Our first and most important destination was Monsaraz. But I’m not just going to post photos of this most stunning village, perched on a hill high above the vast plane, extending beyond the border to Spain and north toward the “mountains. Before we even get there (a mere 35 kilometers from Evora), we pass through the delicious scenery that I love so much – of vineyards, olive groves, cork oak, and meadows of yellow flowers – all sparkling from past rains, but bathed today in glorious, wonderful (albeit dappled) sunshine.











Now the village of Monsaraz.







I have to say that the entire drive was along empty roads (notably gas here is a whopping $8 per gallon), sometimes lined by cork oak...





....and so perhaps it should not have surprised us that the village would also be very quiet. A woman hanging out her laundry, a delivery truck with Lays potato chips, an open café, a man standing in a doorway, a pottery shop salesperson with the sound of a TV inside, and the occasional cat or dog.













Ocean author and a dog


Otherwise – silence. And this leaves you with this feeling that you are stepping into a past life that somehow has marked this little place, arresting it in that moment when it was the all important Medieval fortification.






There is a castle, and a bull fighting arena (still used, I hear) and all that is quite spectacular. And there is the silence. And the view. In every direction. And because sound carries, we hear the sheep bell from somewhere in the valley.





Perhaps we should have just stayed there, looking this way and that, taking in the sunshine. Maybe we should have not hurried out an hour later. But I am thinking – we should experience other places too. And so I find the one open shop, buy my olive dish, and chat (about the tragedies of the world) for just a minute with the shopkeeper. (Most other potters admitted to no English and we are used to them saying, too, that they speak no Spanish; this is of course not entirely true, we know that, but we’ll respect their right to feel shy about English and their right to feel a bit competitive with the Spaniards, even as this means that we are in a communication limbo, because my handful of Portuguese words just wont do beyond the hellos and goodbyes and thank yous in between.)



We leave the lovely little hilltop village with the cats, dogs, and one shopkeeper selling her beautiful bowls and dishes and we drive a little north, through a green and gold landscape...


 


















...and through the village of Redondo, where I pause for an espresso, perhaps sensing that one of us has to stay awake, even as that person actually should be Ed, as he is the one driving.











Which brings me to this curious fact: Ed can drive from New York to Madison virtually without pause. I can’t do it. I find our interstate highways so incredibly boring that I start feeling sleepy one hour into the ride.

But here, in Portugal, Ed must still be on a clock that is uniquely out of sinc with real time. Several times during the short drive he has had to pull over for a little nap. Yes, I could take over the driving part, but you cannot take in the scenery that way (at least I cannot). And besides, I am not a listed driver today and the rental agent – a most fastidious gentleman – assured us that if a police car stopped us and I was not a listed driver, we would be in trouble.

Even though our final destination for the day, Estremoz, is a mere 35 kilometers from Monsaraz, it looks to be over a “mountain” range and as we drive up the winding road...


 







....I begin to notice a weather change. It was not supposed to rain, or drizzle, no not any of it. But by the time we reach Estremoz, drizzle it does.

Ed chooses to nap in the car while I set out to explore this larger town.





It, too, has a castle, and its buildings are interesting – white, of course, with the balconies that you come to expect in this region...





But it is a large place and there is traffic and drizzle and so the connection to the heart and soul of the place is, for me, more difficult to make.

In the “lower” part of town, on what appears to be the main square, there is a quite splendid church and just outside, a vendor is selling fruits and vegetables and I pause there, as well as in the local pastry shop, because when all else fails, I can usually find my way back to the heart of a place through its food vendors.





Indeed. And the cookies and chocolate were delicious.

We drive back to Evora through the rain. And just before returning the car, we stop at a supermarche to buy a local port. We had just finished Margarida’s port and we have found this to be a pleasant custom – to sip a little for an aperitif before setting out for a late dinner.

Our late dinner, by the way, is back in Evora, at a simple place that serves soups and pork and Ed has a soup and I have a soup – his was tomato, mine was cod and I’d say he made the better choice except cod is so Portuguese and I needed to give a nod of acknowledgement that I, too, have eaten boiled cod.

from Evora, Portugal

Ed asks at the Lisbon bus station – may I have two tickets (fingers indicating 2) to Evora? The ticket agent indicates that he doesn’t understand. Where? Ed tries again:  Evora.  The agent shrugs his shoulders. Meanwhile, we know from the Internet schedule that the bus, wherever it is and however you buy tickets for it, is to leave in two minutes. Ed moves to another window, another teller.

Two tickets (fingers show 2) to Evora, please.
Ah, Evora. This agent knows foreigners.

There are so many ways to say Evora, and so many of them are quite wrong.


Back in Madison, in early fall, when I was thinking about Portugal in January, I had in my mind split the trip into three parts: first third near Lisbon (Cascais), second third in Evora.

It’s a UNESCO protected town, not very large at all, and it is in the heart (rather than along the coast) of Portugal. It seemed to offer another perspective.

We're on the bus. At least three other people have confirmed it. Evora. It is quite a lovely bus ride, through a landscape that has to be the essence of Portugal: an occasional vineyard and lots of cork (or actually an evergreen oak, whose bark is used for the production of cork).





You can always spot a cork oak by its naked bottom – like a tree robbed of her skirts.

Now, you may think all that harvesting of cork bark is bad for the environment – that it destroys yet another tree for the pleasures of the human palate. You would be wrong. The current thinking is that harvesting cork is a good thing: cork oak thrives in these regions and it provides every ten years or so a new layer of bark, the harvesting of which is harmless to the tree. And, due to the heavy demand for cork for wine, these Mediterranean forests have expanded. Which is commendable. And if the demand should go down, the forests will eventually disappear – the land will be put to other uses, eucalyptus will take over – the list of bad outcomes is long. The bottom line – drink wine with corks rather than screwtops if you care about preserving the environment. Who would have thought.

Of course, you would also be aiding Portugal’s economy which, as you probably know, needs a bit of a pick me up right now. (Portugal provides about 50% of the world’s cork.)


Evora. Accent on the “E.” A town of with medieval walls, a Roman Temple, whitewashed buildings and cobbled streets. At the same time it has recently been ranked as the top most livable town in Portugal.

We’re staying at a place that used to house an olive oil press (Albergaria do Calvario). It’s lovely and quiet and it’s a short walk to most any significant monument here. Of course, it’s a short walk from any point to another here. Evora, with a population of about 40,000 is charmingly small.





We walk in the fading light of the late afternoon, taking in the now lovely weather, pausing for roasted chestnuts, peeking in at a church, meandering through a park, finishing finally on the town square.





























I love these winter walks in places that don’t really understand real cold. It’s in the upper fifties now and I see winter coats, scarves – all the things we save for freezing weather. The cafes have some brave souls outside, so long as the sun is out. After, only a few hardy young ones stay out. Like this man with his laptop and his dog.






Inside, the café is packed. We sit at the counter over an espresso and a few of the local pasteries...






...Ed watches a volley ball game on a screen. The evening comes quickly now. Dark blue skies are a beautiful contrast to the white houses.





We walk back for a brief rest and then set out for a Portuguese dinner at 9. It’s a terrific little place (with a curious name of 1/4 Para As 9)...


 
 

...with just a few tables – two of them occupied by large Portuguese families. Ed is finally up for ordering what I have wanted to order since coming to Portugal (it requires his cooperation as it serves two) – arroz de mariscos.





It’s not like bouillabaisse as it has rice and isn’t quite as brothy. It’s not exactly like paella because it is cooked only with shellfish – chunks of it throughout,  and it is not at all crisp – it’s soupy and thick and the taste of tomatoes is there, but delicately so.

It is exquisite.





We eat way too much. How can you not? We have a regional white wine that is exactly perfect for the meal. And there isn’t a doubt in my mind that this may be the best meal of the trip. And most definitely the best non-bouillabaisse, non-paella crustacean soupy rice dish I have ever eaten anywhere.

We stroll home in the dark starry night. The rains have left the Iberian peninsula. We’re one pair of lucky travelers.