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.

from Lisbon: peacock love

Let me tell you this short tale. Though it’s actually about a long tail. See, there was this peacock. And he got along with his peahen of choice just fine.





But then he said something so irritating that she backed away.





He was sorry, but he didn’t know how to express this. He was set in his peacock ways.





So she showed him how.





And things were fine again. And the band (of hens) played on.





At least, that seemed to me to be the age-old story that took place on the walls of St. George’s Castle in Lisbon.



We hadn’t planned on going back to Lisbon today, but when the weather forecast tells you -- rain, thunder, wind, heavy rain – you plan your day around the possibility of multiple cafes and museums. Lisbon has both.



As the train pulled out of Cascais the rain came down torrentially. It’s an interesting combination – a smooth little train and pounding rain. It rocked us both to sleep.

But by the time we pulled into Lisbon, there was a pause in the rains. Long enough for us to cross the street and enter the great market hall. If it’s Saturday, it must be market day.

It’s an interesting market – not full today, or at least not at the noon hour. Fish are a big item. Curvey, flat, salted, pink, white, gray – lots of fish.










And vegetables, naturally. Garlic the size of onions. Onions. Greens. Apples, oranges. Products of the peninsula.





It’s not a place to eat and play (as compared to, say, the Barcelona wonder of wonders. Or even our own lively Madison markets). It’s place to get your list of essentials taken care of. And maybe exchange a quick word with someone you know.





And buy your olives and your pickles and go home to make the meal.











We leave the market between cloud breaks. The skies are dark, but we’re in a moment of meteorological calm.










We walk toward Alfama, the old part of town. And again we are in luck. Just when I decide it’s fitting to pause for a cappuccino and pastry, the rains start again. Torrential rains. We take our break in this slick place, with a slick clientele and a wonderful pastry selection.














...and we think that maybe we’ll be taking a lot of coffee breaks.

Except, as we leave the café, the rains stop. I mean, completely. The skies open up to a wonderful blue, with only occasional puffy reminders of a stormy day.

And so now we are in walking heaven – umbrella folded and put away, (Ed’s) jacket tossed into the backpack. (I tell him – you are the only one in this entire city with only a tshirt. He tries to disprove this, but he cannot.)

Up the hills of Lisbon, up to the Miradouro de Santa Luzia -- with terrific views of the city below...










...then, higher still to the Castelo de Sao Jorge, where a walk along the ramparts offers the most fantastic views of all.















And where we encounter the proud peacock and his sweetie.

All within the castle walls.










And now we head back down again.

In the light of a brighter Saturday afternoon, Lisbon’s shades and colors come through. Or is it that you take more time to notice the detaisl?










It’s not exactly warm outside (Ed notwithstanding), but nor is it cold. In one of the lovely squares of the city, children are ice skating, but Ed has to point this out to me – they’re not really ice skating, they’re plastic-surface skating. It looks wet because of the earlier rain. They don’t quite get the glide, but they look happy nonetheless.




...on the merry go round as well.





And now we do as the Lisbon people do – we sit outside, over a glass of wine – light and effervescent – and a delicious local pastry, and we watch the afternoon light fade.





(We pick up a few extra pastries to take home. Irresistible.)





We retreat back to the square that looked so wet just hours earlier – dazzling now in the shadows and rays of a late afternoon sun...





...and we catch our train back to Cascais. It’s a sleepy ride again, though I’m awake enough to catch the sun setting now behind the western clouds and the rocky ocean.

from Cascais, Portugal: break

We got it today – a greatly appreciated pause in the rains (to resume tomorrow, and the next day...).



 our guest house against a partly blue sky


...even as Ed continues to struggle with the sprained (thankfully not broken) ankle, vacillating between being in denial (no, I’m fine... of course we can hike) to the delay (can we pause for a few minutes while I elevate my foot?) to the discouraging reluctance to so much as get out of bed (you sure you want to set out already?).

Margarida gives us a ride to the coast, pointing out various ways we can attack a trek along the water’s edge. The waves are fantastic! The wind has stirred up the hornet’s nest within the Atlantic – the might of the heaving masses of water is palpable, as it all crashes against cliffs and rocks, with a fine spray that makes the shoreline path take on a perpetual salty haze.





My camera is not happy with the sudden attack of salt. It is like wiping salty tears from a child’s face, only to have to do it all over again a minute later.

We start our walk up the coast, in the western direction, indeed, aiming for the point of Portugal which marks the farthest western tip of the European continent.

But shortly into our walk, we turn back. We’re tempted by the bikes that Margarida tells us are available here. Cascais will hand over a bike for your use for free. All you need is an ID and it’s yours until sundown. Ed thinks he may fare better pedaling rather than stomping and I'm happy to be covering longer distances.





There is a bike path that continues up the coast , with mild ascents and descents, and it is somewhat amusing to be handling these on one speed bikes. Ed reassures me – you actually have two speeds. Where do you see a second? You can push the bike and walk.

When the wind blows at our backs, my hair, delicately salty, blows in every direction, but I like the push from behind. When it hits us in the face, it feels brutally strong and fast, almost as if we're biking at great speeds (even as we’re not).

And all the time, we are aware of the crashing waves.


 


I think the term itself – the crash of a wave – has never been more apt. Often the wind picks up puffs of foam and sends them flying. And everywhere, there is the white, lathering foam from broken waves – coming, going, mixing together. Ed tells me – I’ve seen many an ocean front (this, the sailor in him), but I have never seen so much foam at the shore.



...with the most western tip of Europe, in a haze of sea mist



The weather holds up and after our bike ride, we have time for a stroll through, first along the shore, back to town...






...past a craft market...






...past fishing boats and lobster traps...






...then on to the old part of Casais.






















I’m hungry for a late lunch. Ed, who eats mammoth breakfasts when we’re traveling, is satisfied with a bowl of fish soup. I order the catch of the day – sea bream.





As we hike back to the guest house, we pause at one café for an espresso and a local pastry (very sweet, with shaved egg on top)..





...and then at a bakery to take some cookies back to our room.






We’re walking through a residential part of town...





...lost in a maze of streets that  seem to be always shifting directions. As the afternoon sun disappears, the air cools down ever so slightly.  I have a jacket, but Ed remains in short sleeves.  It's been a most beautiful day.



In the evening we again stay in the neighborhood for dinner, returning to the now open place Margarida favors -- Redes do Ma ("sea nets").





We know to ignore the menu and ask what’s available today. Fresh sea bass, or red mullet. I’m beginning to recognize the fish of the season here. I’ve had them all now. Each roasted in crunchy salt, with handfuls of garlic, each one delicious.










We pass on dessert. There are cookies back in our room. And we’re working through the bottle of Portuguese Port that Margarida left in our room.