And The Sun Danced!

 On May 13 1917 three shepherd children met Mary; ten-year-old Lucia, nine-year-old Francisco and seven-year-old Jacinta. The children chatted away with Mary on the 13th of each month for six months, though interestingly only Lucia spoke or heard the responses. Mary appeared, promising a miracle on the sixth visit, and so people from near and far, skeptic and devotee alike, filled the valley awaiting this miracle. Lucia, in her later memoirs wrote the secrets that Mary had shared with her; that the war would soon end and the soldiers would return home (WWI) and that if people did not cease to offend God, a greater war would occur (WWII.) During her final visit, Mary made the sun dance as seen by the 70,000+ witnesses that day. Whether this was a miracle, a mass hallucination, or simple delirium from staring at the sun for too long, this event, though accepted by the church, is still being debated today. The city of Fatima has been built on the site of these apparitions and thousands walk across Portugal each year in search of their own miracles.

After returning to Tomar, I had planned to visit Fatima the following day by bus. However, upon hearing my plans, the endlessly hospitable Lígia and Juana stated, despite my protests, that they would pick me up the following morning at 10am to go together to Fatima. The next day, as I took a photo of a pigeon outside of my hotel, I heard the horn beep and looked up to see their laughing faces. I hopped into the car quickly and we three were off to meet our Lady of Fatima.

A half hours drive from Tomar, Fatima is home to a vast square with a modern church on one side and a more traditional church on the other. Both churches shone white against the deep blue sky, and stubbornly unmoving sun. We each bought candles, braving the fires of hell to set them in their place as prayers, and we watched as pilgrims made their way across the square on their knees.  Though beautiful, Fatima reeks of commercialism, selling rosaries, patches, jewelry, and miracles for those desperate for God's grace. After a quick coffee, we piled back into the car to find the house of Lucia, the saintly child ...or the skilled storyteller, depending on one's perspective. 

I cannot argue when accepting a ride and the driver decides on a detour. But I have no need to argue when that detour proves to be a beautiful beachside village with bright colors and fresh salty air. After our Fatima pilgrimage, Lígia brought me to her favorite place for a seaside lunch. We sat with bacalao and octopus in a small restaurant in the city of Nazaré, as we talked of our lives and homes and how they differ. Juana, a beautiful dark haired 29 year old gym teacher who studied in Coimbra, talked of her national pride.

"You have heard of Portuguese women and their moustaches, right?"
"What? no!"
"Well that's how the rest of Europe sees us."

Juana went on to describe the importance of Portugal winning the Euro and of Ronaldo's weight as a national hero. "The world can see that something is happening in our little country," she said, her posture straight and her smile bright.

"How do you feel after walking? Your body, I mean?"
"Surprisingly good, strong... But I think my boobs shrunk.."
Juana looked down at her athletic though slender form.
"Hmm, I should not walk the Camino then…"

Things that don't fit elsewhere..

According to Alex, Portuguese is just Spanish with Sean Connery's accent. I tried this strategy and was understood.

Arrigo started the Camino with a white shirt thinking it would be cool. He was right but his shirt turned a lovely shade of brownish grey with fabulous sweat stains.

Garden statues are fantastically gaudy. I have seen both lions and dragons with soccer balls and on one occasion, I saw a house with a large statue of Venus, her breasts bare while the neighbors had a statue of Jesus with the bleeding heart facing her.




The churches are stunning but icons with real hair are just plain creepy. I will never change my mind on this 

I have lost the battle with vanity twice, putting on makeup once in Coimbra and once upon returning to Tomar. Alex noticed and said that Coimbra should be honored.

Speaking of vanity, my legs look as though they are covered in scales.

I always have toilet paper in my pocket, except for the one time I need it. 

My little tank of a camera is holding up well, though tuna oil is hard to get off of the filter. 

I try to challenge myself each day to using different settings on the camera, but when the sun is high and hot, I guiltily slink back to the automatic setting.

Tuna oil is also hard to get out of my towel. WTF is wrong with me and tuna oil?!?

Vapur water bottles are ass and are only good for drinking water from the luxury of the couch. Otherwise they burst, soaking everything you own.

The shooting stars here are incredible.

I am learning to write anywhere, in bed after every one is asleep, in a cafe, under a tree, next to a school complete with screaming children, in my head while someone is talking to me. This ability should come in handy as I return to being a student this fall.

News intrudes here, playing out on tvs in every bar and bakery. Alex Arrigo and I fought with the paradox of feeling joy in our journey and each other's company while witnessing the sadness an pain in the world... Needless tragedy after needless tragedy. Upon waking, Alex would look at his phone and then look to me, "do you even want to know?"

I have a pretty silk scarf with me, something I have not brought on past Caminos. It's amazing how a scarf can make any outfit seem appropriate for any occasion.

The scarf smells like tuna.

People park with absolutely no shame. Two women parked simultaneously on both sides of the road, completely blocking traffic. Another time, a man parked in front of the exit and on yet another occasion, a man stopped his car in a roundabout, getting out to give us directions, heedless of the cars honking behind him. No one's car is ever parked straight within the lines.

The salesman at Eddie Bauer lied when I asked him if the pants would stretch were I to wear and hand wash them 30 days in a row.

Baccalao, salted preserved cod, can be made thousands of ways and there are cookbooks all over the country attesting to this. I have tasted 40.

Chocolate melts. This must never be forgotten.

For the love of God, what distance is 500 meters??

I bought a new pocket knife here that is not recognizably serrated on one side. I have cut myself twice.

John said that Monica had been harassed by men all across the country. I dismissed that but within two blocks of leaving Alex, a man stopped his car and offered to drive me to Santiago. This happened 3 times today. I miss walking with my strong young men. 

Nearsighted...

One must know how to say 'ice' in every language; ghiaccio, gelo, hielo…

Time is relative. 8pm means 8:47pm

 Light switches are never in the same place. I am always looking for them and as a result, have spent many dark moments in bathrooms.


You can drink in the streets, taking your beer and wine wherever you go!

There is much garbage dumped in the forests. Pilgrims spend their days walking over the tiled remains of the old bathroom of someone's granny.

A bed (or mat) for the night costs anywhere from 0€ to 15€ and has averaged out around 9€. Of course this is not factoring in my 35€ Tomar luxury extravaganza. 

Bread and sardine trucks arrive into town, blaring their horns. People come out of their houses to buy their day's bread. I need this to happen in Chicago!

Roman roads are a magical novelty to walk on, coming from America where we are indoctrinated with the new.

There are Walmart like shops all over the country, called China Casas, selling only cheap goods from China. Walmart should consider a name change.

Breakfast of a cafe and a pastel de nata costs from anywhere from 1€ normally up to 1.5€ in the more expensive towns.


Three pasteis de natas a day is bordering on ridiculous, isn't it?

I will not, I repeat, I will not under any circumstances, wash my husband's socks. He is a capable grown man.

Knights Templar

I became the other again, a feeling Americans don't typically worry about. I became a woman alone with a dirty backpack and dusty shoes who didn't speak the language, a stranger. For a moment, in another country, I became exactly what American politics have taught us to fear. But how easily I will be able to shed this, slipping back into a person who knows her worth, a person afforded respect.  

I sat in the deserted train station, unsure of when the next train would arrive and where it was going. A man out for a run stopped to help. "You must go north to go south and you must go south to go north." He said convincingly, followed by, "I didn't really want to run today anyway."

Sure enough a train north arrived a half hour later, taking me to Espinha by the sea. From there a train took me to Entroncamento, to the south of Tomar, and finally a regional train took me to Tomar's city center.... All very logical.

I checked into a beautiful little old world hotel on a tiny island in a small park, just a few hundred meters from the city center. I unlocked the ornate door to my room, complete with a tiny balcony and large shutters. I fell onto the bed and I felt decadent, all for the price of 35€, an unnecessary splurge in Portugal, an absolute steal by American standards.

Tomar just oozes with history, intrigue and romance. The Knights Templar were an order of monastic knights tasked with defending Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem during the crusades (believed to have been Solomon's temple.) and also tasked with protecting pilgrims on their way to holy sites. These knights, ordained by pope and God, were famed for their military prowess and ability to prevail over unspeakable odds. They were the tenth centuries'  equivalent to Seal Team 6. In 1190, under the fierce leadership of 70 year old Gualdim Pais, grand master of the Knights Templar, Tomar withstood and triumphed over a six day siege by the Moors, marking a conclusive moment in the reconquest of the Iberian peninsula. Gualdim also oversaw the restoration and construction of many nearby castles, thus strengthening the base of the Templars.

However, the story would not end well for our Knights of mythical proportions. In the start of the 14th century, King Philip of France was seriously indebted to the Templars, who had made considerable gains in wealth and power, but rather than Philip paying them back, he decided instead to completely discredit and destroy the entire order with charges of heresy and blasphemy. Knights were tortured into confessions, slaughtered, and their lands reverted back to the crown. Many other Knights fled to Portugal and the relative protection of King Dom Dinis. Under the new name of the Order of Christ, the Templars were able to exist for a few hundred additional years, the Templar castle in Tomar serving as central to discoveries in the maths and sciences of astronomy and navigation under Prince Henry the navigator.

There are rumors of tunnels under Tomar, linking the castle monastery to the church below. Built on the banks of the Nabão and over the site of a 7th century temple, Santa Maria dos Olivais, a beautiful yet simple 14th century church, holds the remains of Tomar's champion, Gualdim Pais, as well as many other Templars. I slipped inside her cool walls, amidst Knights and saints, and encouraged by Ligía's warm smile of welcome, I took my place in the pew with the choir. Despite hundreds of years of history,  Santa Maria dos Olivais is very much a living church, complete with an active congregation, an earnest choir and a solid sense of community. I looked over the music, while talking myself unsteadily through pronunciations. "S equals sh, ão is nasal, final e's are schwas, I got this." Rehearsal began and as the old lady to my left giggled at my pronunciations the woman to my right fanned herself enthusiastically, creating a draft for the entire soprano section. Mass began with our voices joining together, allowing me to be one of many rather than just the one that I had entered the church as. We worked our way through the mass music, me, holding my own despite a few comical errors in diction. After communion the priest sat, my cue to step up to the mic to sing the song for meditation, Amazing Grace, as approved by the Father. I took a breath, filling myself from head to toe with the air of the Templars and I exhaled the aching words, both emphasizing and adding delicacy in turn. The forgiving acoustics and thousand year history of the simple church added a richness and weight to my American voice, so far from home and as I lingered, letting the last note fade, silence held. Later, the organist took my hand in his and said, "you sing like a black!" Well, hmm…

I did not trust Samuel. I don't know why. Samuel, a pilgrim who had started walking five months earlier, made his way through the European countryside without money, existing only on the generosity of those he has met. Upon arriving for the night, he slips off his boots and spends the rest of his time barefoot. He had shown up for mass and we had shared a delicious meal in the yellow house on the hill with Ligía and her beautiful daughter, Juana, before finding ourselves back in the city center. Unfoundedly uncomfortable in his company, I excused myself, saying I was off to bed. As I pointed his way towards the bombieros where he was sleeping, he stopped me.  "I have a good sense of direction," he assured me. We said our goodbyes and his shoeless form headed off.. In the wrong direction. I, on the other hand, slunk guilty back to the city center, a flawed Christian.

*****

The sun has set on a heat filled day, lending a feeling of sweet cool relief to the twilight summer air. Little girls race across the checkerboard stones in Tomar's central square, skipping from black to white as the orange glow from cast iron street lamps light the way. Amid the clanking of silverware from the cafes on my right, an unnoticed lizard crawls haphazardly up a tiled wall. Directly in front of me sits the pale visage of the 15th century São João Baptist, A young boy kicking a small soccer ball against the walls. Behind me, the founder of Tomar stands guard in the form of a statue, proudly manning his post since 1162. Above, only castle walls partially obstruct a view of a deep blue sky, sugar sprinkled with a few brave stars. Languages rise and fall, the soft consonants  of Portuguese layered with puckered lip French and a hint of the flat American accent. A father tries to tease a smile from an adolescent son for a photo, I whistle undetected through my teeth and the boy cracks into a cheeky grin. The stones hold warmth under my bare legs even as the  unforgiving afternoon sun has given way to evening play. Despite the yawn I hold in my mouth, sleep is a long way off. The breeze is carrying life tonight and I have yet to find gelato.