Bombeiro

Bombeiro:
Fireman, or Portuguese organization of firefighters dating back centuries. (Not only will they put out forest fires and transport organs, but they will also offer you their bed… ahem…hmm.. a bed)

Santarém to Golega: 32km

We have grown in number by one. Alexander and I acquired Arrigo just at the bottom of the hill below Santarém. Arrigo, a 20 year old from Milan, was fresh from his first year of university finals and ready to take on the world. However, his Achilles' tendon was not nearly as excited by  the prospect. As a result, the three of us spent our day slowly ambling past endless rows of corn while chatting away. As the extremely concentrated Portuguese sun rose to its zenith in a cloudless deep blue sky, we chased irrigation sprinklers, we swam in rivers and we left arrows far behind, following a fearless Alexander into the uncharted wilds of Portugal (more cornfields..) we played like children and ate like kings, stopping in the quiet town of Azinhaga only long enough to have a ridiculously delicious lunch of baccalao à brás (basically a casserole of salt cod, shoe string potato chips, onion, tomato and parsley.) We ate to the point of recklessness and rambled off into the afternoon sun with 11 kilometers to go.

*****

We peeked our heads into the siesta inspired quiet of the fire station garage, our hellos echoing off of the cool shaded walls. A sleepy fireman, roused from his calm afternoon, stamped our passports and left us to our own devices in a sticky social hall on the second floor. We were sleeping in a firehouse!!! I was living the dream of every American little boy, a dream complete with shiny antique truck parts, photos of past bombieros lining the walls and leftover decorations from a previous community event. We showered and hung our sink washed clothes and towels over the side of the second story balcony, Arrigo's towel falling over the large blue letters advertising the name of the station.  Ah, bliss…

Sometimes we are fortunate in life to stumble onto things that we never knew we needed, but in fact, we were empty without. Arrigo never knew that his life was desperately in need of roller hockey but the universe conspired to let him know in the form of a televised Italy v Portugal game in a small restaurant in Golega. Fresh from our showers, we wandered the small village, ending up in a local restaurant with 4 other patrons, simple delicious food and a large tv, loudly narrating grown men on roller skates playing a sport that looks much more intense on ice. As we  worked our way through the courses of our meal, Arrigo began turning time and time again towards the tv. Through we had started our meal with Italy two goals up, the tables quickly turned in Portugal's favor, allowing other enthusiastic patrons to cheer loudly in our direction, taunting Arrigo. We slipped out into the night with full bellies, a disappointed Arrigo and friendly laughter from the  restaurant following us to our beds.

I stared quietly out of the window at a brilliant moon as Arrigo and Alexander slept, wrapped in dreams on the other side of the room. Stars winked as a lonely dog sang mournful songs to the moon and a cool breeze lifted my hair to tickle my face.



"Skin on the feet is unnecessary, right?"

"Well yes, in fact, you could just walk on the bleeding stumps. Feet are just extra weight anyway."

Fado

Fado:
Fate (a type of Portuguese singing known for it's expressive and profoundly melancholic character.)

Azambuja to Santarém: 32 km of pastoral bliss

I sat with crisps, peanuts, an orange and a puppy sleeping with his head on my boot, only rousing myself to get up to watch tiny planes practice take offs and landings on a small gravel path. Alexander and I still had 27km to cover. 

The television in the corner related horror story news reports of the previous nights tragedy in Nice. Alexander and I sat at a tiny table pounding waters in the last bar before a brutal 16km stretch of unbroken afternoon sun. Men moved and sat around us, sturdy men with impressive mustaches, considerable bellies and deep creases in their faces, men upon whose backs Portugal eats. A group of four men raced off back to work after a quick shot of coffee, one in particular with arresting blue eyes set in a sun darkened face. Alexander subtly dozed as I itched for my camera and the skill to take proper portraits of each dramatic face in the bar. As we were about to set off on our journey, I asked two men if I could take their pictures. One man struck a serious pose before engulfing my hand in his much larger one. The second man sat for me with pride and beamed through my lens as the shutter clicked.

*****

Alexander and I were preparing to sneak out of the back of the church when St James whispered in my ear, "Jen perhaps you should stay."  We sat down, Alex, Jim and I, in the creakiest pew in the church,15 rows behind the nearest parishioner and we watched as the priest made his way through the form of the mass. I listened to the familiar strains of the alleluia and spoke the Lords Prayer with the congregation, my voice in English along side their Portuguese. We kneeled, stood, sat, stood, sat, stood and kneeled in the same way that we do in Chicago, my hands resting on the back of the ageless wooden pew in front of me. I needlessly explained the form of the mass to Alexander under the sounds of the cantor working her way through various Portuguese hymns, and we shuffled up to the front of the church, heads bowed for communion. As the congregation said a final Ave Maria, St James continued to talk my ear off.

"There is not much difference between you and them; the same form, the same prayers, the same dreams," he whispered. "What difference does ten miles, or five thousand miles make when you are all only existing in order to learn to love?" I shook my head, my heart weary with thoughts of Orlando, and Dallas, and Nice. "I feel so helpless, Jim. I just don't know how to understand."

"The space between, Jen, just dive into that space until there is no longer you and them, but only US..."

'But..." He continued, "You could start by getting that poor famished boy next to you some food before he passes out!" I looked over gratefully at Alexander, so patient for enduring an unexpected mass on the way to a well deserved dinner.

Muito Bom

There have been few meals or treats that have remained in my mind months and years later; a Pisco sour in Puno, creme Catalan in Toulouse, a seaside dinner that stretched hours in Barcelona, a rooftop decadence of family and food in Rome, but I now add another moment of deliciousness mingling with friendship to feed my soul in moments of hunger.

Muito Bom:
Very good! (Best used at the end of every meal.)
We were staying in a sweet second story room, newly decorated with the old, next to the train station in Vilafranca de Xira. Our host, a wonderful man in his forties, who had recently taken the gamble of buying and running his boarding house, stated emphatically, "it looks expensive but it is not, and the food is..ah!" And with that advice, he sent us off to find our dinner. 

The walls of the Restaurant Petisqueira were gray with black and white wallpaper while a scarred, wide-planked wooden floor ran underfoot, giant windows with white trim lined rooms filled with the soft glow of light fixtures comprised of kitchen utensils. Our waiter, Manuel, served with the flair and gentleness of a Parisian maître D. As we had given him the freedom to lead us through our meal, He started us with a tart white wine, rustic crusty bread, olives and an addictive garlic herb butter. He followed with two terra cotta bowls artfully displaying tender sliced pork cradled by colorful vegetables and a delicate flaky baccalao sprinkled with textured olive oil fried croutons. I ate slowly, letting each taste fade before reliving the first blissful bite over and over again. For dessert, Manuel brought us a warm citrus infused creme brûlée and a rich chocolate mousse topped with toasted pine nuts. Eyes rolled back and sighs could be heard as we lived lifetimes of decadence within the dessert course. As Manuel brought us our check and wished us well on our way, Alexander and I looked down in amazement..€29!!! The price of Applebee's! 

Alexander and I toddled off through town to our beds and dreams of a chocolate infused nirvana.

Vilafranca de Xira to Ajambuja: 20 km of less than pleasant landscapes...

Sometimes when a pilgrim is lost, she spends her time wandering past sewage smelling land, and other times when a pilgrim is following all arrows, she finds herself walking past the actual sewage plant itself.. But surely that is better than the guidebook route of walking along the edges of the busy N3 highway, right? Well, hmm..

A tennis match drew attention in a quiet bar, narrated by a questionably seductive sounding female voice. Alexander tucked into an obscenely large cream pastry, motioning for me to have a bite. I declined and watched him in envy while reminding myself of day two's post creamy pastry pain and perpetual search for a bathroom. 

*****

Alexander and I sat in the shadow of a large white church at the top of a tiny town, emptied of life by siesta. As we feasted on bananas, oranges, and plums, the bells began to erratically count off the hours.. One, two, three (6 seconds pass) four, five, six, seven ( freakishly long pause) eight, nine, ten, eleven.. (Time passes slowly as we anticipate the final bell.)
"Do you think it's done?"
"Wait for it..."
(More silence as Alexander messily licks a melted chocolate bar off of it's wrapper.)
DOOONNNGGG!
We headed on with ringing ears and dark chocolate coloring Alexander's beard and nose.

*****

I followed Alexander hesitantly into a questionable looking bar as the eyes of approximately ten men swiveled in our direction. We crossed through the bar to the restaurant, sitting at the back for dinner and watched as our waitress juggled hungry patrons and a crying toddler strapped in a stroller, a little one whose eyes took in everything but seemed to have trouble focusing on any one thing. Customers leaned in to kiss his pudgy cheeks as the waitress rushed about. Though the courses of cabbage squash soup and seafood stew, followed by chocolate cake and a liberal amount of white wine, Alexander and I shared stories of our families, our partners, our work, our travels and our hopes to make a difference in a world of shifting values. As the wine slowed my movements, I looked around to see a child fighting a losing battle with sleep, an exhausted waitress who still had a ready smile, and patrons comfortable with getting up to refill their own glasses of wine and to lend a hand. I saw a community.