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."