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.