Há Caracóis!

Há Caracóis:
We have snails (posted in restaurants and bars in spring and summer, snails are a common aperitivo with Super Bock beer.)

Golega to Tomar: 29.7km of a proper oven roasting

We giggled like school girls, Alex, Arrigo and I. We sat hiding from the afternoon sun in the back corner of a village bar, tucking into lunches of soup and tuna sandwiches while voices of the many elderly bar patrons competed in decibel level. Above the din, rose the uniquely resonent high pitched voice of an old woman determined to be heard, a voice that sounded strangely  reminiscent of a Monty Python character. Shamelessly, we giggled.

Heat radiated off of the black pavement, licking at my legs and grasping higher. Sweat soaked clothing slowed my limbs and chaffed my skin, my bag becoming an ever heavier albatross. My calves and thighs burned with the everlasting uphill slog and my heart beat pulsed in my face and swollen fingers. My feet, sufficiently tenderized by the day's stage, ached to quit, but the mystique of the Templars of Tomar pulled us onward.

"Do you need anything? A ride? Some water?" A black Mercedes wagon had pulled up along side our painfully slow moving forms and as the window rolled down, releasing a blissful plume of air conditioning, we gathered around. We looked at each other as we shook our heads no, Tomar was close, we had all we needed.

"We have a pool..." Our denials died in the hair dryer wind. 

An hour later found us on top of a hill overlooking Tomar from the crisp pool in the back yard of André's lovely yellow house. A 22 year old student of architecture, about to embark on his studies in Prague, André was hungry to learn of the world while still maintaining a fierce pride for his homeland. As the four of us chatted, the intensity of the cruel sun was forgotten. 

"Do you need a place to stay? Would you like to eat dinner with us?" André's hospitality had no boundaries as we prepared to head down the hill to find showers and a place to sleep at the fire station. As luck would have it, his mom happened to be the choir director at the church next to the bombieros. So upon dropping our bags, we all rushed to clean up enough to feel presentable in a church and headed the 50 meters to God. 

Enthusiastic voices rang out in the simply decorated Templar church as we entered, strongly reminding me of my church choir back home. After the mass, André's mom, Lígia, kissed our cheeks, introduced us and put a microphone in front of me. After singing a bit of the Ave Maria, Lígia took over, launching properly into the song, her pure sweet tones wrapping around each pillar of the church. The priest asked for another song, and unsure of what else to do on the spot, I fell into the rich melody of Amazing Grace, allowing my voice to bend and dance through the achingly familiar tune. As I finished, I looked into eyes looking back and I felt both proud and humbled at the way in which music transcends language. 

We ate snails. I looked past the tiny little antennae as I speared the little guys out of their shells with a toothpick and chewed away. I am not sure if I can call myself a vegetarian at all. We had hiked slowly back up the hill to Andre's house again, a tiny orchid accompanying us as a gift for the overwhelming hospitality of his family. We spent the evening in shared laughter, stories and endless food on the back patio with André, his mother and father and his two massive huggable dogs Baloo and Leão (lion) as Tomar lay spread below, her lights beginning to twinkle. Later that night in the city center, while André sketched a tiny church as a stamp in my pilgrims passport, I watched my new friend and I fell in love with the world.

We three slept outside at the bombieros, dragging our mats from the stifling room out onto the leafy patio. My hip protested at the hard bed but as the stars watched my eyes slowly close, the trade off seemed fair.