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.