Pastel de Nata

Pastel de Nata:
A delicious Portuguese tart consisting of a flaky delicate puff pastry crust and filled with a creamy egg custard slightly broiled on top. (These are becoming a problem as it is unclear how many are socially acceptable to eat in the course of one day.)

Tomar to Alvaiázere: 30.9 km 

"That is a spectacularly liberal thing to say," Alexander stated in a loud voice while news of the attempted Turkish coup played out on the cafe tv. Alex had no way of knowing that "spectacular" was a trigger word of mine, typically sending my temper into overdrive, but as it was 7am and I had yet to finish my coffee, I hadn't the energy for my usual rage. We had been discussing the political and social changes in Turkey (a slightly ambitious topic for so early in the morning..) when Alex pointed out that the only slight move away from secularism came in the form of a repeal of the ban on head scarves in public spaces. I responded that as a result, many women will be encouraged to cover, a comment which seemed to greatly annoy Alex. When I pursued my line of thought by mentioning family pressure, Alex reached the height of his incredulousness. Stunned in the quickness of his temper, I backed down, closed my mouth, and fought against the waves of insecurity painting my cheeks red. I felt stupid.

Alex fascinated me. A tall man nearing 30 with wheat colored hair, friendly blue eyes, and a smile that generally sets those around him at ease, Alex had gone from boarding school to Oxford where he completed his undergrad and Masters. He has an incredible store of knowledge and a fluidity with languages that I envy. He worked for the British government in posts that took him all over the world and upon becoming tired, he took time off, to walk Myanmar from top to bottom, to experience the Camino and to write. I am awaiting his novel. 

I, on the other hand, came from foster care, lucked my way into an average college and often forget names with shocking swiftness. I speak "European," as Alex teases, a mixture of words pulled from any language, combined with helpless hand gestures and smiles. Upon leaving the country for the first time at 24, I found myself in a Scottish drawing room surrounded by a conversation on the Rwandan genocide, a topic of which I had never heard. I realized then that there is so much that I don't know or understand. The learning began in that room and the learning continues every day.

Alex later quietly apologized for snapping at me, citing a lack of coffee as the root cause, but in all honesty, he likely knew more on the subject than I did. (Though when he was last a Muslim woman in a rapidly changing society, I do not know..) I had wanted to go back to the subject to understand more, but as my fear of feeling stupid overrode my desire to learn, I hesitated and I missed the opportunity. 

I lagged behind for the duration of the day's walk, taking photos of everything and nothing, letting Arrigo's youthful chatter fill the void of my insecurities. I further distanced myself from the morning by diving into a Kinder egg in the next cafe, a banned substance in the US, a small tasty joy in the Portuguese countryside. 

Alvaiázere is perhaps the least interesting example of urban sprawl that I have come across in my wanders, the distance from the city limits to the bombieros on the other side of town cruelly taunting our poor tired feet. Arrigo put on a brave face despite wincing with each step as his Achilles pulled uncomfortably. After what seemed years of walking, we arrived at a very filthy yet hospitable bombieros, Alex and I both itching for a broom and cleaning supplies. As it was Monday, the town felt ghostlike, the only restaurant open being up the hill...of course. 

We sat to an unknown meal in a pretty, newly decorated restaurant as the curmudgeon owner took our orders. To my right, sat a quiet, dark haired Portuguese man and to my left sat a bronzed, fair haired, older British woman and her heavily mustached husband. While I sailed through a meal of yet another form of baccalao, the woman to my left began a conversation with us. The couple, Bunny and Martin, from the southern part of England, owned and had just sold a large vacation home outside of town, planning instead to move further south. Upon hearing of our journey, their jaws dropped.

"Walking?? But there are trains!"
"How do you get around once you get to town?"
"Uh, we walk.."
"I don't understand.."

In our conversation, Bunny touched on the subjects of the prevalent forest fires and the safety threat to the bombieros, on the thorough packing up of their Portuguese home, of her missing hair dryer.. "But isn't all of Portugal just one huge hairdryer," I teased.  As I chatted away superficially with Bunny, I turned to discover that Alexander and Arrigo had, in fact, finished my dinner for me, the fork in my right hand still dangling over the place where my plate had once been. (Bastardos) During the desert (which I guarded closely,) the man who had been sitting to our right, dropped a case of moleskin and handfuls of band aids on the table in front of us. After our hearty thanks, Gonçalo, a physiotherapist for the national surf team, simply stated, "I can see your feet!"

We slept soundly that night, ignoring the possibility of the other tiny creatures sharing our beds in the unkept little room. 

For more on our topic of disagreement and my ever evolving, soon to be better informed opinion..
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/10/131011-hijab-ban-turkey-islamic-headscarf-ataturk/

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.