Critical calculations

Date: May 6, 2010

You know you’re getting to the end of a trip when the mind starts making all those critical mental calculations. Do I have enough gas in the rental car that I don’t have to fill up again until the top off at return time? Do I have enough foreign exchange that I don’t have to change money again? And the most critical of all, do I have enough clean clothes so that I don’t to do laundry again? Keeping ahead of that is always the most problematical for me. If I wash my socks and tee shirts here will they dry before we check out? They specifically said “No laundry in the room,” so do I violate that and see what happens? How miserable will I feel if I wear this shirt another day? And so I’m at the point where Clio has enough food until the end. Depending upon last minute shopping, I may have enough Euros, and best of all, I’ve got clean clothes and now I can just stuff the dirty stuff in a separate compartment and not worry about contaminating what is yet to be worn.

It’s always interesting to me in our travels how little things come up unexpectedly. You know when the guide book says that a place is a world heritage site that it will be something special, but when places aren’t even given a mention in the books, it makes the find doubly rewarding. While traveling yesterday to Evora, one of the aforementioned WHS, we stopped in a town to get lunch. Same old drill. It was 12:45 and they didn’t serve until 1 p.m. Another place was 1;30. So we just said, screw it, lets go on and stop in an hour. About 30 minutes later Carol announced that she needed a pit stop so the next place we came to was a nothing village off the road a couple of miles. We drove in search of a gas station but out in the middle of nowhere there was a sign saying restaurant. We decided to stop and Carol could pee while I checked out the food deal. There were two cars in the parking lot and so it wasn’t totally deserted. But we came inside and there were dozens of tables all set up for customers. We decided to stay. The waitress came out and rattled off the day’s selections since they didn’t have a printed menu. She sounded like a female auctioneer as she gave the days litany. She said them so quickly even the Spanish teacher had to have them repeated. We ordered and by the time the soup arrived a couple of groups of workers entered wearing their tell-tale blue coveralls which seem to be the national uniform of the literally blue collared workers. By the time the main course came, a couple dozen more patrons arrived, each time receiving the same discourse. We thought maybe she had some rewind button because she always said it in exactly the same way, same words, same intonation, same speed. By the time desert came the place was jammed with people, almost every table was full, and all received the same spiel. The food was excellent, cheap and the little waitress who manned all the tables by herself, until the man from the bar came out to help. But he knew everybody and so would stop and talk while she bounced from table to table repeating, “Ensalada Mixta, Ensalada Pimiento, sopa……. then bacalho, salmon, lomitas, ……….” She was half the show with the mixture of suits, coveralls, and regular casual clothes being the rest. When we left there were dozens of cars which filled the parking lot. This was obviously a local place of renown.

Our little town of Terena was another. We’d never heard of it, but it’s quite famous in Portuguese history. It has the requisite 12th century castle, an equally old church, a traditional whitewashed village and a sleepy atmosphere that made you wonder, “Who lives here, and why?” We met a South African woman who runs a B&B who says the place has lots of tourists who come to relax to walk in the hills and who know the history of the area. Our innkeeper runs his seven room hotel by himself and has done a remarkable job of making it seem very simple but elegant and traditional. He says that he gets a lot of walkers. It’s not the high alps, it’s not the majestic fjords, but like the village itself, walking is uncomplicated but lovely. At this time of the year, Spring has definitely Sprung. Fields of purple Statice-like wild flowers surround you as you traipse down paths. Yellow wild daisies mix with the light purple thistles. Red Freesia-like blooms mix with the others to give a dazzling display especially when mixed with the white daisies and the ever present splash of red poppies. We got up early this morning just to be able to walk amongst them at first light. At breakfast I told him that he’d better take the key from us because Carol might come back and pinch his collection of bells he had displayed on the wall. He said if we like these we should go to the bell museum a few miles down the road. It’s on the way to Lisbon so you know where we’re going.

The Iberians have developed a very creative way of controlling speed in the small towns. Cars come whizzing down the highway at legal speeds of 70 mph and that’s the legal speed. When they come to a village which may have kids playing in the street, cars parked in the traffic lane, delivery trucks unloading their goods, and numerous other possibilities they have control cameras. At home they place a big sign saying: “Speed limit 35, your speed 53,” which is very much like “Thank you for sharing that,” as you continue on. In Spain and Portugal they have a traffic signal about 100 yards down the road. If you are going over the limit, it triggers the next signal to turn red. It took us a while to figure this out. On the “Few” occasions that I actually violated the limit, we’d come to the light turning red in front of our very eyes. “What lousy luck,” we’d say. There weren’t any cars coming, in fact it wasn’t even an intersection. There weren’t any pedestrians. The towns didn’t even look like they had anybody living in them they were that sleepy. But here we were stopped at a light, which we figured out, finally, would be about the same length as if we were doing the correct speed in the first place. Pretty sneaky these Iberians. Except that I figured out that if there was a car in front of me which was actually going the correct speed, I could jump in behind him and tailgate through the intersection before it turned red on me.

Here in Evora we are staying right in the middle of the old city. Clio rests under a large elm tree but I have to keep feeding Vol (for you trekkies, like me, out there) every four hours to keep the parking Nazis from ticketing or booting or whatever they do here to violators. It’s another World Heritage site. Ho hum, another boring perfect town. The book says it’s a university town so it has a lively night time ambiance. Since we’re ensconced in the middle of it, I suggested to Carol that we go down to the main plaza and have a pitcher of Sangria and watch the city grow dark with all the changing and muted tones that evening brings to one’s eyes. So about 8p.m. we ventured to the main square, a very lively place during the day. We rounded the corner only to see tables and chairs all stacked upon each other and the square almost totally empty. We wandered around the twisting alleys and small streets in search of the “Student Action,” only to find the scene repeated throughout. We finally found one little restaurant with the tables still arrayed in organized fashion and a couple of women sitting and chatting. This must be the place. We sat down, ordered our liter of sangria, and prepared for the unique sounds of students discussing whatever they discuss here in Portugal. It’s all Greek to me. I can say hello and thank you. Other than that, I follow Carol around like her kittens do at home, keeping my respectful three paces behind.

As soon as the Sangria arrived, the two women picked up and left. Was it something I said? A glass into the liter and the waiters came out and started stacking the chairs and tables. Was it something I didn’t say? I felt like I was in one of those movies where the couple sits there while the staff looks at their watches and rolls their eyeballs. “Why don’t these people leave?” And so we did. Half a liter of sangria down the hatch, half still in the pitcher. Carol fished out all the fruit for her dessert and we came back to the hotel. She remarked that she had “Marinated” legs. I looked at her puzzled and she said: “Isn’t that what they do to the geese before butchering them. They pour alcohol down their throats to tenderize them.” So, with marinated legs we waddled our way back to the hotel passing nothing but empty, closed shops and hearing only the sound of our footsteps upon the cobbled streets echoing off the store fronts on either side.

We turned on the telly to see what was happening in the world, but there was only one English channel running “Murder, She Wrote.” About five minutes of Angela Lansbury is all I can take, so the geek went down to the lobby with the computer, the fiber freak sat in the room crocheting and by 10 p.m. we both had had enough of the “Lively” student scene and were in bed. Hell, we couldn’t even get a meal in Spain at this time, much less call it quits. We thought of Jerez and the festival of the horses and all the thousands of women wearing a different flamenco dress from the one they had on the night before. We pictured ourselves sitting in our little restaurant beside the promenade watching the parade while I had just one more glass of sherry, and Carol with her still marinated legs. It was food for thought as we drifted off to dreamland.

Stay safe,
Carol and Jim