A Walker in the Suburbs

It’s not hard to imagine how a resident of the 14th century would feel looking west from Cape Saint Vincent on Portugal’s southwest coast. This was land’s end, as far as you could go. Europe ended here, and there was not yet a “New World.”

The Portuguese prince known as Henry the Navigator sought to change that. He taught sailing and navigation skills, provided funds for expeditions to Africa and Madeira, and influenced generations of explorers. 

Henry’s inspiration in part was Marco Polo’s Il Milione, a travel book that was also a source for Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, which we studied last semester. Such is the power of imagination that even today, hundreds of years later, standing on the windswept heights of Henry’s fortress, I could glimpse the danger and the curiosity these views provoked. 

This path was first trod by fishermen as they walked from village to village and down to the sea. Now it’s part of a network of trails that run through protected land, and the people who travel it are carrying cameras not nets.  At least one of them (that would be me) was thinking that there could be no better way to see the Algarve than to hike this beautiful trail.

The Algarve is Portugal’s riviera, with sand, sun, surf and whitewashed houses on a hill. 

We bussed here today and are getting the feel of this small, tucked-away village, a quiet spot in what has become a heavily developed area. 

It’s about 30 degrees cooler here than it was in Seville, and I wore a sweatshirt as we walked the beach. It’s good to be back in Portugal!

Today, June 16, is the feast of Corpus Christi, which celebrates the body and blood of Christ that is present in the sacrament of the Eucharist. In Seville, it is celebrated with solemn processions and with floats that manage to be both devout and opulent at the same time.  

We were part of the festivities this morning, tipped off to them by Mercedes, Monday’s walking tour guide, and helped along by a map supplied by the hotel. The procession lasted for hours—men, women and children carrying banners, staffs and lighted candles. Up to 50 men bear the weight of the floats on their shoulders, shuffling along in unison.

I felt I was seeing the real Seville, the one the people here experience, not the one manufactured for tourists. The piety was impressive, perhaps only to be outdone by the bells of the Giralda, which went into overdrive to mark the occasion. “He was a rationalist,” Chekhov wrote, “but he had to confess that he liked the ringing of church bells.” It was hard not to feel likewise today. 

One of  travel’s greatest gifts — one I look forward to even though it isn’t always easy — is being shaken out of my routine.  Sometimes this means dining al fresco to the sound of Spanish guitar at 10 p.m. Other times it means getting lost and walking twice as far as we need to in 104-degree heat. 

What these have in common is an intense focus on the present moment, on being here.  So today, when I found the “you are here” bullseye on a map (en Espanol, of course), those words had a completely different and more Zen-like meaning than originally intended. 

Yes, I am here and can now (theoretically) find my way home. But I am also here, now. I’m not planning this trip. I’m not looking back on it. I’m in it, in the ever-present now. I always am, of course, but travel helps me realize it. 

 

To be atop this edifice, to see the splendors of Seville spread out below, well, it passes the prickles-down-the-back-of-the-spine test. And if you happen to be strolling around the nosebleed section  of the Giralda when the bells begin to ring, then the thrill is complete. 

Seville’s Alcazar Palace has been a royal residence since the 10th century, which means there’s been a fair amount of redecorating through the years. The ornate Moorish carvings that grace the first floor gave way to Renaissance arches on the second. 

Four hours on a train and three hours on a bus have brought us to Seville, the capital of Andalusia and, from our few hours here, a magical place. So I am interrupting this travel(b)log of Portugal to bring you a taste of Espana. 

This is my first trip to Spain, first trip to Portugal, too, though Spain is perhaps the odder country to have missed. It was worth the wait, though, given the introduction: a slow stroll through the Barrio Santa Cruz with its narrow lanes, lively restaurants (one with hams hanging from the ceiling) and active street life. 

Tomorrow there will be a walking tour and a palace visit and, I imagine, a few stops along the way.  Because I can already tell that Seville is a city meant for savoring.

There are so many windows into a culture, so many ways to discover and enjoy a new country. There are landscapes, people, food and wine. And then, there is music. In Portugal, that music is Fado. 

If you listen to Fado in Lisbon, you hear women croon mournful tunes.  But if you listen in Coimbra, as I just did, you hear men serenade women and sing songs that celebrate the places they love. 

Played with a special 12-string guitar and accompanied by passionate vocals, Fado has been called the soul of Portugal. And after tonight, I’d have to say I agree. 

Tucked away in the hills outside Coimbra lie a network of schist villages. Originally built to house shepherds and animals during the summer grazing season, these houses rise up in tawny browns and tans, almost indistinguishable from the rocks that surround them.

They are made of schist rock, thinly layered, like sheets of phyllo pastry, and some of the oldest have no mortar at all between the stones.