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.
We knew ahead of time that instead of taking steps to the top of the Giralda, the bell tower of Seville’s cathedral (the largest Gothic cathedral in the world), we would be walking up a series of ramps. The reason, the story goes, is that the monk responsible for ringing the bells every morning decided it would be easier to ride to the summit on a little donkey — and since donkeys don’t do stairs … you get the idea.
I haven’t had time to verify this tale, but I have climbed the ramps (all 35 of them) to the top of the tower, which was originally a minaret when there was a mosque at this site centuries ago.
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.
And the mosaic tiles inspired by those in Morocco and elsewhere in the Middle East are combined with replicas of tapestries that graced medieval walls.
Each successive ruler left his or her mark—including King Pedro 1 in the 14th century and Charles V and Isabella in the 16th.
Which means that the Alcazar Palace is a prime example of the Mudejar style that developed in the Iberian Peninsula between the 13th and 16th centuries, a style made possible by people of many faiths and beliefs living together. It seems fitting that such beauty should flow from harmony.
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.
Exploring them today, walking their narrow lanes and touching their warm stones, I tried to imagine what life was like for their (mostly absent) inhabitants — slower, I imagine, and quieter — more elemental in every way.
It’s almost dark in Coimbra, the university town north of Lisbon. The tangled medieval streets have quieted down, and the swallows that were darting about have roosted, perhaps in the crumbling stone of a 12-century church.
I’ve tried to capture the charm of this place with my camera, but the lens doesn’t record the surprise of spying a flower-decked arch in a hidden square. Or the warmth of the light that touches just the top of a medieval belfry.
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So let me add some sound effects. Imagine them all with the clink of a glass, the strum of a guitar, and an open-mouthed traveler murmuring “ahhhhh.”
It’s been four days and I’ve yet to gush. But the restraint ends now! Maybe it’s the weather (perfect), the views (spectacular) or the people (friendly and accommodating). But I think it’s more than that—it’s the city itself, which is more than the sum of its parts.
Lisbon has no Eiffel Tower or Big Ben, no big “must see.” Instead, it has a lot of “little sees” along with an enviable climate, an exquisite setting and a vibe that’s easy to slip into and will be difficult to leave.
At least we have sampled some of its delights—ridden an old trolley, explored the narrow streets of the Alfama District, and climbed the ramparts of the Castle Sao Jorge. And we’ve saved some sights for later, too, whenever that later might be.
I’m hoping it’s soon. I can already feel myself being pulled into Travel Mode, in which the mind is opened to the virtues of the peripatetic life. A few days in Lisbon will do it to you.