WHERE THE WINDS TOOK US…

I know avid planners, people who research and plan their holidays, months or even a year in advance…and when the holiday is over, before they can even unpack or wriggle and stretch their tired toes, they’re already talking about the next holiday. I would say to these breed of individuals…`Good on you!’…I would say…`I admire your courage, tenacity, stamina, your unwavering determination and singular purpose and…I wish I could do the same!’ I could give you several reasons why Yiannis and I wait for the eleventh hour before we book a holiday…but I just have to be honest…it comes down to plain and simple…sloth. We’re just too lazy to read all that travel literature and…make a choice. It’s shameful I know but we take whatever is available. We didn’t do this when we were younger but now…with our energy fizzling out…all we want is get away from watering our plants, touch down on some foreign soil, see what the natives are doing out there, eat their food and drink their wine. So I trotted off to this travel office, which is just up the road and they raised their eyebrows once again when I said…`We need to leave next week!’ The following week we flew off to Lisbon.

Oh Lisbon…The City Of Odysseus…The City Of Seven Hills…the city of my primary school history book, of Vaso Da Gama and his maritime voyages. At Belém on the mouth of the River Tagus that pours into the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, the guide looked at us and said…`And this is where Vaso Da Gama started his long journey round the Cape of Good Hope to India.’ This was in 1497 and I must admit I felt the prickle of goosebumps…I was standing on a page of history. A fifteen minute walk inland is the Jerónimos Monastery with late Portuguese Gothic Manueline architecture with traces of Moorish motifs. Vasco Da Gama lies here and so does King Manuel 1 and his royal line. Manuel 1 built the Jerónimos Monastery on the site of The Hermitage of Restelo, a crumbling structure where it is said that Da Gama and his men spent the night on their knees praying for fair winds before their sails billowed out on the morrow and their massive wooden ships heaved out into the Atlantic for India.

Da Gama pointed us to Sintra, set in breezy hills, the summer resort of Portuguese kings for over 8 centuries. The Palacio Nacional de Sintra resembles a collage of historical periods…Mudejar moor tiles of blue with intricate design and then ceilings and windows emboldened with Gothic and Manueline styles. We stepped out on the old stone terrace of the castle with its sweeping views. It was cool and windy in August and a magnolia tree with glossy green leaves and blooms of white swayed gently over the low wall. Our Portuguese guide beckoned us to approach a stone bench built against a tiled wall. He lowered his voice and spoke…`On summer evenings Manuel 1 sat on this bench with Vasco Da Gama, who told him of his voyages and the spice route to India.’…and I imagined the dimming evening light and the cool air suffused with the intoxicating fragrance of  magnolia blossoms and our two historical characters, their heads bent, one listening and the other whispering, of the precious spices, silks and gems of India pouring into the lap of Portugal.

Back in Lisbon, in the evenings, Yiannis and I sampled the cuisine in several restaurants. It was always seafood, nice big wobbly fillets of cod or sea bass, white flesh that fell away with a gentle prod and skins roasted brown and crisp, all washed down with a delicious Portuguese white wine, dry and… sometimes a little heady… to brace ourselves against the chilly gusts from the Atlantic, on a late August night. Then there was this night when the guide said we couldn’t leave Portugal without listening to fado music. It is a traditional genre originating from the working class of the 1800’s…of sailors and dockworkers and patrons of taverns and fishwives and prostitutes…plaintive, soulful songs of the sea and fate and suffering and saudade (longing). So we found ourselves in Bairro Alto, in the old part of the city in a casa de fado (house of fado). We were shown to a long table with members of our group. In fact the place was crowded with tourists with waiters bustling about. Just as we sampled the starters, the microphone sputtered to life and in the background, the musicians tested their guitars. This elderly lady in a long traditional dress and a line of red lipstick drawn on her mouth, made the necessary introductions and then said in a curt voice…` When you listen to fado music you have to be quiet…You have to be silent…Please be silent!’…We froze in our seats. She sounded like a head teacher who would whip out her cane and silence us…The lights dimmed and we couldn’t see our food so we stopped eating and…we uttered not a syllable…for fear that the hostess might be hovering about. The singer came on stage, a lovely young lady with long curly black hair who stretched out her swan neck and dragged out a mournful number dripping with sorrow. The guitars wept with her. Then the lights came on and we could resume munching and talking and then off went the lights …silence…another woeful rendition…a few minutes to munch… and then another doleful number and it went on in these starts and stops and just when we thought it was over..they came from all four corners of the room and sang over our heads.

When we finally came out and inhaled the cool night air, the guide suggested a nice long walk through the old town and the eager beavers went with her and the rest of us hailed taxis back. We waited for quite a bit and finally one drew up in front of us. The man was very polite and said he loved Greeks and reeked of alcohol and weaved in and out of the traffic. There wasn’t much traffic…but he weaved anyway. He then went on to say that Lisbon was a very safe place unlike Rio de Janeiro but the immigrants were grabbing all their jobs. He was Brazilian. Yiannis and I sat behind and listened attentively without saying a word because we were afraid he would turn his head and engage in conversation and forget about the road. At the hotel we told the others about it and they said their taxi driver moaned and moaned in the fashion of fado about what a hard life he led.

The next few days, we visited several churches that spun out the history of Portugal and in one such place was the Monastery of Alcobaça, in the north of Lisbon. In the cool interior, there are two white tombs, beautifully carved, facing each other and on them are inscribed…“Até ao fim do mundo…” (Until the end of the world). This is a story that no Hollywood film can rival. In the 14th century Crown Prince Pedro fell hopelessly in love with one of his wife’s ladies-in-waiting, Inez de Castro and had a brood of children with her. His father King Alfonso 1V, put his foot down and got her assassinated, leaving Pedro inconsolable and filled with rage. When Alfonso died shortly after and Pedro ascended the throne, Inez was exhumed. By Pedro’s royal decree, they decked her in finery, sat her on the throne and Pedro proclaimed her Queen. Queen Constança, his legal wife had in the meantime died in childbirth, so there was no one to object to the coronation. In fact Pedro even had the subjects of his court kiss her skeletal hand. Then she was laid in all her majesty in the ornate limestone tomb in the Monastery of Alcobaça. He ordered another resplendent tomb built for himself opposite hers, so that he and his Queen, separated in life would be united in death.

The next morning, we put that drama aside and hopped on the coach to Avora…for more drama…of a bone chilling sort. The ancient city welcomed us with its medieval walls and palaces. We sauntered along the cobbled streets and enjoyed the surroundings…until…we entered the airless embrace of… The Capela dos Ossos (The Chapel Of Bones ). It was built in 1766 with the skeletons of 5000 dead, unearthed from the city’s five cemeteries…bones and skulls wedged tightly together…cavernous eyes staring from ceilings, walls and pillars…and teeth in hollow mouths trying to chatter out the words written on the sign at the entrance…`We Bones That Are Here For You We Wait’…in other words…YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.

The next day we tried the ancient transport in Lisbon. We boarded or were pushed into the coach, the Gloria on the cog railway…a mustard yellow…like an exhibit from a museum…with a whole lot of other people. It is the only vehicle that can grip the steep narrow stone slopes of the city and take you to the top to enjoy the view…or you could walk. On the way back we did a quick trot down until we reached a tram stop. The bright red tram, another museum piece screeched to a stop in front of us and we trooped in. It was already half full but the guide told us to push and squeeze in so everyone could get in. It was a suffocating squeeze and the guide shouted out…` Push in some more! It’s ok in Portugal!’ We were squashing the passengers seated in a single row, jammed against the window…and push anymore we would be sitting on their laps. Then the tram jerked forward and rumbled down the slope and before each turn the guide shouted…`Hang on! Hang on!’…and it took the corner and its metal wheels squealed against the sleepers and we hung on for dear life while swaying to the left or right in a single body and almost crushing the seated passengers. At the end of the ride we tumbled out in a daze. The eager beavers were organising a trip to the aquarium and Yiannis and I made our way to downtown Lisbon…Rua Augusta, with its mosaic pedestrian walk… with black geometrical lines and floral motifs…leading to the triumphal arch and then to Praça do Comércio that opens out to the River Tagus. Part of the royal palace  was built here and no doubt Manuel 1 looked out from his upstairs window and waited for his ships to dance into the harbour with their bellies full of treasures from the spice route.

The eve of our departure, we dropped over at Nazaré, a magnificent coastline along the Atlantic, unrolling an endless strip of beach with bodies strewn on the white sand, soaking in the August sun before the clouds of autumn rolled in. But the waves here are high and the waters treacherous, so you don’t see any swimmers. Our eager beavers scurried away to the beach to wade ankle-deep in the Atlantic and the rest of us spread out in search of food…a little nibble for lunch. Yiannis and I walked along the narrow streets behind the seafront. We stopped when we saw a fish tavern bursting at the seams with locals…families with children eating and engaging in robust conversation. We went in and stood in a queue, wondering whether we would ever get seated. A middle–aged waiter scanned the line and something bordering on desperation possessed me…and I raised my two fingers to suggest…`We’re just two people…visitors… please snuggle us in somewhere.’ He disappeared and then reappeared and motioned for us to follow him. No one complained that we were skipping the queue or being given special treatment…the locals might moan a fado or two but they’re such a hospitable lot.

We were seated at a very small table wedged in between two long ones with families of grandparents, parents and children. We ordered some starters and for the main dish, we pointed to the bubbling pot on the table next to ours. The waiter, a friendly young man brought our starters and said…`Don’t eat the bread!’…We wondered why until the main dish came…a large pot with chunks of fresh fish, huge pink prawns and shellfish of various sorts, spluttering in a broth sweetened with fresh tomatoes and strands of saffron…to be dished out on a mound of  rice…It’s a good thing we didn’t eat the bread. The whole thing was sloshed down with crisp white Portuguese wine.

The ride back to the hotel was long and we dozed off. In the cool of our room we continued our nap and woke up the next morning to hurriedly shower and pack and say our goodbyes to Lisbon.

We had expected a leisurely getaway to Portugal but we got glimpses into the culture and history and it was such a treat.

So cheers and stay well!