Swiss Family Grass

While Armacao De Pera should provide the idyllic setting for contemplative thought, what occurred was actually quite the opposite. Well, that’s not completely true. Andy and I did enjoy the expansive blue tiled pool daily for a refreshing afternoon dip. And, we did stroll the sandy beaches watching as the calm coast coaxed local laid back fisherman into the sea. But, it was what happened near the end of our stay that played out like a horror movie. One morning, as I walked Petey around the campground the unimaginable happened. Petey was minding his own business, sniffing the tall dense hedges for a place to leave his scent, when out of nowhere a long mangy fur covered leg extended from beneath the bushes with claws the size of needles. Next I heard a high pitched squeal. Petey retreated from the hedge and continued our walk, with only a frenzied pace to clue me in that something was wrong. I looked at his muzzle, investigating for any damage and then noticed that his right eye was squeezed shut. A moment later a trickle of blood dripped from his closed eye, and then what seemed a stream of blood to me began to darken the fur beneath his eye. Horrified I began to run back to the van to get Andy to assist me in prying the now closed socket open; sure that Petey was now truly a ‘one eyed jack’. Eye intact, we quickly discovered the source of the bleeding. The cat had managed to pierce Petey’s eye high above the lid. We quickly disassembled camp and drove to the nearest vet.

The veterinarian visit proved rather uneventful, other than the repeated, “That’s one lucky chap.” muttered by the vet during the examination. According to her, cat’s usually pierce right through the eyeball, leaving an alarmingly large gash and a nearly useless eye behind. In Petey’s case, the claw had somehow managed to nick the eyeball well under the lid, leaving a gash but no significant damage. I felt relieved and wondered how many of his nine lives he had now used up (yes I realize that’s a cat thing, but how else do you explain Petey’s crazy luck?)

Petey on the mend

After the ordeal at the vet we retreated to the campground for a day of shedding the unwanted stresses that came with the blood filled morning. We made plans to leave the next day and head north to check out a few campgrounds we thought might provide the perfect balance of sightseeing and relaxation for my sister Nicole’s visit. We had found out a few days prior that she would be flying in to Lisbon the last week of May to spend a week with us.

The following morning we visited a sand sculpture park near Pera. Artists from all over the globe assemble annually to create works of art from sand. The resulting masterpieces are both amazing and defy the laws of gravity. We arrived as the finishing touches were being put on many of the works, and watching the artists sculpt from canvasses of sand was truly mesmerizing.

We followed an interior highway northbound and then cut to the coast to find the beach at Gale where a three star campground hugged the beach. The campground required turning off the highway and following a gravelly potholed filled dirt road for nearly five miles. When we finally arrived at the secluded campground we were shocked to see hundreds of people milling about. We were flagged down by an employee who promptly informed us that the campground was full, a highly unusual and unlikely occurrence, considering the remoteness of the place. Later we discovered that the campground had been rented by the National Nursing Association and would be the home to an annual nursing conference with over a thousand people in attendance.

Weary and annoyed we continued up the coast to Troia, a ferry town that rests at the tip of a peninsula just south of where the Lisbon coast begins. Yet another kite surfing destination spot, we drove quickly through the one stop town while winds battled against the engine of the van. The road extends inland about a half mile from the beach, with protected sand dunes on one side and an estuary along the other. Once you reach the end of the peninsula, the road turns eastward and winds through small villages where the main attractions are the large storks that build nests atop tall poles lining the highway.

We drove to Odivelas and just outside of the town limits lies a campground situated along Lake Odivelas. The sleepy campground sits on acres and acres of dried ragweed like terrain and looks like “a commercial for allergy medication”, as Andy put it. Small, brightly colored wildflowers dot the hills and a few of the campers have picked flowers to make arrangements for their dining tables.

The lake itself is nothing spectacular, dammed at one end and lapping the dusty honey colored shores of the rest. The water level has dropped significantly, as evidenced by the banding lines that creep several feet up the shoreline. Bugs are everywhere, and we were grateful that we had a screen room to shelter us from the onslaught of flying things that dusk brings. There are no houses or buildings or city skylines in sight, and the only evidence that civilization is near can be see at night when an orange colored hue fills the sky off in the distance, announcing a small remote town to the east.

We spent four relaxing days biking the miles of desolate roads and batting rocks into the lake. One day we rented a paddle boat and with Petey in tow cruised the lake. Our only excitement came when a sea plane circled the lake a few times and then landed alarmingly close to our boat. To make an impact, the pilot repeated the water landing another time to our ‘oohs and aahs’ and near dives from the boat.

We drove from Markadia campground to a suburb of Lisbon, Costa de Caparica, linked to the picturesque capital by a Golden Gate Bridge fashioned span. Upon our arrival we set up camp and set out to explore the tiny beach town. The main square and pedestrian thoroughfare reminded me of neighborhoods bordering Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, complete with guys hawking sunglasses and pirated cd’s and a carnival like atmosphere. The town itself looked like it has seen better days, but one chalked up the run down appearance to the heavy weekend traffic that arrived each Saturday and Sunday from Lisbon.

I’ve grown shy of bigger city campgrounds and transient looking suburbs since our stay in Badalona. Whenever we venture to the more heavily populated areas my radar goes on. For instance, when we arrived at the Costa de Capricia, I noticed that the campground was positioned along a main road and tucked between a municipal park and a National Guard station. The high barbed wired fence that enclosed the campground was draped with a nearly opaque outdoor fabric that I had assumed was for privacy. While walking the dog and getting my bearings I had noticed that over the rear fence of the campground there appeared to be a small encampment, made up mainly of shanties. I grew suspicious that maybe this beach town didn’t have the natural appeal that most of our coastal stops have brought.

After dinner the first night, we were washing the dishes and a couple from Belgium told us that a young German couple had their bikes stolen from the campground. Earlier that day I had found a cut bike lock and showed it to Andy. He had replied by saying, “Maybe someone lost their key and needed to cut the lock.” I knew better. So, we decided that the following day we would go check out a few campsites, one in Lisbon (a four star) and the other north of Lisbon along the coast in Guincho, a suburb of Cascais.

That night we heard shouting voices drifting from the park well into the wee hours of the morning. We barely slept, and most of the night was spent peeking out the windows of the van looking at the dark silhouettes passing by the heavily draped camp fence. Petey would bark anytime he heard voices, alerting passersby to our ‘guard dog’, and one bold 2:00 a.m. stroller made it a point to ‘shhh’ him.

The next morning we drove to the Lisbon campground, a hip backpackers paradise complete with top forty music blaring from the stereo at the pool. The sites were nice, but the campground is situated smack dab in the middle of a commercially developed area of Lisbon, a sprawling IKEA clearly viewed from the place. It did make for a good stop, as we were able to hit a large chain sports store and the IKEA to stock up on supplies for Nicole’s visit, specifically outdoor lighting for the screen room so that we could see our food at night.

From the Lisbon campground we drove to Guincho and instantly decided that would be our next stop. Spindly thin pine trees carpeted the campground providing much needed shade from the heat, and the beach was lined by a wide bike trail that followed the coastline to the Beverly Hills of the Lisbon coast, Cascais.

We returned to the campground late that afternoon, where our departure date was sealed by an actual villain versus cop scene that played out before our eyes that evening. As we were preparing for bed at night, Andy noticed blue police vehicle lights shining in the distance. Loud voices could be heard from the park, but as we had come to know, this was nothing unusual. Suddenly, we heard screeching tires and a door being thrown open, followed by running footsteps. We both looked out the screened windows of the camper to see what all the commotion was about. Next we heard someone yell ‘stop’ in Portuguese followed by a gunshot. We looked at each other in disbelief and before we could say anything we were ducking as two more rounds were fired off. We literally hit the floor of our van and did the best we could to shield ourselves from the gunfire. After that Andy said, “We’re out of here tomorrow morning…first thing.” A few moments later I noticed two shadows cloaked by the dim park light over the fence moving toward the street where the patrol car waited. I convinced myself halfheartedly that the culprit had been caught and slept that night with one eye open.

After the short drive to Guincho we set up camp and spent the day lounging in our LaFuma recliners, pretty much a constant theme during this trip. We took a cab to Cascais in the late afternoon (when it was cool enough to leave Petey in the van and caught the film The Da Vinci Code at a modern, well appointed mall. Andy thought the movie was so-so, and I spent most of the film with the thought, “Oh yeah, I remember that from the book.”, spinning through my head.

After the movie we walked the streets lined with high end shops and restaurants toward the harbor and people watched before catching a cab back to the campground. For those of you asking, “A cab? You’re taking cabs while camping?” let me just say… Bikes were out of the question. The return journey required navigating an uphill climb that might as well have been Mount Everest as far as I was concerned. The local bus costs two and half dollars per person each way, and a taxi was five dollars, total. You do the math…an air conditioned taxi would win every time.

Nicole arrived on a Tuesday morning and our already late departure for the airport was further delayed by a gridlocked pay freeway. Who knew? Live away from morning commutes and rush hour traffic long enough and you forget that it exists. That is until you are stuck in it when you are rushing to pick up your sister who has flown half way around the world to see you and your husband. Luckily, her flight was delayed. Delayed just long enough for a Portuguese airport traffic officer to stroll to our van and tell us that driving with bicycles attached to the front of our van is not legal in Portugal. I must be putting on my best poker face of surprise every time, because he gestured that he was going to ‘pretend his eyes were closed’ and let us slide. But, not before telling us that his comrade surely would have ticketed us.

After picking up Nicole we drove north of Lisbon to check out three campgrounds near Nazare. The third one was the charm, as we stumbled on a peaceful, modern, resort like campground just three miles from Nazare. We figured that Nazare would make a good starting point for three town that we hoped to visit during her stay. The campground was so welcoming and tranquil that we spent the first day kicking back at the site and catching some rays by the nearly deserted pool. The campground lies in the middle of an expansive coastal pine forest that was planted in the fifteenth century by order of then King Dinnis to stabilize the sand dunes and provide timber for ship building. The royal forest remains today, much as it was hundreds of years ago, perched high atop the cliffs that drop down to the unspoiled coved beaches north of Nazare.

At one point we took a drive along the road that weaves through the forest on route to the well hidden beaches and noticed that many of the trees have had portions of the bark stripped, revealing a blood red trunk with a small receptacle attached to the tree to catch what we assumed was the tree sap. Similar to maple syrup harvesting, but without the holes. The shocking defaced trees are in such stark contrast to the sleepy whispering pine forest that we have come to know along this coast that we slowed to a crawl to inventory the damage. To date, we have yet to figure out why the sap is being harvested.

Later that day we drove to Batalha to see the monastery, built by a young King Joao as thanks for answered prayers when victory in battle led to a Portugal freed from the clutches of Spain.

King Joao and his queen are buried there in a lavish tomb, and the tomb of Prince Henry the Navigator can also be found in the Chapel of the Founders, a highly embellished room located just to the right of the main church.

When we finished touring the Monastery we walked to a nearby residential courtyard and played Frisbee while we waited for the main reason for our visit to Batalha to begin; a food, wine, and handicrafts faire was scheduled to start at 6:30 p.m. Exhausted from an a round of Frisbee in the scorching afternoon sun we sat on benches in the square relaxing for the last hour before the faire began. I did have some relief from the heat, as I noticed an open hair salon and stepped in for a quick refreshing shampoo and nine euro haircut.

The faire proved to be a true highlight of our visit to Portugal. Artisans from regions all over the country manned booths selling distinctive art and decorative items, clothing, leather goods, and linens. Cheese, wine and pastry could all be sampled too.

While walking through the faire we noticed several ‘free wifi hotspot’ signs and decided to whip out the laptop and give it a try. After logging on, and beginning to check my e-mail, Nicole and Andy noticed that a flurry of activity was happening behind me. Apparently I was the first person to actual log on to the hot spot, and the men managing the link were eager to watch someone using the service. They came over and proudly displayed their sponsors signage and told us how this was the first time they had offered this service. Later, they brought by a photographer to take my picture as, ‘the first wireless user at the faire.’ We all got a good laugh and for the first time since Vinaros, free use of the internet.

Local organizations had booths all around the faire advertising regional cuisine, and we decided to dine at the Recreation and Community Center booth. With the advice of our waitress we had pork stew and a mixed grilled meat platter. Dinner for the three of us (which could have easily served five), including salad, beers, and bread came to nineteen euro. As we paid the bill I asked if the event was a fundraiser for the event, and when our waitress answered in the affirmative we left a ten euro tip.

Taking a day off from sightseeing we hung around the campsite the next day, and then drove to Nazare Saturday. Up until this point of Nicole’s visit the weather was mild and pleasant. When we woke up the morning when were to visit Nazare, it seemed to jump twenty degrees. Nazare, known for its beach and sun and fun atmosphere is busy and tourists share the promenade along the beach with older women dressed in traditional skirts and head scarves hawking rooms at their pensions. While a beautiful setting to soak in local food and culture, there isn’t one shade tree to be found, and the whitewashed walls of the buildings leave one squinting to see. The heat and bright sun left us drained and searching for ways to keep the dog cool (one of which involved dragging him into the ocean).

Sunday was yet another day of relaxation as we all lounged around reading. The grounds at the campground are well landscaped, and include a trail that ran the perimeter. Each evening Nicole led us on a walk that ended just in time to watch the sun set behind the tree line of the pine forest and slip into the Atlantic.

Our next adventure led us to Alcobaca. The whitewashed village hosts many outdoor cafes surrounding the square of the great monastery. The sun was blinding and we took refuge from the heat under a giant sun umbrella. We bought pastry from a café and dined as we took in the views of Mosteiro de Santa Maria.

One of the richest monasteries in Portugal, Mosteiro de Santa Maria gained its’ wealth from the fruitful bounty the local landscape provided. A stream fed by the local river was even diverted into the monk’s kitchen to provide both water and fresh fish for the monastery. With all its’ riches, architecturally, agriculturally, and aesthetically, the true fame of the monastery comes from a real life ‘Romeo and Juliet’ story.

The love story involves Prince Dom Pedro and Ines de Castro. The prince fell in love with young Ines, a woman of Spanish descent. His father, the King, refused to allow the marriage, fearing the influence of Ines’s family over the throne. So, the two wed secretly and when the King found out he had Ines murdered. Pedro, alone and broken hearted waited until he ascended to the throne to take his revenge. After being crowned King he had Ines’s body exhumed and crowned Queen and made all in the court kiss the decomposing hand of his newly crowned queen. Next, he had her buried at Alcobaca. He designed her tomb himself, a richly ornate tomb resting on top of sculptures of her murderers. Then, he guaranteed their timely meeting when he had his own tomb designed to feet to feet with Ines’s so that they would rise to face each other on Judgment Day. Their burial place is at the end of a long nave in the chapel that opens to a bright and airy space where the tombs draw the eye from all angles. The surrounding cloister is graceful and serene and one can imagine monks scurrying from one room to the next with purpose as they completed their daily routine. Throughout our visit, opera music filled the air as singers practiced in one of the grand halls, using the natural acoustics to fine tune their voices. Of all the monasteries we have visited during this trip and in past travels, Alcobaca is the only one that’s beauty is only matched by its’ rich history.

We left Nazare the next morning to drive to Evora. Along the way we stopped to purchase a basket of freshly picked strawberries from a farm. We also stopped to attempt to put out a grass fire. Or, I should say Andy tried to put the fire out. Along the national road, we spotted a wildfire that was spreading along the road. Andy grabbed our mini fire extinguisher and went to work..in vain. The fire went out initially, then resumed ravaging the hillside, with flames growing in size. We drove to the nearest town and happened to see a uniformed officer walking along the street, carrying a basket of wild greens. Yes, I said wild greens. He looked like Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther and looked like he had been strolling the fields gathering wild dandelion leaves all day. Really a weird sight. He pulled out a cell phone and called the Bombeiros and assured us they were on their way.

Our drive continued and it took nearly three hours along a narrow two lane highway, the landscape almost completely agricultural. The campground we chose lies a mile outside the walls to the old city, and from afar one can see the cathedral that anchors the city to the hill filled land.

Evora is a city designed for walking. Neighborhoods are linked by winding pedestrian thoroughfares and squares that provide a perfect resting point while double checking the map provided by the tourist office. Evora is rich in sights and we climbed up and down cobble stoned streets to take in as many as we could.

Evora is probably best known for is Capela dos Ossos. Built adjoining the Gothic style Igreja de Sao Francisco, built in 1510, the Capela is the result of sixteenth century monks determination to emphasize just how mortal we as humans truly are. The chapel walls are built from the bones of five thousand human skeletons, with one intact skeletal body hanging for good measure.

From the ‘Chapel of Bones’ we followed lavender colored tree lined streets to Diana Park for a view of the Roman Temple ruins, considered the “symbol of the city”. Still standing from the second or third century (depending on the guide book you read), the temple has fourteen intact columns and rests on top of a massive stacked stone base.

Back at the campsite we usually closed each day with a round of Frisbee. I had no idea how good of a player my sister was, and Andy and I spent our days trying to perfect our Frisbee skills to the level of Nicole’s play.

On our way out of Evora we stopped at Pasteleria Conventual for custard pies and traditional conventual cake made with almonds, squash, plums, and candied fruit. My sister’s and I have always dreamed of having a shop that sold both Portuguese and Jewish foods, and we hoped the stop would spark our interest again, providing a sampling of the delicate yet rich pastry found in Portugal.

From Evora we drove to Lisbon. Nicole’s visit was quickly coming to a close and we decided to spend her last night in Lisbon, seeing the sights and hearing the sounds of Portugal’s capital city. That evening, we dined at a Goan restaurant near the Castelo de Sao Jorge. Goa, once a territory of Portugal, was handed back to India in the 1960’s. The food is rich in flavors and spicy. We asked for our dishes to be prepared ‘extra hot’ as we had not been fortunate enough to find many flavorful foods during our travels. When the food came, it was aromatic and with adequate zest. So fiery in fact, that I could feel my stomach turn into a ball of fire as the meal hit. I’m not really sure that the food was as hot as we are accustomed to at home, or if my palate has become so dulled during our travels, that any hint of spiciness would provide a shock to my system. Andy felt the lava hit later in the evening, validating my theory that we are just out of touch with our normal ‘flaming hot’ eating habits

After dinner we took in sweeping views of the Tagus River from a hilltop viewpoint and wound our way down the streets near the Se Cathedral peeking into the many antique stores that line the neighborhood tucked neatly next to the Alfama district. We walked until we reached the Avenue da Liberdade. The famous street was abuzz with excitement as late diners emptied from closing restaurants onto the street. I picked up a box of malasadas for breakfast the next morning and then we followed the street to Rossio square where we found an exhibit of painted fiberglass cows. One of the cows (embellished by Portuguese artists) caught my eye, a combination of blue and white Azulejo tiles and a sunny side up egg. This sight sums up Portugal well…tiles and food with an egg on top.

It was with a heavy heart that I dropped Nicole off at the airport the next morning. Andy and I always feel sadness when a visitor leaves, and with Nicole it was no exception. She had shared with us what no other visitor during our travels had; life on the road. We left the airport in a daze heading north toward Coimbra. It would take many days for the memory of her presence to pass, and somehow we eventually fell back into our trio, Andy, Petey, and me.

In Coimbra we toured the University, stopping at the famous Biblioteca Joanina. Completed in 1728, the library is recognized as one of the most, “original and spectacular Baroque libraries in Europe.”

The University building was once home to the Royal Palace of Coimbra, the oldest royal residence in Portugal. The historical notes that accompany the tour are steeped in centuries of royal inhabitation and military conquests. Touring the connected buildings that line the grand courtyard one can see architectural touches spanning multiple centuries. Inside, stops such as the Capela de S. Miguel remind us that the academic pursuits now taking place on campus came after the royal line embellished the sanctuaries and grand salons.

From Coimbra we drove north to Madalena, on the outskirts of Porto. What we had planned as an extensive stopover quickly ended as the campground lacked the proper maintenance to keep the place comfortable and the campsite became inundated with ants. We had plans to meet a family friend for dinner late in the week and decided we would try to reach her by telephone to see if we could meet in Spain instead.

With Porto behind us we continued up the coast to Viana do Castelo. The campground connected to the rugged coastline by a short wooden walkway and from the beach you can see the small port that brought Viana do Castelo its’ wealth. From across the bay you admire the city, with its’ dramatic drop to the water. The town itself has wide streets that blend both modern and old architecture. Perched high atop the city is the Basilica de Santa Luzia, said to have one of the most beautiful views of Portugal. You can see the basilica from miles away, resting atop a jagged hilltop like a jeweled crown.

We got most of our sightseeing in the first day of our stay, and that was a good thing, because the next day, it rained and rained and rained. Thunder clapped throughout the day and we spent our time finding new leaks in the van and mopping up ever growing puddles of water. Tomorrow we’re off to Porto to meet up with friends and stroll the riverfront of Oporto

Vinaros turned into a much longer layover stop than first anticipated. We were excited to have met an interesting group of people to socialize with and daily bike rides exploring unknown territory began to get us both into shape and seeing new sights. The familiarity of staying put in one spot we had come to know during our stay at Chauffour had brought feelings of wanderlust, and we intended to avoid lengthy stopovers, instead opting for a change of scenery every few days or so. Yet, somehow Vinaros began to feel like a new home. Fellow campers were friendly and each day we learned a new tip about where to buy the best beef in town, or which restaurant had the best prix fix menu.

With each passing day we were invited to fellow campers’ pitches for dinner, or on a bike ride to visit the local flea market. It seemed every few days we found ourselves in the campground office extending our stay another few days. Days turned to weeks and just as we made plans to depart quaint little Vinaros and head south, the inevitable happened. For those of you that know me, you are surely familiar with my luck. And, if you have been keeping track of our travels through this log, than you know that I have not needed to seek medical attention since Bend, Oregon (about ten months). But, entering into the third week of our stay I took a nasty spill off my bicycle. All at once I felt a sharp, burning pain spread through my wrist and palm. My knee throbbed and I sat on the sidewalk stunned, dumbfounded that I had become separated from my bicycle. Actually, I wasn’t all that stunned. I had been jumping from street to curb to sidewalk for the past few weeks to avoid the small cars barreling toward me while cycling in town. This time, I had tried to jump a curve with an angle similar to the pyramids of Egypt. I was not successful of course, and the disbelief that followed was only quelled by the immense pain I felt from head to toe. Andy and I assessed the damage and after a few empathetic words from him, I was back on my bike.

Actually, the true cause of delay to our trip actually came later that night. As I sat nursing my wounds, icing my knee, and feeling a sense of overall sorry for myself I prepared to climb into the van and wash away the day’s events with a good nights’ sleep. Andy had gone to clean the dinner dishes and I looked to the van’s kitchen counter to see a pack of Mentos calling my name. Mento’s, that small refreshing mint; the candy that whether mint or fruit flavored unleashes a pleasant feeling onto your tastebuds. It seemed the perfect cordial to a day riddled with pain. I inspected the package, removed three pastel colored candies from the foil packaging and popped two into my mouth. Next, I heard a crunch, not unusual as Mento’s have a hard candy shell. But this time, the crunch seemed too crunchy, and sure enough not five seconds later I was staring at a Mento and dental crown sandwich. One of the crown’s in my mouth, no doubt weakened by the fall earlier in the day, had broken and become part of my ‘after dinner mint’. I couldn’t help but laugh, and laugh out loud I did. I quickly ventured to the wash basins to show Andy my prize. As I turned the corner to the communal sinks, Andy could read the expression on my face, a ‘doomsday’ look and asked, “What happened?” Next, we did what one does when faced with a dental issue; find a dentist.

During a visit to the dentist, I was fitted with a ‘pirate like’ silver temporary crown. As we discussed cost of the new crown, it was hard for the Dentist to miss my expression of relief when he quoted me 330 Euro for all the dental work, including the porcelain crown.
The dentist seemed amused by the cost of dental work in the states and went on an on about how backwards our medical and dental coverage is.

Back at the campground we continued life as we knew it. We grew familiar with other campers, and watched amused as Petey would wait for treats every hour to be thrown over the dividing hedge by our Dr. Zhivago look alike neighbor. Most days he was treated to raw steak, with the occasional unidentifiable chorizo looking sausage thrown in for good measure. On our end, we tried to reciprocate by tossing salmon treats to their dogs Chica and Teddy.

Our neighbor wasn’t just feeding Petey. He was quite the cook, and the smells emanating from his trailer peaked my curiosity too. Apparently, our neighbor from the north specialized in Indonesian fare. He was preparing a grand buffet for the close of a marathon in Vinaros and let Andy and I be his guinea pigs. He served a four course traditional Indonesian meal and waited on the other side of the hedge with assured confidence that we would bring back plates licked clean. Many a day were spent chatting about cuisine and we learned a history of the link between the Netherlands and Indonesia that was quite informative. But most of all, we just enjoyed that our neighbors were interested enough to include us in their day to day goings on. It was quite refreshing to see that age was not a barrier, and our different nationalities meant nothing when it came to socializing.

When the travel itch grabbed us we dropped the top on the van and drove to Morella, a walled village perched high above a green terraced valley. The town castle rests on the top of the hill, and we hiked to the top with Petey. Sweeping views of the rolling hills and lush foliage surrounding Morella extend twenty miles from the vista point. After a picnic lunch we walked the narrow pedestrian streets of the town and Andy stopped for a quick haircut, a bargain at seven euro.

On another day we drove to Peniscola, a Miama Beach style strip with golden sand beaches extending as far as the eye can see. As with most of our stops, this one came with the requisite castle and narrow winding streets lined with white washed houses clawing their way up to where the noble once resided.

Back on bikes again, we explored the many ‘Todos’ shops of Vinaros, essentially $1.00 stores with shelves from floor to ceiling lined with all the junk you ‘must have’. Actually, we did make a purchase at one of the shops. That small two euro purchase has become constant amusement for me the past few weeks. I purchased a pair of slip on shower shoes for Andy. Something about the material that the sandal is made from causes a constant farting sound with every step that Andy takes. You can hear him coming a mile away, and I’m certain that our neighbors think I’m feeding him food that makes him gassy. Speaking of food, while we nearly always prepare our own food, we do attend the occasional restaurant. It’s amazing how little you can spend in Spain for an amazing meal. For 18 euro two people can dine on a four course meal that includes a starter, salad, entrée, dessert, bread, and a bottle of wine. You just can’t beat it. Pork and fresh fish dishes are especially divine.

While in town we would usually stop along the promenade, near the harbor to soak in the sun and views of the calm Mediterranean Sea.

Back in Vinaros Campground, Andy and our friends spent nights drinking fruity Spanish wine affectionately named “The Diesel”. The high octane libation was always a source of entertainment for me, as I would sip my Schweppes Naranja (orange soda) and watch as everyone’s teeth but mine would turn a deeper shade of purple as the night crawled on.

On our final night in Vinaros, we laughed the evening away with our friends Johan, Rina and Linda. To be honest, I can’t remember why the evening turned into a chorus of laughter. Maybe it was the ‘Diesel’, or perhaps it was the fact that Johan amused us with numerous sight gags always with a twinkle carried in his eyes. Or, maybe it was because the five of us spent the better part of the evening trying to remember the name of an old ‘Men at Work’ song, going to far as to call Linda’s husband in Ireland to try to get the name. The evening left me amused at the whole ‘About Schmidt’ atmosphere (once again, see the movie and you’ll know where I’m coming from) one gets when living in recreational vehicles, and the other part of me felt like a person having an out of body experience, merely a spectator not a participant.

The morning we left Vinaros campground I was walking from the restaurant with two freshly baked croissants (during our stay in Vinaros we had gotten hooked on the buttery Spanish croissants with their sweet flaky top, better than the traditional French croissants we had become accustomed to) and I did a double take as I passed a motorcycle. I was sure that I had seen a California license plate adorning a BMW cycle. Sure enough, the motorcycle had a California plate, courtesy of San Francisco BMW. I couldn’t believe my eyes! What a small world I thought. Since reaching Europe, we had only seen one US plate, and it was displayed in the rear window of a Pontiac in France. I had to find the owners of the bike, and that I did. When I found the young couple eating at the café, I approached and asked their story. As it turned out, they were an Irish couple who had been living in San Francisco for the last ten years, as dormitory residents for the Academy of Art. We chatted a bit, and they told me how they had moved back to Ireland only to feel that their hearts had been left in San Francisco. We discussed old haunts and our love for the City, and they told us to look them up when we returned to the states, as they were sure they’d be back by the time we were home.

As we drove out of our campsite the entire block came out to wish us safe travels and bid us farewell. We were stunned. As our van pulled out of the campsite, fifteen people watched and waved until we were out of sight. It was all at once a strange and moving moment. Not unlike the impression they had all made on us, we had made one on them too.

We decided to take the coastal road toward the Costa Del Sol. The drive was filled with amazing views of the Mediterranean.

When my gaze wasn’t locked on the ever changing coastline, I was amazed at the number of construction cranes filling the skyline. Spain must have one of the fastest growing coastal land developments in the world. At times as many as fifty cranes can be seen in one beach rimming town. The sprawl is overwhelming and an affront to the senses.
In towns where the development seems to have no land to continue, signage and tourist trade rally to compete for the shrinking advertising wall space. Malaga in particular is a sign of when tourism goes wrong. The streets are littered with English signs advertising every type of cuisine and sunburned Brits walk from shop to shop looking like tomatoes rolling through a Del Monte plant assembly line. The whole place feels like a pressure cooker, with tourist consumerism at its’ base. At the center of it all, the once pristine beaches are now too crowded to be enjoyed and too overrun with expatriates to feel any sense of local culture.

Another aspect of the Costa Del Sol that is quite striking is the number of interior design and furniture stores. Every block along the coastal highway has a number of stores hawking everything from chintzy home decoration to high end room embellishments. If you are every looking to redecorate a house, Spain is the place to go for ideas. This country has home décor from to satisfy all tastes, shabby to chic. I was absolutely amazed at the number of shops, and the overwhelming selection. It’s worth the flight to check out the latest design trends in Spain.

Our first stop along the Costa Del Sol was in Marbella, or rather just outside the town limits. The campground was cramped and loaded with people, mostly Spanish. The campground back gate led straight to the beach, and Andy and I spent a lazy afternoon playing gin at an outdoor beachside café. Andy had a carafe of Sangria and I had a Shirley Temple. I won the match, but I must admit I had a slight advantage after Andy’s third round of Sangria.

We quickly left the bustling campsite and continued along the coast to what turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. Tarifa, Spain is a fantastic seaside town located at where the Strait of Gibraltar dumps into the mighty Atlantic. Our campground was located adjacent to the most spectacular stretch of beach. And, we had what I thought was the best pitch in the whole place. Our campsite rested on a plateau, surrounded by nothing but gorgeous views of the water and Africa, just 9 miles across the strait.

Tarifa is known as Europe’s premiere kite surfing destination. The mornings in Tarifa are deceptively calm with nary a sole on the beach, perfect for long strolls with the dog.

By mid afternoon, the winds come in with a surge and the skyline becomes a sea of color, as kite surfers take to the water. Watching surfers cut through the water with ease made one think that the sport required little more than the nerve to jump on the board and the know how to fly a kite. A quick conversation with a young German kite surfer educated us to the dangers of the sport. Many people have had ears and fingers sliced off when their kite strings pull from the force of the winds. Even worse, decapitation is not totally unknown. Apparently a man had been beheaded last year when his kite strings became entangled with another surfer. So, Andy and I remained spectators of the sport and looked with interest across the water to Africa and pondered taking a day trip to Morocco.

On our second morning in Tarifa we walked the extensive beach into town. The walk along the beach from the campsite into town takes about forty-five minutes, and the time passed quickly as we ran into another couple from the campground and began a conversation. David and Isabelle are from Australia. Actually, Isabelle now resides in Australia, by way of Chile. She left Chile two decades ago seeking political asylum. While in Australia she met David, a true ‘outback’ Aussie who tells stories of world travels that keeps the listener engaged and amused. They were in Spain visiting a couple they had met while camping in their home country. The couple, Vicente and Catalina, had invited them to Spain so that they could show them all the beauty that Spain has to offer. But, I digress. We walked with David and Isabelle to Tarifa and they showed us the entrance to the old walled city and directed us to an internet café so we could check our mail. At the café we parted ways and agreed to meet later for drinks back at the campground. Andy and I strolled the small cobblestone streets of Tarifa, winding in and out of buildings like a maze. The Moorish influence is most evident in Tarifa, with striking rounded architecture and intricate designs woven into building facades. And, if you take the time to peer through building doorways, you will find yourself staring into beautiful courtyards, ornately decorated with blue and white Spanish tiles. We had lunch in Tarifa at a café along the promenade taking time to enjoy our favorite pastime, people watching.

Later that night we walked over to David and Isabelles and enjoyed a bottle of wine, or rather I should say several bottles of wine. Vincente and Catalina schooled us on many things Spanish, including but not limited to wine, regions worth visiting, and Spanish music. For Spanish music they highly recommend the guitarist Paco De Lucia. Later, while visiting Seville we were able to pick up one of his cd’s, and listened to the rhythmic strumming of one of Spain’s musical treasures as we drove through the Spanish countryside bound for Portugal.

Vincente and Catalina are natives of Mallorca, and many laughs were shared that evening as Vincente pointed out to us ‘six degrees of separation’ between just about everything gracing the globe and Mallorca. Junipero Serra…from Mallorca. Christopher Colombus…born in Mallorca. Bill Clinton…visitor to Mallorca. Willie Nelson…Mallorcan. Okay, so I made the last one up, but you get the gist. It became a long running joke, and everything that came out of Vincente’s mouth was followed by a pause only to be broken by my chiming in with, “Isn’t he Mallorcan?”

After getting to know each other a bit we could tell that we had been accepted into the fold as Catalina instructed Vincente to go to their refrigerator and get the ‘good stuff’. What emerged was a soft spicy sausage spread called Sobrasada. The spread tastes similar to linguica and is served on toasted bread. Sobrasada was followed by pastry from Mallorca and Spanish champagne produced by a vintner friend of theirs. They waited to hear our evaluation of the sparkling wine to tell us that we probably wouldn’t have cared to know how it was produced. Evidently it’s a small production, done for friends and family the ‘old fashioned way’. My vivid imagination instantly planted a picture of a very hairy man with dirt laden feet stomping the grapes that made the water of life I was now drinking. I guess I had drunk enough of the bubbly not to care, because as a group we polished off two bottles of the stuff.

The following evening we met and played billiards with a young couple from England. Kit and Kate are on holiday and had come to Spain to hit the beaches and explore the Sierra Nevadas. We talked until the billiard room closed and then moved the party to our tent and talked until the wee hours of the morning. They shared many travel stories, especially extreme sports stories and I listened intently, remembering what it was like to be young again and have no fear.

Taking a break from slow pace of beach bumming, Andy and I drove to the rock of Gibraltar one day. The queues to gain entry to Gibraltar are long. Gibraltar, one of the few remaining territories of the United Kingdom requires one wishing to visit to meet the same entry conditions as if you were traveling to England. As our car inched along in traffic we prepared our passports and vehicle documentation. Then, we realized it may be necessary to provide Petey’s passport. It dawned on us that Petey had not yet had the two treatments needed for entry to the United Kingdom (as they have to be administered 48 hours ahead of any visit to the England and we weren’t planning to go to the United Kingdom until October). We knew Petey would be eager to jump to the window when we rolled up to the border crossing and panic set in. Had we waited all this time in line only to be turned away at the last moment? Sharper minds prevailed and we threw a Greenie into the back seat just as we made our final approach to the border agent. Petey dutifully jumped in the back (and out of site of border patrol) and we were in. With that said, Gibraltar turned out to be one of the ‘should have skipped it’ stops on our journey.

Gibraltar as a rock is actually quite impressive…if admiring from afar. Once you are on the rock, a mess of traffic and run down buildings combined with unorganized redevelopment construction is all one sees. I liken the rock to a dilapidated military installation turned tourist attraction, sprinkled with locals who have stayed on the rock for who knows what reason. If you ask me it’s a major fire hazard, an island with a maze of misplanned streets leading virtually nowhere. All directions point to a small area of pedestrianized streets that the tourism board likens to a mini England, complete with pubs serving fish and chips. Wandering the streets felt like visiting an amusement park that had fallen on hard times, and that paired with the road rage coming from the cars of nearly every passing vehicle made for a stressful visit. At one point, Andy and a local of Gibraltar were having a verbal duel for a parking space that ended with the man shouting, “Go back to America” and an expletive I won’t repeat here because tender eyes are reading this log. By the way…we were rightfully entitled to the space as we were there first.

For our part, we tried to make the best of it and ventured all the way to the other side of the island (where the road literally and abruptly ends) to watch tankers pass into the Strait of Gibraltar. Marine vessels litter the waterways and one looks out at the sea wondering what far away lands the goods are destined for. One positive thing to note is the wonderful views to Africa that can be had on a clear day. We were lucky enough to visit on such a day and sat on the nearly deserted far side of the island having a picnic lunch and remembering that our British friend Tracy had told us not to bother with the stop. Boy was she right…

Back in Tarifa we met a couple from the Netherlands who spend five weeks at the campground we were staying at. Erik first approached me by our van and asked the string of questions we are so used to getting now, “You’re from the United States? How’d you get that car here?” Our conversation continued with Erik sharing about his travels in the states and later he invited us over for a BBQ where we met his girlfriend Linda (a dedicated nudist) and spent the evening chatting about politics. And I do mean chatting. There was no discussion or debate, just friendly chatting about how current political climates have changed our two nations. We may live on opposite ends of the globe, but we face similar issues. Separate, but the same. From Erik we picked up another culinary trick that we have now incorporated into our daily routine…cappuccinos topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Mmmmm…

Our week long stay in Tarifa ended with me vowing to return again one day and driving slowly along the last stretches of coastline, so as to savor each last mile. Within a few minutes the coastline disappeared and we were heading toward the three grand cities of Granada, Cordoba, and Seville to visit historic landmarks worthy of short stopovers.

Before reaching the trio of cities we drove the winding roads of Spain into the rolling hillsides, populated almost completely by olive trees. It appears that there are as many olive trees as Spaniards, since olive trees seem to drape the landscape with their silvery green leaves. We stopped for a night in Ronda, Spain, a village sitting high atop a gorge valley. There are two bridges in the city that day back to Roman times and the views from the bridge overlooks are terrifying. The town itself is known for its’ bullring, as it is one of the oldest and most monumental. We strolled through the Bullfighting museum, which has an extensive collection of bullfighting art and costumes. We also were able to see a special exhibit of the Royal Harness Collection, an imposing collection of the ornamental gear worn by horses used for Royal events and travel throughout the ages. A fabulous exhibit, and not to be missed. After the museum we walked through the bullring, climbing the stairs to the viewing levels, all the time feeling the wave of excitement that lives there whether visiting during a sold out bullfight or when the ring is filled only with the spirits of past matadors.

The main street in town provides the perfect environment for a late afternoon stroll and we walk the cobblestone streets stopping only for a gelato and to people watch. Later, we biked two miles back to the campsite, almost completely an uphill battle, and were disappointed to see that the swimming pool at the campground had not yet opened for the season.

The next morning we drove to Granada to see what many guide books list at the “If you only see one thing in Spain…” place, the Alhambra. Granada itself is a dizzying city, complete with traffic snarls and dilapidated barrios. Yet, perched high atop the city is an oasis, a Moorish palace and gardens that have been exquisitely maintained. When you first arrive there is a theme park feel, as gates and ticket booths swell with throngs of tourists But, don’t be deterred. Once you enter the gates, the crowds reduce to a trickle as visitors fan out to explore the massive grounds. We spent the afternoon wandering through the gardens, visiting the ruins, and looking out at the spectacular city views.

At our assigned time we visited the palace and became mesmerized by the architecture and intricacy of design. The palace has sculpted waterways running throughout the maze of rooms and courtyards, and one can see how water has become such a grand and luxurious symbol of life. The detail in the tile work is all at once a puzzle and marvel of workmanship. Most of all, I was impressed by the arched windows, nearly all of which provided a panoramic view of lush green grounds and bountiful fruit trees. I can understand why royalty built the jewel know simply as Alhambra, which translated from Arabic (al-Hamra) means “the red”. And a fine red jewel it is.

For our next stop we ventured to Cordoba. The manager of a campground that was filled to capacity directed us to a rural park that had campsites that resemble the style of camping we are more accustomed to in the states. Spring wildflowers could be seen in fields of pine trees and the setting was tranquil. After a restful nights sleep we drove to the city center, left the van by a heavily shaded park and biked to the famous La Mezquita.

The great mosque known as La Mezquita now houses a church and tiny chapels that surround the perimeter are dedicated to the many saints Catholics pay homage to. I never realized how entrancing religious art could be until my visit to the Mezquita. I was particularly taken with one piece, and gazed through the chapel gates to admire the attention to detail and rich color the artist had used. For the first time in my life I found myself looking, and I mean really looking, at the paintings before me. Small nuances that had gone unnoticed before were now glaring beacons. I’m not saying that I was having a ‘Da Vinci Code’ moment (read the book to know what I mean, and forget about seeing the movie), but the breadth of the paintings is too much to be absorbed by just a passing glance.

Also in the Mezquita is one of the largest wood carvings in the world. Yet another masterpiece, the deep rich brown stained wood encompasses seats for the leaders of the church, pulpits, and decorative features that extend high into the busily cherub painted oval ceiling. Rows of benches are rarely empty as tour groups and individuals alike take a seat to admire the carvings, each blink of the eye bringing a newly discovered face or crest. It too is a piece of art that reminds one of the great attention to detail paid by artists of yesteryear, who for some one piece could end up being a lifelong work.

After visiting the church we wandered into the Jewish Quarter, where the only sign that Jews once dominated the landscape could be seen in the ornately painted street signs bearing Jewish names and the small Jewish star tiles for sale at tourist shops.

We rode our bikes back to the van and decided to picnic in the park. Andy made sandwiches consisting of salami, cucumber, peppers, cheese, and tomatoes on freshly baked pannini bread. They were ‘scrummy’, as our British friend Linda would say. Yep, you guessed it…yummy. On our way out of town we picked up a piece of Torte Espana for the following day’s breakfast, a quiche like torte made with eggs and potatoes

Our final stop on the cannonball tour of the trio of cities was Seville, home to the largest gothic cathedral in the world and the Alcazar citadel. Unfortunately, with the fame of being the ‘largest’ of anything, comes the drawback of major tourism trade. The cathedral is nearly completely encircled by book and trinket stands selling all of the usual guides to the site (in a minimum of five languages of course).

For me, the best part of the visit was the stop I made at a churro stand run by a young Spanish couple. The churros coiled like a hose and sizzled in the oil, only to be plucked from the bubbling cauldron by a huge round spatula like net. Drained of the grease, wrapped in paper and sprinkled with sugar, the churro makes a perfect portable snack for sightseeing.

Back on the road again, it was a matter of an hour or two and we were crossing a bridge into Portugal. We stopped at the border tourism office and were welcomed by a smiling, well informed tourism office employee. She provided guides to the sixteen municipalities of the Algarve region and directed us to the village of Ohlao, for a traditional fishing village atmosphere. We spent a few days touring the town, rather unspoiled by tourism and then continued along the national highway.

During our drive we stopped in Faro to visit a Jewish cemetery and museum, the cemetery being the only remaining sign of post Inquisition Jewish presence in the Algarve. Smack dab in the middle of the busy Faro city center, the nearly hidden iron gates open to reveal a courtyard filled with cypress trees. The small cemetery has just over 100 graves, some marked by marble gravestones and others simple pebble graves. The small museum provides a detailed history of the small Jewish presence found in Portugal, the most notable being how the Jewish community in Faro actually came about after the Marquis de Pombal asked a sixty family Jewish group to relocate to Portugal to help rebuild the post 1755 earthquake economy.

Back on the road again I began to notice one striking difference between the national roads of Portugal and Spain.
An interesting aspect to the driving in Portugal is that unlike Spain, where the highway hugs the coast, in Portugal the coastline is a well kept secret, a stones throw from the highway. Take any turn off the highway bound for the coast and you are rewarded with quaint fishing villages and unspoiled beaches. But remain on the highway and you miss it all. I think it’s what’s kept development at a limited pace, a marvel considering the beauty of the Portugal’s coast.

After leaving Olhao we drove the Algarve coast all the way to the tip of the continent, Cape Vincente. Dramatic cliff top drops are only rivaled by the fisherman leaning over the edge trying for the daily catch. A hazardous sport perfectly captured in a photo exhibit at the museum housed at the citadel.

Returning to the Eastern Algarve we decided to stop in a tiny fishing village. Armacao de Pera strikes the perfect balance between understated tourism in harmony with local people. Beautiful beaches and coast side cafes hug the coves and the people are friendly and inviting. We decided to stay awhile and enjoy the seaside town. Days are spent riding to town for the early morning market and lounging by the campground pool. Evenings are calm, with a gentle breeze whistling through the eucalyptus trees. Right now as I write this update the sun has set and a neighboring camper is playing folk music, presumably from his homeland of the Netherlands. He serenades us each evening as the sun slides down the orange tree lined groves of the Algarve coast. The slow soothing sounds of his accordion will lull us to sleep tonight as we dream about adventures that lie ahead.