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Camino Santiago Portugese

April - June 2023
April 29 - May 22, 2023 along the coast of portugal, then inland at the Lima River to finish in Northern Spain. Read more
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  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    11
    Day 1

    Hola, Lisboa

    April 30, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☁️ 18 °C

    Lisbon has been compared to San Francisco for its winding hills of roads lined with multicolored, multistoried homes with birthday-cake trim. But, as the guide at the camera obscura at one of its tallest peaks confirmed for me today, it’s also the home of a sister to the Golden Gate.. Built by the same company, its even orange. Said tour guide confirmed Lisboans, too, are forever painting theirs.

    Forget the hop-on bus. The way to really see a city is Uber. I’m glad I made this call. Driver Manual and I talked fast cars, but also about how an influx of foreign investment in vacation homes has driven locals to distraction. Many are leaving, he says, because they no longer can afford to rent, often from foreigners who visit the homes here for a month or two away from a primary home. He drove me to the redeveloped riverfront, where Portuguese folk cannot hope to live in million dollar condos. The influx of tourist and vacation dollars is bom, but the cost of living that comes with it is unsustainable. (I heard a similar story from an Uber driver in New Orleans,)

    Riding back to my old-town rental with stoic Jose took me past all the places the tourism office probably didn't want me to see; warehouse areas with blasted out windows a la Oakland along 580, a barrio where three men were playing cards and smoking around and overturned crate, the working part of the Rio Tejo, with block-like stacks of hewn logs waiting for shipping containers, and regular neighborhoods with folks going about their daily business.

    This city is old. Many of the streets are slim and cobbled, and the hills put San Francisco to shame. There is definitely the same sort of vibe. Rows and rows of shoulder-to-shoulder, multistory buildings painted in happy hues, shops on the first floor, bars on the doors and windows. The azulejos, or blue tiles aren’t as ubiquitous as I expected, but smatterings are all over the old city, with an occasional all-tile facade. Graffiti is ubiquitous and is sometime blight and sometimes beauty.

    The Mediterranean climate is much like home, although a bit warmer. People here are like people anywhere. Some of the are flipping their hair and making duck lips for the camera. Others offer to take a photo of a nice older lady all by herself. I’ve heard the pace is slower, but aside from siesta time (or whatever they call it here) and later dinner hours, I haven’t felt it.

    It’s a lovely, colorful old city.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    11
    Day 1

    ‘Your mother was a hamster..’

    April 30, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☁️ 20 °C

    I toured a medieval fort and castle. I mean…like in Monty Python and Camelot, and Princess Bride, and The Court Jester. Only flippin’ real. I’m not gonna lie, I gasped when I saw it. It was astounding.

    Castelo de S. Jorge was founded by the Arabs in 11th century. Phoenicians and Romans lived there early on. The original building was an Islamic fort high on a hill. Strategic advantage? Check! Until those dang Crusaders showed up, conquered it, and then topped it with their own defensive gewgaws. It housed kings and governors, and is now a national monument.

    The striations of each civilization are visible in the architecture. Low down, construction is of rough-hewn stone cobbled together in thick globs of friable mortar. The next layer features bricks fitted closely with thin lines of a sturdier paste. And then more modern touches - plaster, and from modern times, protective plastic covering over ages old iron in windows. There are red bricks all about, looking like a decades long patch project. Got a hole there, Bob? Stick a brick in it!

    Walking here is a reflection on human ingenuity. The battlements you see in the movies make so much sense in reality. Everywhere, on every level, are high places from which to hide and shoot, or throw, or pour stuff that kills unwanted guests. It’s clear that the inhabitants climbed higher ( and for that matter built higher) to escape danger. The fortress even features a kill alley as the last, literal avenue of defense. The only way marauders were getting to those within and above was down a corridor lined with fortified, higher ground positions. Brilliant.

    I imagined following someone through the many cobbled avenues from level to level. There is a sense of how the community worked, if you let your mind see it. Water and sewer and lovely courtyards and market stalls - its all clear. They even carved rivulets in roof tiles to aid water runoff. As I meandered, I could sense where people lived and how they went about their days.. I imagined some child delivering goods from the lower courtyards, getting away from the ‘burbs’ and hoping for a glimpse of a fine lady. And the soldiers must have been fleet footed to zip up the slim stairs to the ramparts and along the walls.

    It was an unforgettable morning. I’ll never watch a medieval movie again without an eye toward whether they got the sets right. I have a newfound respect for the centuries of ingenuity that went into our civilizations.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 2

    To Porto : Uber Fast and Furious

    May 1, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☁️ 18 °C

    On Monday, I headed for the Lisbon train station after a sleepless night and big breakfast at my hotel. About halfway into my Uber ride, the hotel, Ting’s, called to let me know I had left my string backpack under the breakfast table.

    Shit.

    My Uber driver, Manuel, doesn’t speak a lick of English, and my newfangled translation app can only translate one word at a time. He pulls over at the beginning of a freeway on-ramp. Middle of Nowhere-land, Not USA. We gesticulate wildly as a means of failed teamwork, but cannot decipher how to reset the ride back to the hotel. I order and pay for two drivers as we fumble about for a solution. Uber to the rescue. Giovani is on his way!

    Suddenly, Manual shoos me to the back of his vehicle and proceeds to unpack my carry-on bag and poles. He’s smiling and making soothing sounds in Portuguese. His meaning slowly percolates. “‘Ate ja,’ English lady.”

    “You’re just going to leave me here?” I rant. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

    Yep. That’s his plan.

    Thankfully, Giovani pulls up. I throw my stuff in his trunk and hop in. Giovani has “a little English.” I switch apps to Google Translate, and that sturdy assistant helps me explain my quandary. I have about 40 minutes until my train for Porto leaves. The round trip back to the hotel and then to the station will take 36.

    Giovani, 29, and with a sense of humor and optimism much like Jake, tells me “Fast…but safe.”

    Off we go, recreating the opening sequence of Streets of San Francisco, minus the airborne moment at the top of the hill. (Look it up on YouTube, youngsters.)

    Gio, as I now think of him, starts counting down the minutes until arrival at the station. “Eeeeleuveen. Teen.” Even in a panic, Portuguese is a melodious language. Not super soothing at this moment, however.

    We pull around a tight Lisbon corner heading uphill and there.
    Is.
    A.
    Garbage.
    Truck.

    Gio, now my ride-die partner, yells, “Awwwwww, FUCK!”

    This is the moment I stop caring about the train. Gio has my back, and my love. I tell him he’s getting a big tip whether I make the train or not, because he’s tried so hard. But mostly because now we’re both laughing instead of cringing.

    Garbage guy helps up maneuver around the roadblock, and we’re on our way. Gio keeps counting down. It’s funny now.

    I make the train. Yippiekaiaye.

    I tip Gio $10 on a $6 ride. He will be my Partner for fucking ever.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 3

    Marosinhos to Labruge: Lollygagging

    May 2, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☁️ 16 °C

    Everybody passed me today. Four Camino cyclists, a dozen folks wearing backpacks (“Bom Caminho!”), a bunch of locals out for a beach day, and a woman carrying two bags of groceries, A nut brown, big-bellied, shirtless guy in bright blue shorts passed me…twice.

    I am an unapologetic lollygagger. I stopped to read all the informational signs posted. There were probably a couple dozen along the 7.5 miles of boardwalk that made up the first leg of my Camino. (FYI: The Germans sank a boat off the coast here after the war, just to assure the Allie’s didn’t confiscate it. The flowers of the dunes here enjoy protected” status. The still-active fishing settlement on the beach is older than your great grandma.)

    This is nothing new. Anyone who has hiked with me will tell you I like to stop and dissect the roses. Today, I pause to watch some shorebirds, plovers, putter about. They are unworried about my proximity, unlike our shy California version. I witness two couples in their silly flirting and wag my finger at the “mao homem” who scares his girlfriend. I take a brief detour to find an ancient fishing cottage surrounded by the collected plastic remnants of a modern coastal cleanup. Cool!

    Some pilgrims judge a slow walker on the Camino. For them, suffering is part of the process, and speed is essential to the route. Others argue, “It’s your Camino, and it will unfold the way it supposes to unfold. The Camino provides,”

    After a first day of coastal meandering, I can see some challenges ahead. No amount of lollygagging can erase the physical strain of the 100-plus kilometers ahead. But I walked 7.5 miles today, and I could have done a bit more. I’m tired, but no blisters, and no aches. All good news.

    Certainly dark moments lie in wait, ready to chew up and spit out my current nirvana . My feet will likely start to hurt. Rain is forecast for later this week, and I’m not sure how I will navigate that. At some points I’ll get wet, and sore and tired and hungry and grumpy.

    But I’ll be ok. I am going nowhere fast, and it is glorious.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 3

    Elisabete in Labruge

    May 2, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☁️ 24 °C

    I confess. I was smitten with Elisabete, the owner and host of at my pension, the moment I laid eyes on her. Kindness and good cheer are a sort of pheromone for some people. She is one of them. I had been with her less than 15 minutes before I was compelled to hug her, and her hug in return confirmed all.

    A former corporate sales executive, she left her job to turn her former, first, home into Smiling Places Guest House, essentially a B &B for pilgrims. She and her husband opened the doors in January of 2020, just in time for Covid.

    Bad luck.

    But Elisabete says not so. She, her husband and daughter moved back into the Labruge house to weather the pandemic together. Mornings were spent updating the home. Afternoons at the beach with their daughter. When they did open in April of 2020, the reservations poured in.

    Now, she spends her days pouring coffee and wine and collecting stories, and “love.” Any cynicism at the use of that word would evaporate if you were in her company. She clearly adores her job and says owning this place has made her a better human. Camino pilgrims share with her unique tales that are a combination of past tragedy and future dreams. She respects the privilege of her witness to their tales. She relishes it.

    I spent my afternoon on the back patio under an umbrella with Elisabete. We shared our stories and others’ stories. We laughed a lot. Hugged a little more. We even cried. She brought me wine and walnuts. She offered some sage advice that was a little difficult to hear. Then she whisked me off for a quick look at the local church and the stubbiest statue of a saint I’ve ever seen. When I left, she walked me to her gate, and we clung to each other like old friends reluctant to part.

    So much laughter. I am happy to have had the courage to break the barrier of formality, and to beg a hug from a stranger.

    This is what I had hoped for when I planned my Camino - connection with the people who live here. The rule-follower in me was worried the the first stamp in my Camino ‘credentialed’ is not a church, which is the norm. Instead, the first recorded stop on my walk will be a stamp that reminds me of an intimate, silly, sometime moving and inspirational afternoon with a total stranger.

    Hallelujah.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    1
    Day 4

    Labruge - Povoa de Varzim

    May 3, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ 🌧 17 °C

    Bregit! My feet!

    I walked 10.7 miles today. It was supposed to be 8, but a chosen detour and some lost wandering here in Povoa de Varzim racked up a few extra. My feet aren’t killing me, but they are considering it.

    If a doctor asked me to rate my foot pain from one to 10, I’d say 3, with a serious threat threat for an increase. My heels feel like overworked pistons in need of an oil change. My toes are sun-blind prisoners just released from my trail runners. This seems only natural considering the work they put in today. Hopefully tomorrow and the next day…and so on…won’t compound the issue.

    I travelled all day today with Bregit, from Germany. She majored in English, so was able to accommodate our conversations nicely. (I am forever thankful and also guilt ridden that so many others taken the time to learn my language.) We talked about the many people back home who were confused and worried by our decision to walk alone, and about our families, and our Camino experiences thus far. We agreed the Portuguese people are a cheerful bunch who eat a loooot of potatoes. We also agreed they drive on some of the skinniest streets we’ve ever seen. She taught me how to say ‘snail’ in German.

    Bregit is no slacker, so we clocked about about a 22 minute mile, even with an occasional lollygag. The scenery along our route was very much like coastal California. We trod a raised boardwalk across a lot of sandy beaches and dunes. At one point the wind blown sand had swept over the boardwalk trail so completely that the upright posts were covered. Sand walking sucks.

    Arriving here in Povoa de Varzim, we opted to detour back to the sea rather than take the standard path through town. That’s how we found a great little cafe for our supper, or whatever the Portuguese call the huge meal they consume midday. Of course there were French fries. Bregit got a salad. I was jealous.

    We are hitting the road together tomorrow for an anticipated 8 miles. Feet don’t fail me now.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    1
    Day 5

    Povoa de Varzim to Apulia: Samesies

    May 4, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ⛅ 18 °C

    It’s nearly 9000 kilometers from Apulia, Portugal to Monterey, California, but the mustard plants are blooming here too. This coast and my coast are distractingly familiar. Along Apulia’s Atlantic, white sand dunes shush-shush against ice plant mounds that I bet are invasive here too. Blush-and-white-striped dune morning glory and sage give way to marsh grasses as Brigit and I amble inland. Swaths of mustard line the rivers and streams. (So many rivers and streams here!)

    Somewhere along the way today I got so focused on the flora that I started taking lots of plant pictures. Photos of wild asparagus and strawberry and a saucy red poppy sticking it’s tongue out at our orange state flower. Brigit and I walked through groves of Eucalyptus and birch. I even spotted a scrubby little oak, which, ok, is a bit of a unicorn over here. Brigit was perplexed by my obsession. But she was patient: a sure sign of a good walking buddy.

    Even the towns here feel similar. Back in Povoa de Varzim, the street leading out of town was lined with kitschy tourist shops and cafes a la Monterey, with a splash of Carmel. At about the halfway point, the path was bordered on the left by a golf course and the right by small farms. It was Watsonville. Here in Apulia, it’s Moss Landing laid-back with a side of fishing boats.

    Of course, California beachfront towns don’t have quite so many centuries old windmills and churches. Ok. No windmills. And of course the similarities are the result of the Mediterranean climate, and Pangea, and blah blah blah. Still, it was comforting and a bit magical to hear the same blackbird songs and catch a whiff of Eucalyptus as we approached a grove just outside of Apulia. It was a whiff of home for me, 5592.341 miles from Cali.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 6

    Apulia: Lost and Found

    May 5, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☀️ 19 °C

    So, Brigit from Germany and I are Camino besties now.

    I don’t want to get too mushy, but 10 miles of sore feet and chit-chat followed by wine, beer, and exhaustion are a potent mix. Or maybe it was that Camino magic that veteran pilgrims go on about.

    Whatever it was, Brigit and I found ourselves sharing shit you don’t share with strangers. We spilled secret guilts and wishes and sorrows. They poured out like the wine that started with “Oh, no. I can’t drink a whole bottle myself” and ended with a very amused waiter.

    We two side-by-side ‘peregrinas’ had spent the last four or five hours lulled by the rhythmic tic-tic unison of our walking poles on the boards. Walls come down when the biggest worry you share is where you’re going to pee next. I think, also, there is a safety in being pilgrims. Most of us here are seeking something…next… without quite knowing what it will be. That’s enough for a relationship on the road.

    But Brigit and I have dozens of things in common: two sons; one gregarious and the other shy; husbands who would rather stab themselves with a pencil than walk 10 miles a day; merino wool t-shirts. We also are driven at this moment in life to consider what we want our ‘next’ to be. It’s a heavy topic. We tried early during dinner to lighten the mood. The mood was not having it.

    So, we got right down in it - sharing our fears and guilt and lost dreams - two days after having met. It was a long dinner. We ate many meats and cheeses. (Pork and dairy are big here.) We got a little weepy. We saw ourselves through each other’s eyes. This is a breathtaking thing when you are tired and drunk and are ripe for reflection and revelation.

    They say, “The Camino provides,” but I did not see this coming. I feel lucky that it did. Traveling light apparently includes dropping my emotional baggage. Brigit and I were able to lighten each other’s loads, and as a result our own. We’re both closer to our next thing, whatever that may be.

    As she would say, “It is good. It will be so. We will make it so.”    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 6

    Where the Fao Are We?: Apulia - Marinhas

    May 5, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C

    Brigit and I got a wee bit lost on our last day together. I blame Pavlov.

    The two of us exited the bed and breakfast we had coincidentally both booked for May 4, and right around the corner was the boardwalk we had come to love these last 20 or so miles. We hit the wood.

    This was despite both of our guidebooks recommending we turn inland for the shorter path to the town of Fao “through a brief stretch of heavy woodland.” But we were on the coastal and there were boards. We knew boards. We had seen a lot of them, and they had never led us astray. We became increasingly doubtful, however, when we didn’t see any of the metal or ceramic markers that assure a pilgrim they are on their way. We saw a few painted yellow lines with painted red lines below them, which was concerning.

    So we asked folks. No less than 3 assured us we were good. One expounded the benefits a seaside vs inland walking. The others all nodded encouragingly and shooed us on our way. We eventually left the sea and walked through some woods, along a very busy road. So…maybe.

    Then, in a nondescript seaside town, we came across the universal sign for ‘you blew it’ - a yellow arrow crossed out with a red, diagonal stripe. Portuguese translation -‘ Este nao e o Camino.’ So finally, like the confident women we are, we stopped to ask for directions. Two women nearby were walking home with market bags. We begged their help. While one stopped to drag us to a cafe to find someone with ‘some English’ the other hustled off down the sidewalk. Smart girl.

    There wasn’t much English to be had at the Ilha Restaurante, but there was a toilet. So - Winning! They also stamped our Camino passports with the restaurant name and address. We sought directions from the proud owner of the cafe, a passerby, and a young woman smoking a cigarette on the patio to the next town, Fao. They were confused.

    We enunciated heavily, spoke louder, and poked at the maps on our screens. “Fao! We want to get to Fao! How go Fao?”

    More confusion.

    Finally,I said, “ bridge,” and the proprietor got it. He offered the directions we sought in a universal language: We needed to go straight-hand-moving-down-the-sidewalk-wiggle-it-right-wiggle-it-left- humpty-hump-the-bridge.

    Ahhhhhhh. Thanks! (Really. How did these people not know where the town of Fao was?)

    Brigit and I finally crossed the bridge into Marinhas. By this time my Spidey senses, ignored since we hit the boardwalk, we’re really tingling. “Hey Brigit. I’m wondering if maybe…”

    Later I checked my pilgrims passport. The address of Ilha Restaurant, where three locals tried almost in vain to help two very confused peregrinas was stamped in crisp black ink:

     Av. Antonio Veigo N 80….

    Fao.    Read more

  • TravelerCamino Santiago Portugese
    Day 7

    Kismet & Blisters: Chafe

    May 6, 2023 in Portugal ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C

    I nearly belly crawled into Chafe sporting a blister on my right big tow, a tight right calf, and something badly wrong with my left foot. My trip here started with brutal emotional challenge and ended with brutal physical challenge.

    The climb was nearly 600 feet up through beautiful forests and small towns. Then is was down about 300 feet into the town of Chafe. My Camino Portuguese guide app said this leg was 8 miles. I walked 11.

    Exhausted, I arrive too early at Casa da Reina to check in. (I am learning that next to nothing happens here between 1 and 3 p.m., except the consumption of an enormous meal.) I trudge to a local cafe, S. Sebastian Pao Quente Pastelaria for lunch, and they have salads! Some days here in French fry land I would kill for a vegetable. Anyhow, I get my salad and sit down and notice in the window on my left a poster for a fado show. Tonight! Catching a not-too-kitschy performance of this traditional guitar and voice music was on my Portugal bucket list. The show is at 9. I am blistered, stinky, and sore, but I am going.

    A heavenly helping of green veggies later I arrive at Casa da Reina. And it is... magical. The original stone building of the compound dates back to 1744. It’s been in the owners’ family for generations, centuries. Around every corner of the grounds there is something new to see. It also has a modern pool. And toilets.

    Cecilia, who runs the place her vintner husband inherited, hooks me up with a seat at the Fado show. It’s over at the community center. The person who answers the phone is a nephew. It’s a small town.

    I take a shower and a rest before heading to the pharmacy, which is diagonally across the street from the salad spot. I’m in flip-flops because of the blister. It’s 7 pm, but the pharmacy is closed. Even though it says right on the door ‘8 p.m.’ open and closed are fluid concepts here

    I figure I’ll head to the community center and grab dinner somewhere nearby. I call an Uber. A fashionable woman in a bright pink jacket (it’s a popular color here.) pulls up. I hop in. She drives around the corner and stops. Across the street from the salad place. The ride has been maybe 100 yards. She looks at me, incredulous.

    She points to the GPS on her phone: ‘Arrived.’ We are both confused. So she parks at the cafe, and we get out.

    What follows is a Portuguese version of the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. The owner of the cafe comes out. “Aren’t I the woman who was here for the vegetable lunch?” She asks.

    I left my hiking poles. She gets them for me. I am thankful. The pink Uber driver is waiting. She strikes up a query with the cafe owner about my 300-foot, $4 ride around a corner. A fellow at one of the tables joins in. There is much hilarity. The cafe owner, who had told me during my salad day that the performance was at the OTHER community center makes a call. Nope. It’s across the street.

    Friends, a couple of years ago this situation would have had me mortified. But not today. I’m enjoying the ridiculousness of it as much as they are. I don’t feel a fool. Kismet has brought me back to the cafe to pick up my poles. I order a dinner of fried chicken cutlet and fries. I add a beer. I watch families leave the nearby church as I await my concert. It’s peaceful.

    The fado performance is exactly what I hoped for: mid level performers who love the form and an audience filled with friends. They sing along with the band. I sit alone at a table. I am pegged as an outsider because I’m now carrying my walking poles. Everyone is polite, but they don’t know me. This is fine. I’m here for the music. Besides, the plate of cookies at the table for four are all mine. (Portuguese pastries are the crack of the dessert world. I love them as much as I love salad.)

    Late in the performance, the lead guitar player messes up during a song and stops playing. The audience is already singing along. He cues them to stop. They ignore him and instead sing louder. The singer in the band laughs and goads them into a raucous chorus. The guitarist gives up and joins in.

    It’s a perfect metaphor for my day. Shit goes sideways; it’s how you respond that matters.    Read more

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