Esposende

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….

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