Praça Alexandre Herculano

It's raining hard outside. It would not have been much of a beach day anyway. The front desk has a classic jazz channel going with Galt McDermott playing Coffee Cold. Fantastic.

The residents are all hanging out on their devices in their corners.

The Scotsman, Trevor, who usually dwells on the beach under his boat, came in to escape the rain. He is very good about keeping his clothes clean and there is no way you can tell he is living this lifestyle. He also likes it north of Banjul in Senegal, despite the mosquitoes. He is a character, looks a bit like a gypsy with a light grey head sock, long white locks dangling out on the sides of his face and a trim white beard, tanned and weathered skin from being outside all the time. His eyes tell stories, if he doesn't start in on one. His father was a cultivated man, engineer but always stressed, his mother a gypsy, easy going and loving. He never got to stay in one place long growing up, so as a single child he learned to adapt to new circumstance.

My cold is getting better but I still need more rest, back to bed. It's Sunday and everything is closed anyway. I sleep deeply and am woken up to the dumbest, loudest conversation in a long time. I finally ask them to take it to the living room. But it's too late I lost out on deep slumber. Vexing but I must accept that the universe is conspiring to not let me sleep.

The storm didn't seem so bad from inside the 300 year old hostel, but once outside I saw the utter destruction of trees in town. Branches, limbs and entire trees were downed. Faro lost a hundred trees today.

I get the car but it is stuck in the parking garage, where there was free parking for the weekend, but I need to pay 46 euros which I wasn't prepared for, so I slipped the car between and under the bars just like I slipped through the bars at the hostel in Lugo. What an escape artist.

Got dinner and gas, all set to cook a meal. At the dinner table I meet Lucy, a thirty something Dutch woman, and Trevor joins us. The three of us have a great conversation that goes as deep and deeper than any on the Camino. Trevor knows what I am finding out about and we can share it and we see if Lucy has an inkling, which she doesn't. Trevor can sit with the birds on the sand bar and giggle in observing and being with the innocence of all of it. He does routinely what I got to feel a few days ago. Crying while laughing in joy of the overwhelming moment of fully being there, connected and one with all that is around you. All the emotions available exist at once. Everything is perfect as it is. He confirms what I now know. I needed to meet him. I have gratitude for the serendipity.

No picture of Trevor, he didn't want one taken. He will live in my mind's eye.Read more