Well, the internet access - not so easy! The good news is that the internet access is free - bad news is that it is only available for a few hours in the afternoon. So, as you can tell, we would rather be out and about then blogging.
But, here we go!
We are having a wonderful time. Below you will get Jim´s humorous musings on our day of travel. I am in charge of the travel log and photos (although unclear if I'll get the photos uploaded before the internet place closes - just realized we hadn´t labeled the photos on the memory stick, so Jim is at another computer trying to quickly do that).
First of all, Obidos, where we are staying is completely enchanting. Every time we walk through it we find something we did not notice before. Each doorway is unique, potted flowers and flowerboxes everywhere, narrow streets, cobblestones everywhere. Every day, a van load of Asian women (and one man) arrive to sit and paint and we pass them daily as we walk into the walled village (we are just outside the wall). Other than the first afternoon we arrived, the weather has been beautiful.
Our second day here we went to Peniche - huge beach, popular for surfing. Because it was a windy day, we had the beach to ourselves and it felt good to take a long walk given our full day of sitting on planes the day prior. In the afternoon we went to the bigger town near Obidos - Caldas da Rainas as we were told it had a wonderful fruit and veggie market (Jim is a bit challenged with his veggie diet here!). However, the market was for the "birds" -literally, the pigeons were dining on most items...but it was a cute town to walk around in and we found an amazing tile sculpture outside of the hospital.
Day two was a day of Catholicism 101- first to Tomar where we hiked up the cobblestone mountain path to the Monestary - HUGE - with amazing views of the town below. Next stop was Fatima - where three young children were "visited" by the Virgin Mary. The scale of the place reminded me of the Vatican, unfortunately very cementy and massive, but it was interesting watching the people crawling on the knees to be "healed". I have to say that it made me so curious (thinking about both the play The Crubible, as well as the many kids I´ve worked with who see spirits) how what may have been boredom, or trauma, or creativity, or maybe truly a miracle ends up creating a spiritual destination - the whole city is built around it.
Today we had a relaxing day at the beach of Nazare. Interesting town to walk around in - the older women dressed in the Portuguese version of a Burka - dark apron skirt and blouse, headcovering, even in the heat. Then up to Sitia on the cliff above, another cute village with a great view of the sea below.~
We are managing to drive and have mastered the round'about, very forgiving, you can just keep driving in circles until you decide!
Okay, no time to add pics, but here is Jim on the day of travel
Jim speaking:
Ola, as we say in Portugal. It’s 4:15 AM and despite my exhaustion from 24 hours of no sleep. I am awake. There is an eight-hour difference so it’s only 8:15 California time. I was sure that the sheer lack of sleep would force my body into this time zone…excuse me, I just paused to nibble on the crumbs of the brioche croissant that fell on my shirt...did I mention that my diet is all screwed up too. So here I sit in this very modern condo in the very medieval city of Obidos unable to sleep. I did vow to start writing again on this trip so this seems as good a time as any to start. It helps that there is no internet service so porn is out of the question…not such a modern condo after all!
The trip here was long and for the most part flawless. Jet Blue, reliable and true blue got us safely to New York where we connected with British Airways for the journey to Lisbon via London. After years of being herded onto the likes of Southwest Airlines or even the more pedantic but user friendly Jet Blue, it was quite a revelation to fly British Airways. It was such a throwback to the days when air travel was a civilized experience. I had grown accustomed to the rather officious style of air travel where flight crews check off their list of duties and the environs are always being prepared for the next flight. Complimentary snack. Check! Walk the aisle collecting garbage. Check! I’d find myself being the ever compliant child keeping my area neat and clean, longing for the approval of Trish or Scott or Hector as they parade up and down the aisle with their open trash bag for the eighteenth time in one hour. Someday soon, when they start handing out the dustbusters I will probably be just the best-est boy on the plane and vacuum even the seat pocket in front of me as well as the lap of the grateful-for-a-bag-of peanuts lard ass next to me. Excuse me…another brioche crumb….
As I was saying….flying British Airways was like being a guest in someone’s home. Lots of good cheer and genuinely jolly banter. It must be the accent. Within the first hour I found myself having at it with me mates, tossing off the random “well done you” and “brilliant” as if I were in a Hugh Grant movie. Perhaps it’s just a case of identifying with one’s captors, but I suspect it’s really that, at fifty-four, I still don’t know who I am. Either way, one of these days, I will have to get a real personality. Being defined by air travel doesn’t quite feel authentic.
Landing at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 was like landing onto the cover of Architectural Digest. This imposing edifice with its sleek glass, exposed steel beams, muscular trusses, and gleaming floors was brilliant and deserved a “well done you!” The glass encased elevator shafts showcased its taut, silvery cables and untarnished brackets and bolts. The escalators gently welcomed us with two feet of level moving steps before whisking us up and then leveling off at the top for an even more gentle exit; so unlike the brutish, thrill-ride experience found in the colonies. Yes, Terminal 5 was beautiful, if not a bit sterile,
Terminal 3 was a different story. As I looked out the window of the shuttle bus taking us to Terminal 3, everything began to look quite industrial. Winding our way through a series of tunnels I had the sense we were being evicted from the gleam and grandeur that was Terminal 5 and exiled to the ghetto part of the airport. It was clear that Terminal 3 was the unglamorous workhorse of Heathrow. Its undistinguished façade and pedestrian look failed to impress my newly-found British nobility. Entering the belly of this beast we came upon a mass of humanity. It was the U.N. on steroids; every make and manner of mankind coming together, to journey together and journey apart. This was a different kind of grandeur. This was the grandeur of people sharing and exploring a planet to which they all had an equal claim. As an American or even as a faux Brit, I had no greater place or manner than anyone else. Terminal 5 and my upper-crust ways faded in the brilliance and color and chaos that was Terminal 3.
Despite my embrace of humanity I was still not prepared for my visit to the “loo.” I was at first pleased to see that the stalls were almost floor to ceiling. I’ve never been a big fan of the short partition version found in America. The sight of pants- draped shoes, not to mention the occasional toe-tapping wide stance, is not always conducive to “reading the paper.” My pleasure soon gave way to the reality that plumbing seemed to be an issue. What few stalls were unoccupied by people were still occupied by their remains. Sorry for that image, but it’s only going to get worse. The holy grail is easier to find than a useable toilet in this place. Fantasies of the toilets in Terminal 5 filled my mind in direct proportion to reality of Terminal 3. Finally an acceptable stall became available. Just as I began to “read the paper” an ungodly gurgling sound bellowed from the next stall. At first I thought someone needs to lay off the spicy food but soon realized that the toilet next door was erupting, not merely cresting it’s porcelain banks, but erupting like Mt. St. Helens. Upon that realization, toilet lava began to spill into my private library. In order to escape the oncoming deluge I quickly leapt to my feet. There I was, pants around my ankles bare ass pinned against the stall wall. I started having flashbacks to the time a coked-out Bianca Jagger followed me into the men’s room at Studio 54, but I digress… Fortunately, the rate of the flow slowed enough for me to make my escape as I delicately tip-toed out. Rejoining the huddled masses I started to question whether humanity is all it’s cracked up to be (no pun intended, Bianca).
From Terminal 3 we boarded the flight to Lisbon, rented a car for the 50-minute drive to the beautiful Obidos and the even more beautiful privacy of my own toilet. More later….(about Obidos)
Check back soon for more details and pictures!
Lisa and Jim
however, never see them on me at work!
cemetery was just below one of the high spots of the wall. I guess they could just bury people where they fell…not a comforting thought.
