Monday, June 9, 2008
Back again
Well, my time in Europe is over for now. I've discovered that I like being a pilgrim much more than being a tourist, so a stopover in New York to get past jet lag and begin speaking English again, and then back to Toronto until the travel bug hits again. See you soon.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Portugal
It took a while for me to get to Portugal. Part of the integration process involved leaving Spain slowly and consciously, and the best way for me to do that was to walk. I wasn't sure how far I would need to walk for that to happen ... turns out it was the 100 km to Portugal. A very healing process to follow a Camino in reverse, meeting many pilgrims on the way who were going to Santiago. There are of course many stories from this too, but you´ll have to wait for the book.
For now, there is one story in Portugal waiting to be told. My second day in Portugal I hopped on a train to a town on the coast. My research had shown me that hotels there were either unavailable or very expensive there, but I went anyway, reasoning that there were likely accommodations available that weren't written up on the internet.
Two stops later, a woman got on the train and asked me if I was going to Viana, and told me that she rents out rooms in her house and would I like to look. I told her I would, and she sat down beside her friend for the rest of the journey.
When we got to the town, she walked me to her house, enthusiastically pointing out all the attractions along the way. She was dressed up, ready for mass, walked in tiny steps, and spoke very melodramatically. She seemed very much like a character from an Agatha Christie movie. She told me about her husband who had died 10 years ago, and spoke as if it had happened yesterday. I have no idea what language she was speaking ... sometimes I thought it was French, at other times Spanish, or it may have been Portuguese. Somehow I understood what she said, and she understood my Spanish answers.
At her house, she showed me my room, overlooking the river, and told me how tranquil it was. The price was right and it was easier than looking for a hotel, even though I realized my privacy would be compromised, so I took the room. She then proceeded to scrub the entire house from top to bottom because she had a house guest.
A while later when I returned to my room, ready to rest, she showed me pictures of all her nieces and nephews and grandchildren. Then she told me how tired she was from cleaning all day, and she went to eat. After eating, she retired to the room next to mine and turned on her TV and loudly cheered for the soccer team of her choice. This seemed so incongruous with an Agatha Christie character.
I decided this was not exactly tranquil, so I went down to the river to find a seat for the concert which was to happen that evening. I was quite excited to have found another festival, and watched the parade come in, led by men firing rifles, and followed by all the performers. Lots of music and dancing, and I enjoyed watching the festivities. When I was tired, I returned to my room to find the windows had been closed and the bedsheets turned down. This tranquil room was within easy earshot of the stage, and I was lulled to sleep by the sound of accordions and bagpipes.
For now, there is one story in Portugal waiting to be told. My second day in Portugal I hopped on a train to a town on the coast. My research had shown me that hotels there were either unavailable or very expensive there, but I went anyway, reasoning that there were likely accommodations available that weren't written up on the internet.
Two stops later, a woman got on the train and asked me if I was going to Viana, and told me that she rents out rooms in her house and would I like to look. I told her I would, and she sat down beside her friend for the rest of the journey.
When we got to the town, she walked me to her house, enthusiastically pointing out all the attractions along the way. She was dressed up, ready for mass, walked in tiny steps, and spoke very melodramatically. She seemed very much like a character from an Agatha Christie movie. She told me about her husband who had died 10 years ago, and spoke as if it had happened yesterday. I have no idea what language she was speaking ... sometimes I thought it was French, at other times Spanish, or it may have been Portuguese. Somehow I understood what she said, and she understood my Spanish answers.
At her house, she showed me my room, overlooking the river, and told me how tranquil it was. The price was right and it was easier than looking for a hotel, even though I realized my privacy would be compromised, so I took the room. She then proceeded to scrub the entire house from top to bottom because she had a house guest.
A while later when I returned to my room, ready to rest, she showed me pictures of all her nieces and nephews and grandchildren. Then she told me how tired she was from cleaning all day, and she went to eat. After eating, she retired to the room next to mine and turned on her TV and loudly cheered for the soccer team of her choice. This seemed so incongruous with an Agatha Christie character.
I decided this was not exactly tranquil, so I went down to the river to find a seat for the concert which was to happen that evening. I was quite excited to have found another festival, and watched the parade come in, led by men firing rifles, and followed by all the performers. Lots of music and dancing, and I enjoyed watching the festivities. When I was tired, I returned to my room to find the windows had been closed and the bedsheets turned down. This tranquil room was within easy earshot of the stage, and I was lulled to sleep by the sound of accordions and bagpipes.
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