Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  We had met a couple at the ticket desk while all four of us tried to understand what the man in the cage was telling us about the tickets and schedule. Once aboard, they sat down next to us so we began to share basic information on the ride. Yanni, who was Dutch, had been married to John, a Brit, for thirty-five years. They lived in England and had two grown sons. They were the classic hardy English couple who love to travel, and like so many of their countrymen, they were enthusiastic campers. They had spent the past several weeks on the road, driving down through France and parts of Spain in their caravan (what we call a camper in the United States). They were staying in Costa da Caparica for a few days before heading through northern Portugal on their return trip to England.

  Outside, as we moved past the shoreline, there were huge cranes, hulking warehouses (many abandoned), sturdy concrete wharves, and tiny cafés and bars. As we approached Belém, the Lisbon port west of the main ferry terminal, Yanni said, “Look, look—it’s the famous monument to Ferdinand Magellan, the great Portuguese explorer!”

  Not only do people in other countries often speak several languages, but they also seem to grasp history, both their own and everyone else’s. Many North Americans lack this education. It’s embarrassing. I did not want to admit that although I’d attended a good university, I hadn’t given Ferdinand a thought since the sixth grade, so I nodded sagely and said I’d been looking forward to seeing it.

  “Can you imagine what it must be like to approach this city from the sea?” I asked, in an effort to participate without admitting my ignorance.

  We watched a cruise ship make its way up the river to the main docks. I was certain that the passengers would be astonished to see the Magellan monument, which soars 171 feet above the north side of the river, and the bridge, its main tower 623 feet tall, and 3,300 feet long. Just beyond that, the Cristo Rei stood 436 feet above the water, his arms outstretched to welcome and protect Lisbon’s inhabitants and her visitors. The soft prettiness of the city served as a backdrop to these massive structures. Even from the deck of a lowly local ferry, it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

  Yanni and John were camping in a resort only half a mile from our house. Since we were enjoying their company so much, we agreed to have cocktails and dinner together the next night, and we parted at the terminal. They took off to see the sights in Belém, while Tim and I walked a block or two to catch the famous #15 trolley, which would take us into the main part of the city.

  Our ferry tickets included trolley and the bus service, so we hopped aboard, flashed our green tickets at the electronic eye, and found seats in one of the cute old-fashioned trolley cars that traverse the city in all directions. The gay “ting ting” of their bells adds to the charm of the place. We got off the trolley and trudged up a very steep hill past antiques stores, designer shops, and small cafés. At the top, we were rewarded by Rossio Square, Lisbon’s favorite meeting place, with two enormous identical fountains anchoring each end and a massive statue dedicated to Dom Pedro IV in its center. Black and white tiles decorated the sidewalks, arranged in elaborate designs. These Rossio Square tiles fooled the eye into thinking the ground was undulating. It’s a strange experience. Every time we walked across its expanse, we marveled at the optical illusion. “I’ve been saving this part of Portugal as a surprise for you,” Tim beamed as I saw the square.

  Nearby, we found the foot of the Avenida da Liberdade and entertained ourselves by gawking at the lovely buildings and storefronts. As we moved up the slight incline of the street, the store monikers became more international and pricey. When the Gucci, Prada, and Burberry signs appeared, we knew where those people we had seen at the Kontiki in Caparica did their shopping.

  The entire center of the wide boulevard consists of a long, gracious park. Its graceful trees showed the first hints of budding green, and a man-made stream ran through an attractive garden. Every few blocks, people enjoyed coffee and pastries beneath the trees at small cafés. As usual, we were hungry, so we sat down for our introduction to the famous pastel de nata, the Portuguese egg custard served up in an individual round flaky crust. I polished mine off before Tim had finished stirring his espresso. “A little hungry there, sport?” he asked.

  I was so embarrassed (not) that I hopped up and fetched another one.

  Now we again enjoyed the best part of living home free, the luxury of wandering around without much of an agenda, and getting the feel for a country without rushing to see the sights. We observed that the Portuguese are great lovers of beauty and color, have a happy outlook in spite of their dire economic condition, and that they certainly know how to make a mean pastry. We stopped for a delicious grilled fish luncheon on a street lined with patios full of carefree tourists, and retraced our yellow trolley drive back to the port.

  As we watched ferry crew members expertly dock the red double-decker boat, I heard, “Hallo, hallo there!” On the spot, Yanni and John invited us for tea, which morphed into a bottle of mellow Spanish red at their campsite. From their tiny, super-efficient caravan, they quickly produced compact camping chairs, a table, wineglasses, and cheese and crackers. We sat under the trees while John gave us a tour of their home on wheels. It was fascinating. The vehicle had all the amenities of the big RV behemoths we see in campgrounds in the United States, right down to the built-in awning, refrigerator, sink, and heater. However, it was no longer than a normal American car, and narrow enough to negotiate Europe’s spare roads. This German marvel of innovation put every inch to use.

  We enjoyed playing host the next night at “our” house. Tim drove us to a restaurant he’d found on one of his exploratory rambles around Caparica, our little beach town, while I’d been at home doing battle with the chapter about England. The muse’s job never ends. A string of rectangular modular buildings ran along the boardwalk, each an individual restaurant offering its own particular specialties. The one we chose offered up a fish stew with plump fresh mussels the size of meatballs in a cheesy, creamy liquor that we sopped up happily with crusty Portuguese bread.

  As we savored our feast, our companions regaled us with tales of their worldwide adventures. “I guess, aside from Kilimanjaro, the craziest holiday we ever took was a four-and-a-half-month camping adventure through South America on a bus with twenty people we had never met before the trip,” Yanni said.

  I realized, as we chatted, that the friendships we were developing in our travels were different from those at home. Most relationships start from a situational basis: work, hobbies, school, or club encounters. Some last, some don’t. Certainly long-standing friendships offer the comfort of shared history, but on the road, there is an almost indefinable moment when we make a connection with people who are kindred spirits. It’s a chemistry almost like love, a recognition that doesn’t require deep exploration to discover. Meeting other travelers far from home, in whatever country it may be, creates an atmosphere where it’s possible to cut to the bones of the friendship; there are no trappings or protocols in the way of just getting to know the person for the person’s sake. I inevitably feel a pang of regret when we say good-bye to a new friend whose company we have enjoyed because although we usually do stay in touch and try to find ways to intersect as we move around the world, we’re all living such fluid lives that it’s hard to know if we’ll find one another again.

  As I had drifted away with my own thoughts, Yanni had continued talking about their time in South America. I glanced at Tim, who gaped openly at Yanni. “Four and a half months in a BUS?” he exclaimed. We thought we were special for selling our house, dumping our stuff, and traipsing around the world without a home base. But we live in houses and apartments, not a bus, and we certainly don’t have to put up with anyone but each other! These astonishing people gave another example of hardy seniors who are flexible and brave enough to make bold decisions and enjoy adventure in their later years.

  “But how did you DO that?” I asked, washing down another big fat mussel with a great Portugues
e red wine. “I mean, where did you bathe and sleep and eat?”

  “It was a kind of bare-bones adventure,” Yanni replied. “The organizers provided the bus and driver, but among the passengers, we just arranged a routine that worked. We rotated cooking and shopping among ourselves, so no one had to do everything, and about every third or fourth day, we’d check into hotels to do our laundry, wash our hair, all of that, and then we’d be on our way again.”

  “Sometimes, it was really difficult to keep our cool,” John said. “Some of the people were terribly annoying, one of them downright nuts. But it was the only way we could possibly have afforded to see that much of South America, so we put up with them and carried on.”

  That night, while a storm raged outside, Tim and I were tucked in our big soft bed, reading our Kindles, our radiator chugging away. “Well, I’m certainly glad we met Yanni and John,” Tim said, “and their road trip in South America was a fascinating tale, but right this minute I’m really happy that I’m not in that little camper with that cold wind blowing thirty knots, tossing us around.”

  Meeting our new friends verified how we learned from each person we met. Everyone possesses her own degree of tolerance. What may seem like adventure to one person might be torture for another. Perhaps being home free is more an attitude than a lifestyle, and what constitutes personal freedom differs for every individual.

  ***

  The weather didn’t improve the next day, so we threw more wood into the fireplace and hunkered down to get some writing done. When the rain slowed down in the afternoon, we took a break to pick up some things at the little “super” market in the village. We both walked out of the house without money or credit cards (maybe that Post-it is a good idea), so Tim dashed home for his wallet while I waited inside the market with our things. Of course, it started raining the minute he left. I was staring out the window feeling sorry for him when I felt a presence beside me. I looked around, then down to see a tiny elderly Portuguese woman standing at my elbow, carrying her groceries in two little plastic bags. I must have looked like a nine-foot Amazon from the planet America. She looked up at me and grinned. I smiled. She grinned some more. I smiled some more. She finally said, “Sheirwrish msh durphlopishish parprikash dulneyetchki.”

  I said, “I am so sorry, but I do not speak Portuguese.”

  She said, “Sheirishnaplak msh duphlopishishnyoa parparickshmuchtin dulneyetchkipush.”

  I said, “I am so sorry, but I still do not speak Portuguese.” I giggled at my own joke.

  This continued for quite a while until she finally shook her head at my stupidity and disappeared with her parcels through one door as Tim arrived in the other. At that point, I had cracked myself up so much that tears were starting to roll down my cheeks. He looked at me with the same pitying expression as my new Portuguese friend, shook his head, and went to pay the bill. Guess you had to be there.

  Lisbon is not only stunning, but also manageable. We never felt overwhelmed, except for our panting sessions after climbing one of its steep hills. A few days later, gifted by a sunny day, we caught the ferry to Belém, where we had landed with our friends on our first trip over to the mainland. It features the Tower of Belém, which looks like a baroque birthday cake. Originally located on an island in the middle of the Tagus, it is now attached to the mainland because the river was rerouted several hundred years ago after an earthquake. The Tower was built as part of the city’s medieval fortification system, and remains one of the many wonders of the city. Also, the National Carriage Museum is within an easy stroll. Not only are the carriages astounding to see, but the building itself is breathtaking. It served as the royal riding arena for Belém Palace, and we could imagine members of the court perched above in the royal galleries on the second floor, watching the horses perform. As we were inspecting a lavishly gilded ceremonial carriage from the seventeenth century, Tim turned to me. “I wonder how much horsepower this baby needed. Leaded or diesel, d’ya think?”

  Moving right along…

  We walked through the lovely sunny afternoon to the nearby Monastery of the Hieronymites. We were fascinated with the sculptured columns that surround the cloisters in the monastery. We found their complex themes of sailing, exploration, and trade so interesting that we, who usually pay more attention to lunch than history, found ourselves slowly making our way around the huge courtyard, taking in the details. The church, chapels, museum, and monastery offered us a great treat. Since museums in Lisbon have free admission on Sundays, my banker was twice as happy. And you know that we found a nice lunch before we got back on that ferry, don’t you? (Hint: It’s a rhetorical question.)

  The next bright day, we expanded our territory and drove to Almada to take the larger ferry, which lands at the huge terminal in the main part of the city. From there, we caught an easy tram ride up the hill to the Moorish Castle of São Jorge. The site has been inhabited since the sixth century BC. The ruins we visited dated back two thousand years and were rebuilt by Muslim forces in the tenth century. From the promontory, we caught a spectacular view of Lisbon’s bridge, the monuments, the tiled roofs, and the river, with its constant activity.

  As Tim snapped photos of the city, I finally said, “Okay, enough already with the photos. I’m going to have frostbite soon. I need to get out of here.” When you consider this comment came from the one who loves scenery to the one who usually has the attention span of a gnat in the presence of natural wonders, you know it was really cold.

  We rubbed frozen noses and aching fingers as we repaired to an Irish pub on the wharf where we fortified ourselves before facing the journey across the water. Throughout the twenty-minute trip the wind, whitecaps, and nasty chop didn’t faze the ferry men, but we were forced to look intently at the horizon all the way across to keep our stomachs settled. It pleased us greatly to start a fire and tuck ourselves in for the evening as the beautiful day deteriorated into a howling, wind-driven storm, including thunderclaps and flashes of lightning.

  We also needed our rest—company was coming! Our friends Rick and Margo Riccobono, our London pals, were on their way. We were so happy to have the chance to see them and thank Rick in person for the good advice he had so freely offered when the craziness around our story began. Since we hadn’t lived in a house, let alone entertained house guests, in a very long time, our preparation became an event itself. We managed to get the supplies for a real dinner party for four together, and we decorated with flowers, fluffed up the guest bedroom, bought place mats and napkins, and pretended to be authentic residents. Of course, really comfortable furniture was not a possibility! We also managed to fetch them, on time, at the airport and felt like locals saying things like, “Now, look over there! That’s the aqueduct that was built in the 1700s. And in front of you is the April 25 Bridge. We live right over there!”

  Everybody likes to be a smart-aleck, even if they won’t admit it.

  Margo and Rick were overwhelmed with the suddenly mild weather, a big treat after their winter in London, the worst in many years (and for us after the preceding cold). Sunshine and temperatures in the 50-degree F range thrilled them. Rick enjoyed the hammock so much that he seriously considered missing his return flight to London! Our friends at the Kontiki beach restaurant showed off their fish cooking skills, and we took our guests on a whirlwind tour of Lisbon. Tim outdid himself, coming up with the quintessential Lisbon dining experience, the Café de São Bento restaurant. The classic 1900s-style brasserie steak house featured red walls and banquettes, decorated with large paintings of ladies and gentlemen of the period and photos of Lisbon in its golden days. Tim told us that it was rated the best steak in town and that the classic dish was the steak in pepper sauce topped with a fried egg. We all took his advice. Every time we’ve spoken since, Margo carries on about that lunch! What an outstanding treat for carnivores like us.

  When the Riccobonos decamped, our house grew too quiet. We consoled ourselves with a visit to Sintra, an area just a few minutes outs
ide Lisbon, that everyone says is not to be missed. It’s easy to understand their enthusiasm, because castles and grand estates dot the entire forest area. It also offers some of the most romantic views in a country that’s full of gorgeous things to see. Among the many treats we encountered was the Pena National Palace, one of the major examples of nineteenth-century Romanticism in the world.

  May I tell you that it’s also an example of one of the most difficult-to-get-to monuments in the world? I maintained complete silence so I wouldn’t distract Tim as he inched our way up a road that seemed about six feet wide. We puttered past tourists who walked two and three abreast without apparent concern for their lives, through dense blankets of fog where said tourists were rendered invisible, and up steep grades that made our little car and its sewing-machine engine gasp and sputter. We were rewarded for our diligence by finding a parking lot near the entrance.

  The palace itself was a riot of neo-Gothic, neo-Manueline, Islamic, and neo-Renaissance architecture, a fabulous hodgepodge of surprises. Truly a photographer’s delight! King Ferdinand and Queen Maria II did not hold back in expressing their tastes, so pink, yellow, green, and gray walls vied for attention, along with entirely different windows, decorations, and styles. It was like being at Portuguese Disneyland, but with a much better view than Anaheim offers! Best of all, descending the mountain was much less painful and dangerous, and we were home warming our frozen limbs within thirty minutes.

  Finally, that day came. It was the moment when I could not continue at the furious pace I was keeping. My eyes and derriere were sore and my brain worn very thin from months of shaping our story. I decided that being the artiste was actually harder than being the support system. I wanted my old job back. I had reached the halfway point in the book, and I was so exhausted that editor Bob and my sweet Tim conspired, telling me that all authors hit this wall, and the cure was to take a week away from the project. Their made-up tale worked and I obediently allowed myself to be driven up the Portuguese coast over that huge bridge and north through the forests and mountains, relieved that this was an officially sanctioned time-out. The road climbed until vineyards began to appear below the pines. The views were magnificent, and even March rain couldn’t spoil the day.