Never There Long - The Iberian Peninsula (Part 3)

To name a few: travel requires very little money. Aimless, itinerary-less wandering produces adventure. Meeting strangers is worthwhile. Things tend to work out just fine on their own. Winding alleyways are preferable to wide streets. And, as can probably only be learned the hard way, be careful what you let someone sprinkle into your cigarette.

I woke up that second day in Lisbon on my wedding suite balcony, still sitting on the little wooden chair with an empty wine bottle and several cigarette butts on the ground next to me. I looked out over Praça do Rossio. It reminded me a lot of Salamanca, with people leisurely waking themselves up in the plaza, sitting around the little tables, drinking coffee, eating fresh bakery breads, looking over the morning newspaper. Old men with near perfect military-like posture, chins up, enjoying their intentionally slow morning stroll through the city. Young children chasing pigeons and squealing joyfully as they flapped into the air. A gentle, quiet bustle that made me want to join in and see what Lisbon had in store for me.

I used my Lonely Planet book as my only guide, following narrow alleyways and streets to some of the free landmarks I had earmarked. Given my financial situation, taking taxis or even trolleys was out of the question. Walking was my only viable mode of transportation. And I was all for it.

I left my hostel and headed down to the plaza. For a few dollars, I bought two bottles of wine and two loaves of bread, which I figured would last me the day. I had emptied out my backpack’s contents in my room and now refilled it with my food stuffs. I sat down on the stone edge of one of the plaza’s fountains and made a quick scan of my guidbook’s map to make a rough plan for the day’s exploits.

I was right where I needed to be by the looks of it. Three locations caught my eye: a giant castle, an ancient-looking cathedral, and an art museum. The castle was named Castelo de São Jorge, the cathedral was Sé de Lisboa, and the name of the art museum I cannot recall. I will include a photo of the museum's exterior, hoping that perhaps a reader of this story can refresh my memory.

When you explore a city by foot, you get a real ground-level feel for the place. The journey to a particular location is generally as memorable and as lengthy as the time spent at the actual destination. Walking through Lisbon was captivating. Narrow streets turned, meandered, and zig-zagged this way and that, always ornately decorated with the beautiful black-and-white tiles. Small shops seemed never ending and begged to be explored. The yellow trolleys zoomed this way and that, dropping and falling over the hilly landscape. Colorful apartment buildings were smashed together beautifully like puzzle pieces in all directions.

He held a leash that was attached to the neck of a small monkey. The boy was playing some kind of instrument (maybe a harmonica or some kind of flute, I don’t exactly recall) and the monkey would jump and dance as the boy played music. A small crowd had gathered to watch and few people threw some money into the basket. This made me feel both joyful and depressed. Had I had any spare money, I would have gladly filled his basket, but as it was, I could offer the boy and his monkey nothing for their performance.

The first landmark I visited was the Castelo de São Jorge, an enormous castle fortress situated high on a hilltop, right in the middle of the city. The views of Lisbon were truly breathtaking and there was an eclectic mix of people meandering stone staircases, walkways, and bridges of the medieval stronghold grounds.

Taking a walk around the castle grounds

My hilltop view of Lisbon from the Castelo de São Jorge.

I descended the hilltop and made my way to the Sé de Lisboa cathedral. It was a somewhat tiring trek down the steep stone stairs to the city streets below. Back on the streets, I recall the cathedral sort of sneaking up on me, suddenly appearing unassumingly out of nowhere. It gave the appearance of something barely hanging on, like it could collapse at any moment. I wondered if it was a functioning place of worship or simply a ruin. It was clear once I stepped inside that it was a sacred place. The interior felt at odds with the exterior, with the vaulted ceiling and pillars of its nave soaring to heavenly heights . Stone carvings, statues, and ornate windows hinted at its glorious past.

After exiting the cathedral, I partook in some of the bread and wine from my backpack while sitting across the street, admiring the structure. After this communion, I rolled a cigarette and pondered the strange mystery of the Eucharist. Devouring flesh and blood was such a strange way for the Son of Man or Prince of Peace to provide for his own remembrance.

My street view of the Sé de Lisboa cathedral.

From the cathedral, I made my way to the nameless art museum. The walk was long, and I recall very little about the museum, except that the art displayed was quite bizarre and the architecture of the building itself was somewhat at odds with the rest of the architecture of the city. Lovely statues dotted the flowered grounds that surrounded the building.

One of the statues that decorated the museum grounds.

I meandered my way down the tiled streets back to my hostel, stopping to pursue some of the shops and sites along the way. It dawned on me that I had spent the entire day peacefully exploring Lisbon for nearly nothing in the way of money. Other than a few dollars-worth of bread and wine, the city had offered itself up free of charge. It was a kind of a magical realization that this type of travel could probably be maintained for long periods of time on a very small budget, if one was so inclined.

I returned to my hostel, being sure to again thank the owner in the small lobby for his generosity. He, as expected, brushed off my thanks and smiled kindly as I walked up the stairs to my room. My legs were tired and my mind was full of thoughts about the day’s experiences. I felt ending my day much like the last was in good order. I still had the majority of a bottle of wine and some bread in my backpack. I took my seat in the small wooden chair on the balcony once again, sipping the last of the wine and puffing on tobacco while I let my mind roam and reflect freely.

I slept in late, without meaning to, and it was nearly noon by the time I got myself up and going that third day in Lisbon. It was my final full day, so I figured I should make the most of it. I went down to the plaza and decided having some coffee and sweet bread was in order, thinking some caffeine and sugar sounded pleasant. I found a sweet smelling little bakery and bought myself a cheap and delicious breakfast.

Amongst the many tanned-skin Portuguese people in the plaza, there were a fair number of very dark-skinned men wearing what looked like long white robes standing together in small groups. As I sipped my coffee, I watched them. I was curious who these men in white robes were. They didn’t give the appearance of being tourists or visitors. They seemed very much at home and at ease, like they regularly gathered together in the plaza like this. They weren’t really doing anything - not eating or drinking or shopping or selling anything. Just standing there, talking to one another in a somewhat serious manner.

While I watched, I became kind of fascinated by them. They had an aura about them. Their black skin was so in contrast to their white robes that they had a bold clarity to them. They were dignified in a way I couldn't define - stoic, unhurried, unmovable, slightly out-of-place, but with a look of confidence and determination.

It was a young man who seemed to be about the same age as me. I felt a little uneasy. There was plenty of space around me, so it struck me as strange that he sat so close to me. But, from my time in Spain, I knew that many people were interested in practicing their English skills with foreigners, so this might just be a college student looking to chat and hone his language skills.

I assumed that was the case when the young man said, “Hello,” in English. I replied in kind. He inquired where I was from, to which I replied that I was an American studying in Spain. We made pleasant small talk in English for a few minutes and I gathered from him that he was from Lisbon, worked at one of the nearby shops, and was called Francisco. He had a lot of questions and asked me what sites I had visited in Lisbon, how long I was staying, and so on. I let him know I was a pretty poor and lowly traveler, so free sites and people-watching had filled my time so far.

I asked if he knew who the white-robed men were. He said yes, they were Morocans who had moved into Portugal. I felt slightly foolish, realizing that it hadn't dawned on me that we were only a few hundred miles from the Strait of Gibraltar and the continent of Africa. According to Francisco, these men were Muslims who spent a great deal of their days simply congregating in the plazas of Lisbon. Apparently, unemployment in Portugal was a problem for everyone, so many of these new Moroccan immigrants found it difficult to find employment.

As I pondered that, I rolled a cigarette for myself and asked Francisco if he wanted one. He said sure, and asked what kind of tobacco I was rolling. I said I didn’t really know, just a bag of tobacco from Spain, nothing special. I rolled a nice big one, and as I was about to lick the rolling paper to complete it when Francisco stopped me.

“Have you smoked Portuguese tobacco?” I told him, no, I hadn’t bought any in Lisbon yet as my current Spanish supply was still plentiful. He asked if I wanted to try some of his Portuguese tobacco. I figured why not and gracefully accepted.

In it was a dark brown, malleable-looking little hunk that sort of looked like clay. Around the hunk were what looked like pencil shavings of the same color that must have been grated off the hunk. I had seen La Senora smoke plenty of Spanish black tobacco cigarettes, so I assumed this was some kind of Portuguese variant. It looked slightly moist, kind of flaky, and a bit crumbly. Francisco took a few big pinches of it and sprinkled it across the length of the unsealed cigarette I had been rolling. After completing the cigarette, I handed it to him. He said thanks and told me to roll another for myself. I did, allowing Francisco to top it off with a heavy dose from his own supply.

We lit our cigarettes and puffed away, continuing our meandering conversation in semi-broken English. The tobacco tasted different - earthy, slightly harsher than normal, sort of left a gritty feeling in my mouth. As I worked my way through the cigarette, I found myself distracted, drifting away from the conversation with Francisco and nestling deeper and deeper in my own mind. My thoughts intrigued and slightly frightened me. I watched them closely as they passed in front of me. Some seemed so profound, so mysterious that I followed them inward, only to find them dissolve into emptiness.

I reflected on my day, the places I’d visited, the ancient structures I’d seen, the wonderful smells I’d smelled, the city spread beneath me from the castle perched on the hill, the holy house of God where I’d devoured the flesh and blood, the twisted art and naked stone bodies unveiled at the museum. And the musical boy and the dancing monkey. Was that real? It all seemed so surreal that I was here. All alone but without fear of loneliness or emptiness or being lost forever. I should be terrified, shouldn’t I? Maybe I was and maybe I wasn’t. What I knew was that I was here, or there, I suppose. And that I was seeing myself from the outside and was fascinated. I hadn’t thought of myself like this before. I could see what I was clearly. Where I was. And the enormity and profundity and meaninglessness and insignificance of myself and everything was something to ponder.

I was pulled out by Fransico. He was saying something, asking me something, looking at me in an odd way, trying to get my attention. We were still sitting in the plaza. “Jordan, how do you feel?” I must have told him my name.

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t sure how else to put it. Franisco then informed me that he’d better be truthful with me. I asked him what he meant. He explained that it wasn’t Portuguese tobacco we’d been smoking. It was something different from Morocco.

There was practically nothing left of the cigarette. Apparently I’d smoked the whole thing. Or had I neglected it and it just burned itself out? I wasn’t sure. That explains everything, I thought and then voiced to Francisco. He agreed, smiling at me knowingly. He pointed at the men in white robes. “It’s from Morocco but the Moroccans here don’t smoke it. They’re Muslims and it’s forbidden to them. But if you want more, you come to me. I’m always around here in the plaza.” I told him ok, I understood. And I did. Francisco left me then and I was left alone once again.

I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I felt very content just sitting there but figured maybe I should try out my sea legs. They worked just fine which was a pleasant surprise. I decided I needed to eat, I was starving. I decided to venture away from the plaza a bit and see if I could find some kind of cheap eatery. It didn’t take long and stumbled across a little sandwich shop that oozed heavenly scents of bread, meats, and cheeses. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, primarily due to the fact that I knew those words in Spanish and hoped they would be comprehensible to a Portuguese ear. They were. I was served an enormous sandwich that was more bread than anything else, sliced sort of like a taco and stuffed with ham and several different cheeses. It was the most delicious sandwich I had tasted in my life. I savored it.

After a few bites, I got the odd feeling I was being stared at by my fellow patrons, perhaps for good reason. I scanned myself and reflected on how peculiar I must look. So different from everyone else - my hair, my skin, my clothes, my scraggly appearance. I glanced around the restaurant, feeling like a stranger in my own skin. No one was looking in my direction which put me at ease. Recognizing my unwarranted paranoia, my mind relaxed and I focused on what was important, namely sinking my teeth into the magnificent sandwich. I savored a bite and decided it would be wise to leave. I paid for the sandwich, which was much pricier than I’d anticipated. As I headed towards the door, I glanced at a clock by the entrance. 6 o’clock? Seemed odd. I went out to the sidewalk with my sandwich and looked up in search of the sun. It was sinking.

Don’t wander too far from the plaza, I thought. It seemed impossible that it could be 6 o’clock already but I accepted that I was not the best judge of these things given the circumstances. I decided to spend the remainder of the evening munching on my giant sandwich and strolling the meandering side-streets near my hostel. With an insatiable appetite, I helped myself to several additional tasty treats along the way, until I had no more money in my pocket. Fortunately, before leaving the hostel that morning, I had intentionally left what I assumed would be enough money for a return train ticket hidden in my room. I had done this thinking that there was a small chance I could get robbed (La Senora had said Portugal could be dangerous) traveling the city by foot, but hadn’t considered the risk of eating away the last of my money. A stroke of luck.

Eventually, I made my way back to my hostel and up to my familiar perch on the balcony. My stomach was full, my legs were tired, and my thoughts were slowing down. I figured I should enjoy the luxury of a soft bed at least once. So I crawled into the white bed and wrapped myself in the soft, white blankets and buried my head into the fluffy pillow. I savored this simple pleasure and quickly fell asleep.

My head felt cloudy, my thoughts muddy, and I silently cursed Francisco momentarily. I decided to take a hot shower, which brightened my mood immensely. I was glad I was up early, as I had no idea what time trains bound for Salamanca would be leaving Lisbon. I located my last bit of money and stuffed it in my pocket, hoping it would be enough for a return ticket. I tied my hair back, put on my backpack, slipped on my sandals, and made my way out of the hostel. The owner was nowhere to be found in the lobby. I couldn’t find any paper, so I tore a small piece off the cover of my guidebook. I took a pen off the lobby desk and wrote, “Gracias por todo” on the scrap paper and left it on the desk for the owner. None of this would have been possible without his generosity.

I made my way back to Santa Apolónia station. I had slightly more money than I needed for a return ticket, which I quickly purchased. I lingered in the neighborhood around the station while I waited for my departure time and, within an hour, I was back on the rails, bouncing my way away from Lisbon, out of Portugal, into Spain, back to Salamanca, and home to La Senora’s flat.

I arrived in Salamanca somewhere around mid-day. I walked from the station back to the apartment building slowly, without hurry, reflecting on my adventures in Portugal, the happiness I felt being back in Spain, and how it felt like the world had opened up to me in a new way.

I let myself into the apartment building with the key I had managed to keep safe. I walked up a few flights of stairs and up to the door that led into La Senora’s apartment. I wondered if I was back too early. Would she give me another earful, really let me have it this time? It felt like early afternoon, which meant this was siesta time. It was hard to know with her. Sometimes she’d take her afternoon siesta, other times she’d be furiously cleaning the apartment. I’d probably walk in the door and be cursed out for being early, or late, or interrupting her cleaning, or waking her up. Who knew?

I decided sneaking in would be my best shot at a pain-free return. 

I’d just quietly slip in and tip-toe to my room. I oh-so-carefully slid the key into the keyhole, gently turned it, and silently pushed the door open a crack. I peaked in. Much like the morning I’d opened my bedroom door to make my getaway, there was the figure of La Senora immediately before me, looking right at me through the cracked door.

I opened the door completely and tried to muster up a smile. “Hello,” I said humbly in Spanish. “I’m back.”

“Where have you been? I just cooked for everyone but you missed it. The others are all taking their siesta now. Come in and eat.” Her eyes met mine. I was surprised at what I saw. She smiled at me, looking me over from head to toe like I was a sight to behold. Her eyes told me she was happy to see me. Or maybe just relieved I had returned in one piece. “Welcome back,” she said and kissed me on both cheeks.

We sat together in the little dining room, just her and me. She chain-smoked while I ate her delicious Spanish cooking. She asked me about Portugal, speaking slowly and choosing her words carefully, as always, so I could understand. She looked at me in a motherly kind of way and I knew she genuinely cared.

The train ride, the beautiful pastel-blue train station, the black-and-white tiled sidewalks, the kind hostel owner, the wedding suite, the beautiful plazas, the castle, the cathedral, the boy with his monkey, the Morocans, the food, the wine, the art. I told her how cheap everything was and how easy it was to get by just speaking Spanish. I assured her that if I could manage to get there and back, she certainly could. She smiled, shook her head, and said she doubted that would happen. Her life was here in Salamanca.

After I had finished the meal and thanked her for it, I told her to wait a moment in the dining room. I went to my backpack which was still by the front door. I unzipped it, reached inside, and pulled out a bottle of wine I had bought that morning at the train station with the money I had left over after purchasing my return ticket. I walked back to the dining room and handed it to her.

“This is for you. It’s vinho verde from Portugal. It wasn’t expensive but it is delicious.” I had only seen La Senora ever drink or serve Spanish red wine so I was anxious to see her reaction.

She looked the bottle over and simply said, “Thank you very much. Should we try it?”

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “Why not,” I said, and we sat together a bit longer in the dining room sipping on Portuguese wine, smoking cigarettes, and sharing stories.

Somewhat miraculously, I passed all my classes at the University of Salamanca. It was very hard work and I spent far more time in studious endeavors than anything else, although I did find time to visit Andalucia and some other destinations around Spain. I had some incredible professors, made some wonderful friends, and fell in love with Spanish culture along the way. But more than anything, my time in the Iberian Peninsula was the first spark that lit a blazing fire inside me that has never gone out - a deep longing to go far away, to fearlessly take risks, to seek out adventure, to indulge in other cultures, to journey deep within, and to keep searching for the unknown.

With my semester in Spain over, I decided that instead of immediately boarding a plane in Madrid to return home to South Dakota, it would be a better idea to take a few weeks to backpack across Europe. I was able to push back the date of my return flight and change the departure location from Madrid to Amsterdam. With almost nothing in my pocket and an overwhelming feeling of freedom, I set out to see what else the continent had to offer. That is a tale for another day.

A photo of me in one of the gardens at the Alhambra Palace in Granada, Spain.

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