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26 Living In Portugal After my intoxicating scorching shower an announcement, in five languages, came over the PA: Attention all campers. Due to heavy consumption of water there will be a water shut off from two to four today. How about that? Time to leave. It took me three days, but I finally ran them out of hot water. Leaving the campground we climbed a steep hill out of the park. Susan's face turned a ghostly white. She had been so busy at work, even though we wrote to warn her the hills in Portugal were brutal, she hadn't done one lick of training. Not even deep knee bends at the office. "I need a washroom," said a pukey ashenfaced Susan. We stopped at a primary school. She trotted off towards the main building. A high locked fence enclosed the structure preventing her entry. She came across three supervising women and asked to use the washroom. The three women, with straight faces, told her the school had no washroom. Two hundred kids and no washroom. To reach the Tejo River ferry we had to make our way through Lisbon. The cobblestone was lovely that time of year-extremely slippery when foggy. Somehow, I ended up between a tram line. A pair of rimeating rails on either side, I piloted down squeezing my brakes constantly, enough to go slowly, but not enough to skid my front wheel, which was a heart stopping distinct possibility with the slick cobbles. I prayed I didn't meet a streetcar. At the bottom I gingerly crossed the rails. Hitting them at the wrong angle would turn me into a helmet tester. At the Belém ferry terminal I went to the washroom. Three guys stood at the three urinals. They all looked back when I came in. I waited. They were sure taking their time. One guy finished. I walked over to his spot. The guy at the middle urinal starting making strange noises and motioning in my direction. Barf, man. When I finished, the guy that was there before, went and stood there again. So that was why they called it a ferry terminal. Eating waxy chocolate we decided Port Brandao was the terminal to cross to. Leaving Port Brandao we met a series of narrow twisting hills. Susan's face nearly became one with the rear of a bus that quickly cut in front of her before it was all the way by. We cut over to Coina. As we left Carro de Sapo we passed elegant iglooshaped clay ovens. If I lived in Portugal I would have one of those to bake my bread in. Along the road through the forest, about a hundred meters apart, were a dozen hookers wearing short black skirts, black nylons and red sweaters. I had no idea the scenery in Portugal would be so interesting. As dusk approached, we looked for bread. Sharon's foray into Jumbo two days ago provided pasta and fixings. Since it was so late, the first store we went to had no bread. The pasteleria had no bread left either. A customer told me the fourth house down the side street sold bread. A man surveyed the yard. I asked if he had bread. "Si." "Quanto costa?" I asked him. He picked up a pointed red stone from his drive and wrote a figure on his white gate column. He sold me ten buns. At a discount store I bought a bread loaf that resembled a crusty brown cow pie. Another man, in a car, said to follow him to the campground. He wound around streets and back lanes. Not once did I see a sign for a campground. I was sure he was either taking us to his house or out into the woods to rob and shoot us. There were too many houses around for the latter-until we turned onto a dirt road leading along a desolate forest. Hmmm. He had seemed trustworthy enough in his business suit. We followed him fifteen kilometers, back to Carro de Sapo. Cruising past the ovens again, I picked out the one I would buy. At our rate, it appeared I would be living in Portugal. Campground lights appeared. We were ceremoniously deposited at the entrance to Parque Verde. That was the longest escorted tour we had ever had. How a huge facility, with swimming pool and tennis courts, could be located in the middle of nowhere, with no signs indicating its presence was beyond my comprehension. A security guard relieved Susan of her passport and led us to a treed area next to the washrooms. We found a level spot, set up camp, walked across to the vacant neighbour site who left their trailer year round and availed ourselves to their table and chairs. We used automotive fuel for the first time in our stove and experienced an exploding fireball. Sorry about the awning. The showers had a button located on the outside of the stall. Once pressed, a timer started for three minutes before clicking off without a hint of warning. Pressing the button again did nothing until a ten minute reset time elapsed. I used three different stalls to complete my shower. When I stepped out of the third stall, the first shower began magically spraying water. Sharon and Susan reported using three showers each also. The star studded sky twinkled. Barking dogs talked to one another across the fields. Sheep baaed. A rooster continually crowed as we snuggled beneath our clean flannel sheets. As I drifted into slumberland, I heard Susan comment from her tent, "That rooster must be on Victoria time." |
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