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Bike Touring Journals by Neil Anderson and Sharon Anderson

Craters on the Moon

Bicycle Touring Portugal

31 Desculpe

A thick mist clung heavily to the cork trees. Great globules of dew fell heavily, dropping with hollow echoes onto our tent.

The surrounding landscape was endless hills and fields of red clay earth. In the irrigated sections we saw orange, lemon and lime trees bulging with fruit. The small trees looked overloaded and ready to collapse from the weight.

In Castro Verde a municipal market had fruit, meat, cheese and bread. The crusty buns were fresh. The sweet Clementina oranges were juicy and seedless. I would love to camp under one of those trees.

Sharon found public showers for a buck each. Even Susan smiled-albeit weakly. Away from the touristy coast the locals were far more friendly. While Sharon and Susan took showers, I took a language lesson. Pointing to words in my phrase book a helpful market woman pronounced the words. The Portuguese words wove together rhythmically.

When Sharon and Susan returned, I went for my hot shower. I first had to buy a ticket. From Sharon's description I found the receipt seller. He led me down a hall. Unlocking a cabinet door, he took out a booklet. Pulling a card from the book, he handed it to me in exchange for one hundred centavos. Placing the money in a metal change box, he solemnly locked the cabinet door, then escorted me to the shower room.

Someone was showering. The ticket seller knocked. Under the door, a key slid out. After unlocking the other stall, I set the key on the bench. The water in the neighbouring shower shut off. The fellow jabbered away. I didn't understand a word, so I ignored him.

Throughout my shower I heard him yelling. I figured he must be talking to friends. I finished my shower. I dried off. I got dressed. On my way out I glanced over at my neighbour stall. A pair of withered hands stuck over the top of the door. He muttered in Portuguese. He shook the door.

Now I understood. Without a word, I picked the key off my bench, and slipped it into his fingers. He unlocked his door. A gray­haired man poked his head out.

"Desculpe," I said.

He grinned.

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