Language

In major cities, it’s easy to get by with English.  Too easy.  Speaking foreign languages is one of the joys of travel.  Too many English-speaking tourists turn up in Venice or Paris and speak English.  You can't.  That's cheating.  Aussies are as guilty of this as Americans or the Brits.  You’ve got to make an effort.

But the effort does become draining, and the language barrier is isolating.  Spaniards are reticent to speak anything other than Spanish, and in provincial Andalucía you won’t get much else.  Luckily, my basis in French gets me by with Spanish, and it is probably my favourite language to try to speak.

In Bruges, English is so widely spoken it could be considered a second language after their Flemish Dutch (the national language of French is equally well-spoken, though pride is at stake due to wars with France).

Portugal and England share the oldest alliance in history, and English is widespread in urban areas of Portugal.  It is sporadic in rural areas.  The elderly, urban or rural, don't speak it at all.

My biggest surprise was Croatia, which easily has the most widespread English of all the countries I toured.  It is taught to children in school from young, and the standard is high.  This was a bit of a relief, because I have no knowledge of any Slavic language.  I was out of luck when I found that just over the border in Montenegro, English is not spoken at all, and I had to depend on my Croatian phrase book (for sensitive cultural and political reasons, Croatian, Montenegrin and Serbian are all officially different languages, but linguistically they are close dialects of the same language).

When I reached France, it was with a mixture of comfort and trepidation.  I actually speak a little bit of French, so I could have simple conversations.  But I also know enough grammar to know I’m getting my conjugation wrong or that I don’t know which participle to use.

All right, already.

I have seen more convents, cathedrals and castles than I can now distinguish. Germany and Portugal have so many castles between them that in my mind’s eye they all look alike; as I review the photos, I can’t tell which one is where without cross-referencing the date on my itinerary.

While the German castles on the Rhine were built by robber-barons, many of the Portuguese castles were built by the mysterious Knight Templar monks, such as the ruins of the castle at Constançia, or the castle ruins at Monsanto.

And I’m over them.

Goodbye Portugal. Hello, Italy!

Roman mosaics

And, of course, all this discussion of photography made me look through my photos, and so many I want to share, so here is another.

Conimbriga is the largest excavated Roman site in Portugal, and the mosaics unearthed are the most complete (albeit restored) and impressive that I have ever seen, and having a penchant for Roman mosaics I have seen many.  This one depicts horsemen on a hunt.  My favourite (though much less detailed) is a mosaic of a maze with the minotaur at its centre.

Where are all the photos?

Some weeks ago I promised I would upload some photos from time to time.  This is just too arduous.  At this stage, halfway through my trip, I have about 6,000 photos.

But nevertheless, here is one.  It's not grand photography; it's simply a good example of the variety on a Portuguese menu.  Click on it so you can read it.

Portuguese monasteries

Beginning with the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos in Lisbon with its ornate stonework, I did the monastery circuit in Portugal—Batalha, Alcobaça, and Tomar. These towns host architecturally astonishing abbeys that are perhaps the most significant in the country.

The monastery at Batalha was built to commemorate Dom João’s victory in the 1385 Battle of Aljubarrota. The defeat of King Juan of Castile in a contest for the Portuguese throne was one of the most consequential battles in European history, given that it assured Portuguese independence prior to their initiation of Europe’s imperial expansion and colonisation across the globe, the so-called Age of Discovery, with Vasco da Gama’s establishment of a sea route to India. The elaborate architecture and sculpture of the convent at Batalha (which means “battle” in Portuguese) reflects the importance of this event.

At Alcobaça, the interior of the severe but grand Romanesque hall church contrasts its Manueline façade, while the gigantic kitchen of the abbey itself is indulgence manifest. The chimney is three storeys tall and is large enough at its base to envelop a car. A small tributary was dug from the nearby river and diverted through the kitchen to supply the monastery with fresh fish. Hardly a monks’ existence.

The massive, 12th-century Convento do Cristo in Tomar, the headquarters of the legendary Order of the Knights Templar, is the most atmospheric—and the largest. I spent four hours hurrying to see everything. The highlight is the staggering charola, or Round Church. An octagonal rotunda with a ceiling perhaps ten metres tall containing a central structure connected by arches—the high altar—is intricately decorated with sculptures and paintings. Legend has it that the knights attended mass here on horseback.

Mmm... pig stomach.

That'll teach me to consult my Portuguese phrasebook before ordering dinner.  "Buchos," I learned after it arrived at my table, is pig stomach.

The Portuguese love meat (as pretty much all Europeans seem to).  Pork features a lot on the menu.  And just about everything is served with deep-fried potatoes.  You won't go broke in Portugal as a cardiothoracic surgeon.

In Monsanto I had a nice steak of black pig, and in Coimbra I had a delicious goat boiled in red wine called chanfana.  A full dose (portion) of anything on the dinner menu typically serves two, so unless you're very hungry a half portion will usually do.  Breakfast is almost always slices of ham and cheese with bread, which gets a bit boring, but apparently the Portuguese don't go in much for breakfast.

Another good idea which the RTA will never have

In Portugal, they don't use speed cameras to generate revenue.  They use them to trigger stop lights.  They're called velocidade controladas, "speed controllers."  People might not obey speed limits, but they obey red lights.

Another method is sheep.  I was stopped on the road to Monsanto by a shepherd moving his flock between paddocks.  The road was shoulder-to-shoulder with sheep.  The ebb of the flock flowing around the car, surrounding it like water, was very peaceful.  I bleated at them like an idiot out the window.

Then I got back to speeding.

Coimbra

Coimbra’s Sé Velha—the old cathedral (the “new,” 17th-century one is further up the hill)—is considered a masterpiece of Romanesque architecture in Portugal. It is a stunning example, largely unaltered since it’s construction, with a double-arched clerestory over each tall, single-arched arcade. The narrow window slits and crenellated 12th-century walls are reminders of the hostile relations with the Moors.

Inside, I overheard a young boy looking up at the elaborate Renaissance retable of Christ on the cross ask his parents, “why was Jesus crucified?” I pulled him aside and said, “because he was stupid.” Let’s face it: when Pontius Pilate asked him, “Are you the Son of God?” he only needed to whisper, “Nah, not really. Don’t tell anybody,” and voilà! He would have lived to a ripe old age and history would have been spared centuries of Catholic guilt. You know all these lunatics who swear, “I’m Jesus Christ”? He’s the one who got away with it. The joke’s on you, Christianity.
But it is still a nice cathedral.

Lisbon

The Ponte de Vasco da Gama, one of two bridges spanning the Rio Tejo, is an inspiring entry to Lisbon. A stunning thin white 17km-long line over blue water, it is a spectacular and beautiful piece of modern engineering. The other bridge, the Ponte de 25 de Abril, is a dead ringer for San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge (it was built in 1966 by the same company).

Lisbon is a fantastic place—a laid back, tranquil, completely unpretentious world-class city where local residents mix unselfconsciously with tourists. Trams race improbably up steep cobbled hills and down narrow twisting streets with inches of clearance between the buildings. If the buildings are are not pastel blue, pink or orange, they are covered in hand-painted azulejos (tiles), many very old, and the laundry hanging out the windows testifies to the city’s realism. It is not a tourist pantomime. People live on the streets, grocery shopping, smoking on the corner, meeting friends in the plaça, eating at the corner cervezeria, and at night the streets are full, much like Seville.  There is also a very big African influence in Lisbon, stemming from the influx of refugees from the abandoned Portuguese colonies after the 1974 Revolution of the Carnations.

After returning the car and catching the bus from the airport into the centre, the first thing I was offered in Lisbon was hash. Peddlers carry it on the street. I lost count of how many times I was approached by a hash peddler that first day alone—five? And when you say no, they ask, “marijuana? Cocaine?” And they all are persistent, as if I might change my mind and say, “Actually, you know what? I do feel like some cocaine.” One time a guy approached me and there were two police officers three metres away. Unbelievable! It’s annoying, but not dangerous. Lisbon is reasonably safe. These people want to sell you drugs, not mug you, and there are police on the beat.

I was tempted to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in 97 Minutes at the Teatro Municipal de São Luís. It’s supposed to be very funny. The title was in Portuguese, though, making me wonder if it is translated, which would be very strange. Many Portuguese do speak English, though, a legacy of the 600-year old friendship with England. Also being performed was Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, worth seeing just for the brilliant title.

As I write this, I’m supposed to be out shooting things, but instead I have been seized by Lisbon’s chilled out sunny Sunday vibe and am emptying mojitos to funky Motown on the terrace of the Noobai Café overlooking the Rio Tejo.

Three words

Lisbon is fantastic.

Mértola

There’s a little town in Portugal’s Alentejo region called Mértola which is thousands of years old. Located on the Rio Guadiana, navigable 50km inland from the ocean, it has been the home of Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Moors, and the Reconquista Christians. There has recently been discovered a wall from the Iron Age.

Today, old Mértola is a little village of whitewashed buildings painted with broad strips of yellow and bright blue on steep, rolling, bumpy cobblestoned lanes in the lee of a once impregnable clifftop castle.

When I arrived, a brief rainshower after several dry months had raised an incredible perfume from the trees and soil which stained the air with a spiced incense of sandalwood and nutmeg, like antique wood. Every breath of air in the whole town smelled of it. I stayed in a bed and breakfast run by a friendly guy named Carlos which was so comfortable, like being at home, and I was so charmed by Mértola itself that I stayed for two nights.

Booking ahead

Having learned my lesson, I bought my ticket today for the bus to Portugal tomorrow. Apparently, there are two daily buses. When the lady at the ticket office asked me in Spanish which one I wanted, I couldn’t make out what she was asking and all I could answer was no entiendo—I don’t understand. The guy in the queue behind me, impatient, intervened and explained to me that there is a morning bus I can catch at 7:30 or an afternoon bus at 16:30, and she was asking which bus I wanted to take—all in rapid, verbose Spanish. After he finished I turned and said to him, in Spanish, “I don’t speak Spanish.” Somehow, he seemed to think that speaking to me in Spanish would remedy that.

Meantime, the lady at the counter simply wrote 7:30 and 16:30 on a piece of paper. I pointed to 7:30, paid my €16.50, and was on my way, wishing the impatient Spanish man a continued fruitful career in impromptu customer service.