God Outdoes Himself in Sintra, Portugal
Trip Start
Jan 17, 2008
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Trip End
Ongoing
Sintra,
Portugal
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The tour bus left Lisboa at 10am, and within the half-hour we were driving along a coastal road. I watched huge waves of the bluest blue hue crash against the beach, dark brown rocks, and little cliffs. The bus penciled in the border to the Atlantic Ocean as we made our way along the road dotted with palm, orange, and lemon trees, lemon-lime colored wildflowers, surfers and strollers to Cascais. It was so thrilling to be in a place where citrus grows as common as apples grow at home!
By the time we stopped along the two-lane highway to walk to the beach, I was so antsy to get off the bus and explore. We (there were about 25 of us on this trip) shed shoes and socks, rolled up pants legs, and pranced across the warm sand dunes like puppies let loose from the leash. We parked our stuff in a pile on the sand and then explored the coast for an hour. We scrambled over rocks and splashed in the cold water of the Atlantic. Near the end of our time there, the group rejoined in a circle on the sand and shared our happiness.
I fought so hard, but the warm sunshine that streamed in through my bus window and Jack Johnson's voice that crooned from my ipod won me over to sleep.
Walking to the beach.
I woke up in Sintra, a gorgeous little hillside village with cobblestone alleys, ancient houses in various colors, orange trees, palm trees, other green trees, street vendors selling roasted chestnuts, a castle, pastelerias, breath stealing views, and tourist shops. Five of us meandered along a stone street, and leaned against a stone wall to admire an orange tree in the backyard of an old house. Moments later, the owner of the house was telling us to take the three oranges that were resting on the wall. Before we could thank him enough, the man was beneath his orange tree, shaking its branches and reaching for more fruit. He presented us with an armful of the tiny orange globes, and we let the sticky, tart juice run down our arms as we peeled the oranges in a dumpster we found a few feet away. After having received an anything but friendly welcome by most Lisboans the first few days, the orange tree owner redeemed my faith in the Portuguese. (Later in the trip, kind Lisboans would remind me again and again that generalizations are hard to make).
We met an artist who gave us a tour of his studio and showed us the house near Sintra he had lived in for a year that was featured in a home and garden magazine-- a palace. A path flanked in greenery led us up the hill towards the castle (the path to the castle was closed off further along the trail). We ate roasted chestnuts (a new mouth experience for me). We looked out across the land below dotted with small towns and the blue expanse of the Atlantic beyond. We took our time, as Sintra's beauty effortlessly coaxes the tourist to do. In fact, I became wrapped so well in the magic of Sintra, I could have easily missed the bus back to Lisboa. Next time I'll try harder to do just that.
