Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 37 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill at Roman site in Portugal The slides were stored away in a tin box under other tin boxes on the top shelf of a laundry room closet. For a couple of decades, Sherrill and I mostly took slides when we traveled, made a few prints for an album of the ones we liked best, and stored the others. Recently, I've been excavating these scenes from our past, studying them on a light box, taking some to be made into prints, rediscovering and reliving moments of exploring the world together. Now, these new prints of old pictures are helping to tell the story of our trips and lives.
Spies, refugees, secret agents crept through our room at the Avenida Palace hotel in Lisbon. That's what we were told by the elderly mustachioed porter as he set down our bags. The old hotel stood next to the nineteenth century Rossio train station. Our room was on a narrow sixth floor extension that connected the hotel to the station's side wall. The porter claimed that before and during World War Two it had been a secret passage through which desperate people had slipped from and to the railway station, hoping to begin a journey to safety. Any door that existed between our room and the Rossio station was long gone, although Sherrill tried to find it.
Spies, refugees, secret agents crept through our room at the Avenida Palace hotel in Lisbon. That's what we were told by the elderly mustachioed porter as he set down our bags. The old hotel stood next to the nineteenth century Rossio train station. Our room was on a narrow sixth floor extension that connected the hotel to the station's side wall. The porter claimed that before and during World War Two it had been a secret passage through which desperate people had slipped from and to the railway station, hoping to begin a journey to safety. Any door that existed between our room and the Rossio station was long gone, although Sherrill tried to find it.
Sherrill in Lisbon Garden Lisbon's meandering beauty quickly seduced us, but was a challenge to explore. The Old Town rose and descended with dramatic quirkiness on the slopes of several hills above the Tagus river. Between it and the New Town opposite hunkered the Lower Town, built in a large hollow after the 1755 earthquake knocked down most of the city. The sidewalks, we discovered, not only were cobblestone, but full of holes. Remembering what happened to Sherrill in Warsaw, we tried to avoid gazing around while walking.
Gypsy women draped in black were the only beggars that we encountered, but they were relentless, pursuing us, pushing against us, hands everywhere. They didn't get anything off us, but they certainly tried. Several times, we climbed up to the Alfama, or Old Town, wandering along the narrow twisting streets between buildings that seemed ancient, but that must have been built after the earthquake. From time to time, we stopped at half-hidden little squares and small restaurants, sometimes hearing the deep-throated, anguished strains of fado, the songs of Portugal. I wanted to return at night for a full show, but Sherrill didn't enjoy fado—for much the same reason that she didn't care for the songs of Edith Piaf, the emotions they evoked were too raw, too tragic. The Lisbon Botanical Gardens, especially the huge greenhouse with its enclosed jungle of giant ferns and oversized blossoms, were more to her taste.
Gypsy women draped in black were the only beggars that we encountered, but they were relentless, pursuing us, pushing against us, hands everywhere. They didn't get anything off us, but they certainly tried. Several times, we climbed up to the Alfama, or Old Town, wandering along the narrow twisting streets between buildings that seemed ancient, but that must have been built after the earthquake. From time to time, we stopped at half-hidden little squares and small restaurants, sometimes hearing the deep-throated, anguished strains of fado, the songs of Portugal. I wanted to return at night for a full show, but Sherrill didn't enjoy fado—for much the same reason that she didn't care for the songs of Edith Piaf, the emotions they evoked were too raw, too tragic. The Lisbon Botanical Gardens, especially the huge greenhouse with its enclosed jungle of giant ferns and oversized blossoms, were more to her taste.
We knew nothing about Portuguese cuisine before this trip, but came to enjoy it. Some dishes, however, were an acquired taste.
"Caldo verde," one woman told us, was her favorite typical dish: a thick soup of potato, shredded kale, and hunks of spicy sausage. A man we talked with preferred the stews made from dried salt cod, a dish that evolved from seafaring days. I rather liked some of these hearty dishes because of their rich flavors, but Sherrill preferred simple seafood meals, grilled sardines, octopus, and shrimp—always with a salad. And Portuguese wine.
Hiking along the Tagus river, we came to the area where the 16th century explorers set sail and the monument to those brave adventurers. We even looked in at the chapel where Vasco de Gama is said to have spent the night before he left on his historic voyage. It's easy to understand why the Portuguese became a people of explorers, with the restless sea lapping at their long coast, enticing them with promises of adventure and riches.
After a few days exploring Lisbon, we took a cab to a rental car agency atop one of the hills. An attendant brought out the car we'd reserved, left it on the concrete slope descending to the street, and walked away as Sherrill started to slide into the driver's seat. Suddenly, the car began rolling. He'd forgotten to put on the brake. I managed to stop it with my shoulder, then Sherrill found the emergency brake and the man ran up, shouting apologies. Now, all she had to do was navigate those twisting narrow streets until we got out of the city.
"Caldo verde," one woman told us, was her favorite typical dish: a thick soup of potato, shredded kale, and hunks of spicy sausage. A man we talked with preferred the stews made from dried salt cod, a dish that evolved from seafaring days. I rather liked some of these hearty dishes because of their rich flavors, but Sherrill preferred simple seafood meals, grilled sardines, octopus, and shrimp—always with a salad. And Portuguese wine.
Hiking along the Tagus river, we came to the area where the 16th century explorers set sail and the monument to those brave adventurers. We even looked in at the chapel where Vasco de Gama is said to have spent the night before he left on his historic voyage. It's easy to understand why the Portuguese became a people of explorers, with the restless sea lapping at their long coast, enticing them with promises of adventure and riches.
After a few days exploring Lisbon, we took a cab to a rental car agency atop one of the hills. An attendant brought out the car we'd reserved, left it on the concrete slope descending to the street, and walked away as Sherrill started to slide into the driver's seat. Suddenly, the car began rolling. He'd forgotten to put on the brake. I managed to stop it with my shoulder, then Sherrill found the emergency brake and the man ran up, shouting apologies. Now, all she had to do was navigate those twisting narrow streets until we got out of the city.
Sherrill at Obidos Castle, Portugal
The so-called freeways weren't much fun, either. Portuguese drivers seemed to take traffic lights, stops signs, and speed limits as suggestions they could ignore.
"The drivers here are insane!" Sherrill announced, as if she was afraid I hadn't figured that out, myself.
Not only did they speed, but were wildly erratic, changing lanes, crossing in any direction without signaling, suddenly slowing down, then speeding up again. Each driver seemed to exist in a private universe, unaware of anyone else on the road.
"Don't talk while I'm driving," Sherrill warned me, "if you want to live."
The historic town of Sintra, dramatically poised above the Atlantic between two gorges, was only a short picturesque drive from Lisbon. The first signs of the town were an 11th century Moorish castle and, nearby, a more eccentric palace, part Gothic and part Moorish, topped by a pair of enormous conical brick chimneys. As we wandered through the country, we discovered many oversized, fantastic castles and palaces. Because of its colonies, Portugal once was the richest country in Europe and for a while was busy spending that fortune, especially on gigantic building projects. Near Sintra, we found an enormous palace-monastery, even bigger than Philip II's elephantine complex in Spain and almost as depressing.
"The drivers here are insane!" Sherrill announced, as if she was afraid I hadn't figured that out, myself.
Not only did they speed, but were wildly erratic, changing lanes, crossing in any direction without signaling, suddenly slowing down, then speeding up again. Each driver seemed to exist in a private universe, unaware of anyone else on the road.
"Don't talk while I'm driving," Sherrill warned me, "if you want to live."
The historic town of Sintra, dramatically poised above the Atlantic between two gorges, was only a short picturesque drive from Lisbon. The first signs of the town were an 11th century Moorish castle and, nearby, a more eccentric palace, part Gothic and part Moorish, topped by a pair of enormous conical brick chimneys. As we wandered through the country, we discovered many oversized, fantastic castles and palaces. Because of its colonies, Portugal once was the richest country in Europe and for a while was busy spending that fortune, especially on gigantic building projects. Near Sintra, we found an enormous palace-monastery, even bigger than Philip II's elephantine complex in Spain and almost as depressing.
Sherrill at Port of Peniche: men repairing fishing nets We decided that a good antidote for this gloomy gigantism was some time in a couple of fishing villages along the coast.
"This is more like it."
As if we had all the time in the world, we strolled along, watching fishermen repair bright orange nets spread on the beach front, then stopped at small inexpensive cafe where a one-armed old man and a teenage girl brought us a meal of freshly caught octopus and sardines.
"I feel like Charles Laughton in The Beachcomber."
"Darling, you're lucky I know what you're talking about. Most people wouldn't."
"This is more like it."
As if we had all the time in the world, we strolled along, watching fishermen repair bright orange nets spread on the beach front, then stopped at small inexpensive cafe where a one-armed old man and a teenage girl brought us a meal of freshly caught octopus and sardines.
"I feel like Charles Laughton in The Beachcomber."
"Darling, you're lucky I know what you're talking about. Most people wouldn't."
In the ancient walled town of Obidos, we wandered among the remains of a Roman settlement, a Moorish castle, a Cistercian abbey, and a medieval monastery. Unfortunately, the place was not undiscovered. While we were there, two busloads of Italian tourists invaded. However, it was in Obidos that Sherrill fell in love with the blue and white Azulejo tiles that we saw all over Portugal. Soon, we were challenging the weight limits our suitcases would face when flying home.
Although we were heading into late October, the temperatures were soaring. It was a pleasure to escape into the cool cavern of one of the most monumental religious structures in Europe, the great Abbey of Batalha. We felt like ants as we walked through its huge doorways, but its gothic thrust pulled us skyward, instead of leaving us crushed as other gigantic religious buildings often did. The filigree stonework lured us into huge spaces where carved saints eyed us disapprovingly.
 Sherrill in fishing town of Nazarre |  Sherrill at great Abbey of Batalha |
The heat continued, so the next day I changed into shorts and tee shirt, forgetting that we were on the way to the Basilica of Our Lady of Fatima, the shrine in honor of the Moorish princess who converted to Christianity and early in the twentieth century miraculously appeared to three Portuguese children. Scolding me for being so dense, Sherrill left me in the parking lot while she went into the shrine.
"Too bad you missed it, you silly boy" she said, when she came out. "It was quite a spectacle—even waxwork figures of the children and Saint Fatima...."
Although it was out of our way, Sherrill wanted to see Tomar, one of the oldest cities in Portugal, known for the beautiful convent and sixteen-sided church built inside the walls of a Templar castle and where Prince Henry the Navigator launched the Age of Discovery. The castle, the religious buildings, all were beautiful and fascinating in their way, but in my memory Tomar will always be the town with the museum of the world's largest collection of match boxes: room after colorful and crazy room of carefully arranged match boxes.
"Too bad you missed it, you silly boy" she said, when she came out. "It was quite a spectacle—even waxwork figures of the children and Saint Fatima...."
Although it was out of our way, Sherrill wanted to see Tomar, one of the oldest cities in Portugal, known for the beautiful convent and sixteen-sided church built inside the walls of a Templar castle and where Prince Henry the Navigator launched the Age of Discovery. The castle, the religious buildings, all were beautiful and fascinating in their way, but in my memory Tomar will always be the town with the museum of the world's largest collection of match boxes: room after colorful and crazy room of carefully arranged match boxes.
Sherrill in ancient University town of Coimbra
I wasn't surprised that the next place we stopped became one of Sherrill's favorite places of the trip. A day later, she drove us deep into a large forest until we arrived at one of those eccentric buildings that the Portuguese seemed to love: the palace of Bucaco, a nineteenth century fantasy built for Portugal's last king in the overly decorated style of the sixteenth century, surrounded by lush gardens that extended into the forest. Towering trees, centuries old, rose among lakes and gardens, giant ferns and flowering plants. We could have happily spent weeks wandering among the gardens.
Portugal's second city, Porto, we decided, was as beautiful as Lisbon, as it climbed steep hills on both sides of the Tagus river.
"And this is where we learn about port," Sherrill reminded me.
"Is there that much to learn?"
"You'll see."
On the side of the river across from the main city, we found more than a dozen bodegas where different varieties and brands of port were created. Most of them had been there for many generations. During our days in Porto, we visited and tasted at several, toured a few, and especially enjoyed two, Sandeman (with the cloaked man for their logo) and Ramos Pinto (with the logo of Cupid holding up a small glass so a 1920s couple can sip simultaneously.) Sherrill was never a big drinker, but was surprisingly interested in the production and varieties of port. Of course, we bought a bottle of each of our favorites to bring home.
Portugal's second city, Porto, we decided, was as beautiful as Lisbon, as it climbed steep hills on both sides of the Tagus river.
"And this is where we learn about port," Sherrill reminded me.
"Is there that much to learn?"
"You'll see."
On the side of the river across from the main city, we found more than a dozen bodegas where different varieties and brands of port were created. Most of them had been there for many generations. During our days in Porto, we visited and tasted at several, toured a few, and especially enjoyed two, Sandeman (with the cloaked man for their logo) and Ramos Pinto (with the logo of Cupid holding up a small glass so a 1920s couple can sip simultaneously.) Sherrill was never a big drinker, but was surprisingly interested in the production and varieties of port. Of course, we bought a bottle of each of our favorites to bring home.
Terraced vineyards, Douro Valley, Portugal
A two hour drive from Porto took us to the Douro Valley, where we drove along steep, terraced slopes of gold and orange vines, the wine estates far below along the curves of the Douro river. It was like driving through the Napa wineries in the autumn, but more spectacular.
"Look over there," I told Sherrill. "And up there."
"I'm busy admiring the road, my dear." Eventually, she found some places where she could pull off the winding pavement, so she could really take in the full panorama. "You're right!" she said, with feigned surprise.
"Look over there," I told Sherrill. "And up there."
"I'm busy admiring the road, my dear." Eventually, she found some places where she could pull off the winding pavement, so she could really take in the full panorama. "You're right!" she said, with feigned surprise.
Sherrill at Pilgrimage Church of Bom Jesus Also on Sherrill's list of places we had to visit was the great pilgrimage church of Bom Jesus do Monte with its 381 foot baroque stairway known as the Way of the Cross. Above the steep first section, more zigzagging stairways rose until finally they reached the church. Every year, thousands of pilgrims climbed those steps on their knees to pray before a piece of the true cross. The only other time we saw pilgrims on their knees was in Mexico, at the church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, outside Mexico City. We didn't do the climb on our knees, but couldn't miss seeing another bit of the true cross.
Often, we felt as if we were driving from one fairytale place to another, visiting castles and palaces, churches and cloisters, walled cities and Roman temples, gardens and forests. Sometimes, centuries and eras were jumbled together to create astonishing results as we wound through hills and along rivers. Finally, we were back in Lisbon and returned the car. We agreed that Portugal was one of the most beautiful countries we'd visited, but Sherrill would've enjoyed it more if the drivers hadn't been so crazy. After this, we always traveled by train, bus, or boat—no rental cars, except when we traveled with friends who shared the driving and a few times for only part of a trip.
To be continued....
Often, we felt as if we were driving from one fairytale place to another, visiting castles and palaces, churches and cloisters, walled cities and Roman temples, gardens and forests. Sometimes, centuries and eras were jumbled together to create astonishing results as we wound through hills and along rivers. Finally, we were back in Lisbon and returned the car. We agreed that Portugal was one of the most beautiful countries we'd visited, but Sherrill would've enjoyed it more if the drivers hadn't been so crazy. After this, we always traveled by train, bus, or boat—no rental cars, except when we traveled with friends who shared the driving and a few times for only part of a trip.
To be continued....
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You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book edition of my first novel, The Night Action. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book edition of my first novel, The Night Action. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
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