Fingering the Lace-Bones, Roads Not Taken, a Scrape with the Law
Before I left, I knew that there would be surprises, and that some would be unwelcome. Every journey has those. The trick is using those skillfully. Today I ran afoul of the Metro police and was threatened with a 77 Euro fine for my ignorance. Roads not taken: two places I wanted to visit were Obidos, the beautiful walled city that appears in every travel brochure on Portugal; and Tomar, where the Luso-Hebraic Museum is, a tribute to Jewish history in Portugal. I thought I could make them day-trips from Leiria, but it turned out that Leiria is in a different “district” and although each place was an hour or less from Leiria by car, it was impossible to get to them and get back in one day because of the bus schedules. On the other hand, Leiria was the home of the first Jewish printing press in Portugal, where books were printed in Hebrew. I know that from a book, not from finding any vestige of it in Leiria. Instead I found what I found, let go of the desire to see Obidos and Tomar, and had the adventures I could not have had if things had gone according to plan. Since meeting Paula Luttringer yesterday I have been letting myself enjoy taking pictures of walls–the textures, colors, interruptions, shadows, and shapes that appear on walls. In addition, I have finally been to the Atlantic, and I think it´s the first time I´ve ever been to an unpolluted stretch of the Atlantic. It smells just like a plate of fresh oysters. It´s clear, clean, icy cold, and it smells so wonderful I was tempted to drink from it.
San Pedro de Moel was my last daytrip from Leiria, on the day the weather let up a little and clouds broke the long heat wave. Little sunshades are set up all along the beach, and you just walk up and claim one. I wore my money belt and stuffed my glasses and camera into my pockets, left my bag with water, journal, etc., and new cool shoes (me and the shoe thing, it´s a whole story in itself, not worth telling), and went walking in the surf for about an hour. When I got back, nobody had touched my bag or my precious new shoes, and I collapsed in the sand for a good nap. Today I made a daytrip from Porto to Vila do Conde, which is on the confluence of the River Ave and the Atlantic. Again the sweet smell of an oystery sea. The highlight of VdC for me was the Lace Museum. I had no idea how lace was made. I had some vague idea that it was done with needles, like knitting. But no. It involves “bones”–pieces of wood or bone about three inches long with knobs on one end. These hold thread, and there is a pattern laid out on a pillow, pins sticking out of the pattern, and women of great skill toss fifty or so of these “bones” around the pins with mind-bending speed as they sit behind the pillow. I watched one woman go–she has white hair, maybe a year or so older than I, and she really knows her stuff. The brochure calls this “the art of fingering the lace bones.” Wonderfully evocative, yes? I watched her finger the lace bones for a while, took a picture, and then wandered off toward the sea. An hour or so later I saw her going home for lunch, and I noticed that her legs are terribly swollen, like pillars. An occupational hazard, I would guess, of sitting for hours and hours, fingering the lace bones. My heart (and my own slightly-swollen) legs felt for her.
I got to Vila do Conde on a bus, but the Tourism ladies there suggested I return to Porto on the Metro. Oops. I walked about a mile out of town, found the metro stop, read the instructions as well as I could, bought a ticket, and got on the Porto-bound train. About halfway to Porto, a couple of Metro cops boarded the train and started checking tickets. Guess who had screwed up? The first guard said something like, “You have no authorization.” Sorry, I said, “I paid money in the machine, and this card came out to me.” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling and summoned the other cop, who could speak English. He came on pretty strong: “You have failed to authorize the ticket. This is very serious. You will have to get off the train with me at the next station.” I said I was terribly sorry, truly, I had no idea how to authorize the ticket. People around me started giggling. Sorry. Really. Sorry. He stared at the ceiling and waited for the next stop, and he appeared to be more embarrassed than I was. Graciously waving me in front of him, he let me out first. Was I going to Metro jail? He asked me where I got on. I told him. He stomped his foot and gestured with both shoulders, like “Oh God! What an asshole!” But aloud he said, “You have traveled six zones, and you only bought a ticket for three zones. For this there is a fine of 77 Euros.” I gasped, opened my eyes wide, and said: “I am so sorry. I am an idiot, truly. I looked at the map, I bought the ticket, I thought I was in Zone 3, so I bought Zone 3 ticket, but I did not know about authorizing it. I am so sorry. Please, this is my first time on the Metro, and for me the language is not much Portuguese.” I began beaming my kindest, most glorious Buddhist smile. “I am a sorry American idiot, verily I say to you this thing, I am an idiot.” Eventually he started laughing, he authorized my ticket, he didn´t make me pay more money, and he helped me find my way back to Porto, with only a few more gray hairs than I had when I left.
I got off at Sao Bento railway station, from which I´ll depart Porto in the morning. Gorgeous place, huge and tiled, with modern equipment like an airport, a big board with all arriving and departing trains, and which lane to find them on. I waited in line to buy a ticket for tomorrow, only to find I must wait till two hours before departure to buy it. Well, OK. I hope I don´t have to get it authorized. I´m just going to hang out in Porto for the rest of the day today, breathe, and not go near the Metro.
Tags: Porto, Portugal
Kendall
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