Kindness of Strangers

Today we began our journey into wine country. Our rental car was being delivered to our hotel. We held our breath at the undoubted complexity of conducting this transaction with our limited language skills, but were relieved to learn that the owner had spent eight years living in the US. We were on our way! We zoomed out of the city, making our way towards Pinhao. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a toll booth appeared, as if it had materialized out of thin air. In fact, it came up so suddenly that at first we weren’t sure it was even a toll booth. We had been traveling in the lane furthest to the left and had no time to veer right, forcing us to go through the lane. Maikael slowed down to read the sign, but the car behind us blasted his horn: we realized we were in the fast lane, the lane for people who have an electronic pass that allows them to race through the toll without stopping and grabbing a ticket.The booth was gone in a flash. There was no turning back. We’ll deal with it when we get to the other side, we thought. The worst they’ll do is charge us the fare from the beginning of the toll road.

A number of miles down the road, we saw the next toll booth looming in the distance. “Here we go,” we said. As we rolled into the station, the woman in the booth extended her arm. “Bilhete,” she said. Maikael tried to explain as best he could, in Portuguese, that we had just come from Porto, but that we had made a mistake and not gotten a ticket. As they were talking I looked at the lane next to mine. People seemed to be paying about 1.50 Euros for the toll. Then, a number flashed across our screen: 23.60 Euros. Our jaws dropped open and I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head like a cartoon. The woman explained that we were being fined for not taking a ticket at the previous booth.

Now I know where the term “highway robbery” comes from.

In my time in Portugal, I have noticed that things tend to be rule-oriented. There is a way that things are done, and trying to bend the rules doesn’t usually yield great results. We tried to enter a grocery store a few weeks ago – you know when you go in the out door? — and were clearly told to go through the correct door. When we were at Sintra I tried to move backwards a bit through the line to snap a few photos, and was met with a polite but firm, “Can I help you with something?” While it was obvious that we were foreigners who had no idea what we were doing and had made an honest mistake, talking this woman out of a 23.60 Euro fine was next to impossible. We begrudgingly paid the money. “Bom viagem!” she said. Have a nice trip!

Things weren’t off to a great start. By the time we reached Lamego for lunch at 3:00 pm, we were tired and cranky and bickering at one another. Everything was the other person’s fault. Why had we rented this car in the first place? I hate wine country!

After lunch, things began to look up. We walked up the swerving steps of the Ingreja de Nossa Senhora dos Remedios, one of Portugal’s most important pilgrimage sites on the Caminho de Santiago. The stairs weave back and forth up a steep incline, as blue and white azulejos flank each landing. The cathedral is perched high on the hill, and the view from below looks like something out of a fairytale. Huge metal boxes, overflowing with white candles, abutted one side of the church; so many candles had melted that the stone had grown waxy over time.

As we drove deeper into wine country, our car crept over hills and plunged into deep valleys. We got out of the car to take in the view but it was a smell that arrested my senses; the air was heavy with curry and sage. I’ve never sensed a countryside so fragrant. Verdant vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, creating weaving patterns on the hillsides. The Douro River, a swath of cobalt blue ribbon, cut through the landscape. We were officially off the beaten path.

We arrived in Pinhao around 7pm, population 310. As we drove down the one street in town, I spotted our pension. A man stood outside and waved to us; it was as if he knew who we were. We have a riverfront view, with towering vineyards serving as a bookend to the whole scene. Tomorrow we get to move to the room next door, which has a balcony. One shown to our room, we about collapsed from exhaustion, but, after a short rest, decided to take a walk. There is a restaurant on the bottom floor and Senhor Vieria, our proprietor, asked us if we’d like to have dinner. Declining dinner, he said, “Here, porto,” and poured us each a glass from a small, unmarked square jar on the counter, turning a silver spigot. It was a command, not a question, but we were happy to oblige. After a glass, he asked if we’d like another. “Porque no?” we said, not sure if we were speaking Spanish, Portuguese, or both. In any event, we got another glass.

Nothing turns out like we expect it to. The things we think will be hard – renting a car in Portuguese – turns out to be simple, and the things we think will be easy – driving down the highway – turn out to be the most trying experiences. These are hard lessons to learn and hard pills to swallow. We try to take things as they come and to enjoy the scenery along the way. What better place than the Alto Douro.