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Coimbra, Portugal

With Ronaldo gone, a bottle of wine and the scrumptious chickpea salad done and dusted, I do the siesta thing. The very fancy looking hotel, right next to the church, have walls of paper. And shared bathrooms. I did not even ask if I have a private bathroom – just assumed. My room is on the third floor, bathroom on the first! Luckily there is a toilet on the same floor (I have had a lot of wine…). The place is full to capacity, and noisy! Groups of cyclists, pilgrims and tourists. Incredible how some people seem to have no regard for others – I wake up and make my way down the square to where I saw that fado was going to happen this evening. A tiny little tapas bar, no more than 5 small tables along the steps going down from the church. Literally right on the street.

I order a cheese platter, which arrives just as I like it! Ripe cheese that was not kept in the fridge, runny, smelly, sensually soft on the tongue. A few slices of hard cheese and some really sharp little squares. All served with – yes, more bread. And some grapes. Big fat juicy grapes. The vino tinto della casa (I made that up – think it is Italian) is smooth, and the cheese brings out the best in both of us. The place is buzzing, and I am very glad I got there early. People are now crowding on the pavement, but the soft rain chases them away to the more touristy fado place across the way. I savour the cool evening air, the soft rain and the buzz of excited people.

The three musicians arrive (the typical mandolin and two guitars) playfully tuning. Lights dimming let the audience get the message. A truly beautiful young woman steps into the restaurant, the sensual shawl around her shoulders. She has a soft smile, luscious mouth, beautiful almond eyes, the perfect figure in tight black trousers with black high heeled boots. Elegant. Her fado is so melancholy, I am sure there is not a dry eye in the audience. She delves into the soul of Coimbra, bringing memories of Lisboa, lamenting the explorers who lost their lives. When she closes her eyes it seems that she is floating away with Vasco da Gama to foreign shores. I fall in love all over again with fado and Portugal.

After a short break the musicians are back, a short tuning session, and in walks the next Fadista. Short curly black hair, solid builld, dark eyebrows. I know what is coming, I can sense her smokey mezzo raspy voice. I am not disappointed. The way she makes eye contact with me leaves me grasping for gulps of red wine. Looking deep into my eyes, she is singing just for me. She knows me, she knows my soul, she knows everything about me. I am transported to foreign shores, to places I did not know exist. Frangrances of heady spices and strange instruments playing in far away lands. Fado nurtures the soul. It delves deep into your being, stirrs emotions that you did not know you posessed, it turns you inside out, leaves you without any defences. The way this woman looks into my soul….. The break is just in time before I make a total fool of myself. I go outside to get some fresh air (and order more wine).

The band tunes again, and a strange looking older man stands around looking at them. Just as I am about to wave him away and give him a dirty look, he starts singing. A surprise indeed – bringing a seriousness to the fado, of politics and rebels and gunshots. Long after twelve I stumble into my hotel, my soul restored and filled. If I die in this night I would be dying a happy man. But I don’t die – I wake up at 03h00 with the loud screaming of drunk (what I would assume) students. Endless screeching and whistling and horsing about. I am sure the entire Coimbra is now awake. At 06h00 someone starts a hairdrier. I give up. I really, truly give up. The breakfast is a sorry state of affairs, but I sit near the window overlooking the steep steps going up to the university. I watch as a local opens her window in her pajamas, checking to see what the weather will hold today. Portugal does not do early mornings.

On my way to the station I chage my mind and decide to go back to Tomar to see the Convento del Cristo, a UNESCO heritage site that was recommended by Roland. I know my back needs to have a break, so a good excuse. On the way I notice the crane nests on the pylons, reminding me of Turkey. These nests are huge, a family house for a couple committed for life. I so clearly remember their clattering beaks….

Trying to describe the convent would simply do it an injustice. Not even the photographs will be able to give the viewer the slightest idea of the magic of this place. The Templar Knights started the building, later transformed. A strong Moorish influence brings memories of The Alhambra, those quiet spaces and shadows and shapes.

Back in Coimbra I come back to Maria’s – Mathilda is on duty. It is the quaintest little place in Coimbra. Tonight the town is quiet, no fado at my little restaurant. Just as well, or I would have stayed up again until the early hours of the morning and drank too much wine. Tomorrow the journey continues. A good night’s rest is essential. Just as well there is no fado tonight!

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