A drunken driver, a hung dream and a river with two names

For Daniela)
One evening, about a month ago, a middle age man takes his car out of his driveway, a few blocks from where we live in Mação. He is supposed to go down the road. But instead turns wildly to his left and slams into a little green car parked on the roadside. The man says his children were apparently playing with a turtle in the back seat and he lost concentration trying to see what they were up to!! His incredible narrative unrolled with a strong smell of alcohol.

Well, the insurance company says they cannot repair our car. A second hand car is not worth the effort. They will give us compensation rather. For us it was a means to escape time and again form the monotony of Mação, a cheaper travel option in a country where public transport and hostels costs too much; most of all the centre of a hundred fantastic, half formed plans for Dani and me that rode across the country side, crossed the national boundaries and what not. How they plan to compensate all that, I know not!



Four days later, on the first day of our fieldwork to Tras os Montes, we were standing at the edge of one of those lost dreams. The breath taking Douro international, where the borders of Portugal and Spain meets- where granite and schist out crops intermingle. The river that changes its name as it cuts across the national borders, from a Spanish Deuro to Portuguese Douro. This is where Saramago begins his Journey to Portugal- leaning across from Deuro to Douro, on his driving seat, rendering his sermon to the fishes.

It has to be said that a journey to a country should always involve starting from beyond its frontiers
"Journey to Portugal"

Our plan was to retrace the same route across the country with the book as our guide- the same stops, the same detours. (One day, a bit carried away by wine, we also thought we should trace the route backwards...starting out from the international waters to the southern beach to finally stop here at the border of the nation and lean back across to Deuro).

Our field trip moved in a convoy of seven cars from one site to another. And on our way we saw bits and pieces of what we had hoped to see. Signboards bore familiar names. The black slate roofs of the village houses glowed in the sun. A woman sitting sideways on her mule waved cheerfully. Towns people gathered at the square looked at us with polite disinterest. A suspicious old lady popped out her scarved head through the beaded door curtain.


Yet, there is a lot that we will miss out.