Tourists are Terror

“Tourists are Terror,” it says on a Lisbon wall. As my photos can generally attest, though, I am a timid terrorist; I have taken about seven thousand photos, mostly of buildings and landscape, and almost none of people. This is because of two rules that I wrote into my Traveller’s Charter early in this trip-- not because they are matters of principle, but because they satisfy the needs of my inner coward. They are: never take photos of locals unless you use a telephoto lens or you can pretend that you’re taking a picture of an especially interesting cornice; and, never engage a local in conversation unless they first ask you a question like “will that be cash or credit card?”

My traveller’s constitution has been torn to shreds since the arrival of Cara’s parents here in Portugal. Timidity is not a failing of either redoubtable Schlenker.

Witness our Blitzkrieg on the harmless little village of Viano do Alentejo: as we passed through, Art spied a bench-full of black-coated Portuguese elders at a café discussing whatever these marathon talkers discuss on a Sunday morning. Determined to snap their photo, he spun twice around the village roundabout and then stopped dead in front of them, snarling traffic on all four entries. He got his photo. Think how a National Geographic photographer might curl up in a hide for days to snap a picture of a rare mountain ocelot, leaving the shy creature unmolested and unaware of any human presence. Now think of Art in a tutu, brandishing a tuba to get the same photo. The effect on the villagers was much the same.

A few miles down the road, we stopped in another tiny hamlet for lunch. Thinking that we’d try being a little more Portuguese in our habits, we parked our car as the Portuguese do: anywhere we damn well wanted to, which today meant directly under a traffic light. When we finished our superb lunch of chicken stew and mackerel, we met a gendarme waiting for us outside. There must be twelve people living in this village, but one of them happened to be a traffic cop. I suspect he was hanging out with the rest of his cronies, black cap and all, having coffee when he spied our illegal parking job. I’m sure he ran home when he saw his chance, got into his traffic cop leathers and ran back to look all official. Speaking not one word of English, he motioned at our vehicle, and said something like “Alerta!” Eileen figured this canny fellow had somehow sussed that we come from Alberta, so- hand gestures and all-began to tell him all about the Rocky Mountains. After several minutes of this, the poor defeated fellow shook his head, showed Eileen the pad he’d been writing in, and scratched out the ticket. We hadn’t noticed before that afternoon the common road sign saying “Alerta!” or “Warning!”

Lest there be any doubt, Art and Eileen have been perfect travel companions. Art has planned these three weeks with an unerring feel for interesting places and excellent food. I do my usual stunned Chihuahua thing, cooking whenever Eileen lets me, while Art, guided by two expert navigators, does the majority of the driving. For three weeks, it’s been like having a private guided tour of this marvelous country of cork forests and wild beaches. As for the people, I’ll have to ask Art and Eileen what they’re like.