If we were true pilgrims, we had disregarded a promise of simplicity and seemed spoiled. We departed the Quinta with a slight pang of guilt. The trail to Viana do Castelo removed those confusions from our minds as we trudged through a string of mountain trails with large, flat boulders strewn about the path. It reminded us of the rocky foothills of Mt. Banahaw. But that was comforting home ground. On the Camino, a respite seemed to be possible, only to lead us onto punishing cobblestone streets that were so uneven that it would trip our tired feet. (I must have stubbed my toe several times. Later, around this stage, I discovered my toes have turned blue!) The trail was rather busy. We marveled at the young German, Australian, and Swiss women we met on the trail who made the walk seem like a jaunt in the park. As the trail led to town, we had to cross a half-a-mile bridge with on-coming traffic. The one-person walkway appeared treacherous. We walked against on-coming traffic with cars too close that you the rush of wind it creates as it speeds by. We watched a couple, single-file, head towards us. We lean against the railing to let them pass by. Stepping onto the roadway was suicidal. Seen at a distance later, we realized the gravity of the trail.

Viana do Castelo has a pleasant European resort town feel to it. There is a wide river walk. Across the promenade were grand buildings whose with alfresco cafes for facades. From the bridge, we walked towards the town center into a large and busy plaza called Praca Republica. We entered narrow streets to search for our hotel. As before, our guidebook gave confusing directions, only to turn a corner and see the hotel marquee overhead. The room was small but modern. We liked its location, though, being close to the shops and restaurants. I was also eager to get an iPhone charger. Early on, I forgot my EU converter for the U.S. plug, likely between Labruje and Castel Nieve (my first item lost, among others). The hotel concierge told me to try the chino shop, “They sell everything!” He pointed us toward the plaza. We found what looks like a Chinese store but it was closed. Desperate, I figured a farmacia might have one (false: only in America do drugstores sell electronics). The pharmacist said they don’t sell those things. She walked to the door and pointed her finger towards the train station where the shopping center was. We found the train station, then the shopping center. The music and video store, just off the escalator, sold phone chargers. When we left the shopping center, we realized that the Cathedral of Saint Lucia was across the train tracks, on the road leading uphill. Puzzled at how to get to that road, we saw people getting off an elevator at the train station street level. We followed the next crowd up the elevator and found ourselves on the street where a funicular would take us to the cathedral on the hill. Some of our fellow pilgrims were already there, milling about. We asked what was going on. The funicular was out of order. Taking the steps up for a quarter of a mile, or walking along the hill to the top were the only options. Pat and I looked at each other. No way. We had enough climbing for the day. We retraced our way back to a taxi stand and found a driver taking a smoke break. “Can you take us up the hill and then collect us back?” “No problem.” He says and hands me a business card.” My name is Alejandro. Call me when you’re ready.” Alejandro was a talkative one. I prompted him about what jobs were like in Portugal. He said he makes a decent living and can make ends meet. His only complaint is that business operators pay high taxes. (Not surprising, Given that social services, like health care, are government subsidized, that was not surprising). He said, though, if you, as immigrants, live here with your dollars and buy a house with a garden, the government will welcome you. No taxes. Alejandro confirmed enough of what we heard from people wanting to retire in Portugal. Indeed, the cost of living is affordable and the people seem happy. This is the third town we have been to and we have not seen overt signs of poverty—beggars in the street (although begging is a feature of Christian culture). Nor have we seen up to now dumpster diving. The design of the dumpsters looks heavy to lift. Neither have we seen unhoused people taking advantage of the pleasant beachfront. A friend whose sister has since become an EU citizen fell ill during her Camino. She was hospitalized and treated for a week. Cost: 35 euros! Our pastry server at Esposende knew that if she joined her boyfriend in Texas, she’ll miss a good life in Portugal. In some cafes, they looked embarrassed if we leave tip. For now, tipping in smaller towns was not a popular expectation among shopkeepers. We hoped they will spare Portugal for a while from that kind of consumerism.

The vista from the viewing balcony of the Saint Luzia cathedral was spectacular. Climbing up the dark and narrow stairwell made me dizzy. Pat declined to go any further. Looking towards the bridge we just crossed earlier, we both felt a sense of wonder with our accomplishment and humility. Did we just do that?

It was not Alejandro who drove us to take us back downtown. We freshened up and began our routine hunt for dinner.

We circled back to the main road towards the wharf and found ourselves close to where we ended up at the bridge earlier. We spotted a promising restaurant that displayed an authentic-looking Portuguese cellar bar. Wine bottles were stacked by the hallway and the walls with paintings of farmers in a rural scene. After a bit of a wait, the waiter sat us on a table by the patio doorway. While we pondered the menu, a couple of ladies at the table across were signaling something, wanting to chat. We greeted them Bom Dia. They replied with a distinctively Aussie accent. We lived in Sydney for five years and we can spot an Aussie accent anytime. They lived somewhere in North Sydney. We told them we stayed in the Sydney student district. I was then attending Sydney University. We were there barely two years ago. They were doing the Camino and enjoying their scheduled easy day. They were taking their time, a couple of no-trekking days for every length of time. They had consigned their luggage way ahead in Santiago. No wonder they seemed relaxed. We were getting lessons in doing a painless Camino. “Ask for a pilgrim’s meal. You won’t pay much for a 4-course meal!” We did. It was not particularly fine dining but substantial enough: soup, chicken and fish, and some salad. Dessert was a delicious flan. We quickly paid our bill but the waiter stopped us alarmed that we have not been served a copita of port. downed the wine and savored its sweetness. As we head towards the street, the server ran after us and in a scolding tone -“You left your cell phone!” I have never experienced so much responsibility offered to a customer.

It was close to twilight. The crowds have thinned out from the Plaza Republica. A young woman sat at a bench, head bowed towards her cell phone, as if in prayer.