Sleepless in Madrid, welcome in Porto

The upside of that big flight from Portland OR to Amsterdam is that they pamper you, but that does not really mitigate the impact of a 9 1/2 hour west to east flight.

My daughter and I deplaned with that thin, exhausted, brittle sort of buzz come from all those hours in the air, finding that time has totally misplaced you.

Settled into the Hostel Viki, a clean but no-frills place free of anything like diversion, and a night of near-sleeplessness ensued.

Both of us dissolved into our personal vulnerabilities, Helen frightened that her own body would not sleep when she wished it to, me feeling guilt that I led my daughter into this deeply disruptive moment.

But a great deal of comforting and using the brain, sheer emotion and reason all at once, coupled with a very raw form of prayer, got us through the night and to this day, awakening in Porto.

The day dawns late for us. I awakened at 1:30 and was up until 4. Strange how raw is prayer at that hour, but how good is tr sense that one is heard.

Snapshots...

The plaza near the hostel in Madrid, deserted during interviews the day, awakening at 6 pm to fill with people of all ages, families with young kids, the elderly, young adults--a neighborhood come alive.

Rotten night attempting to reason with our Oregon physiology that it is indeed nighttime.
The human body often does not respond to reason. We comforted each other and, when the day dawned, headed out for a cafecito in the same plaza.

Again, a neighborhood coming alive, this time to a new day. Kind Spanish shopkeeper,
Clearly amused that we found the local prices so
low.

Feeling caffeinated, a Portland normalizing state, in better spirits we boarded the plane for Porto.

Porto--a swirl of images and impressions...

The new-old city, built on colonial exuberance and prosperity. The visually explosive baroque and rococo churches, faith and confidence and prosperity all at once.

Friendly patient people. The question"fala Ingles?" results in some form of effective communication, especially when peppered with Spanish.

Good coffee.
Cobblestones.
Narrow "roads" with an occasional truck, more brave than prudent, making its way where only feet and perhaps some horses were meant to go.

My daughter and I placing our "credenciales" for the carimbo, the stamp of the pilgrim, then placing them at the feet of a 16th c statue of St James tucked away in the second story of the cloister.
Tears flowed in a silent moment that startled a tourist who paused in his photography, but glanced at the credentiales and stepped back in respect, bowed his head and waited for us.
Outside, my daughter discovering a yellow arrow, a waymarks. "This is where it gets 'realz'" she said.

We discussed our reasons for taking the Road. Helen is openly more skeptical than I, not as caught up in the mysticism of the Strange Road. She has more questions than answers, says she is here to see Europe, walk the Road, and see what it may be about.

I think that is a fine reasons to follow the yellow arrows.