Heading out of Tavira, with Eva again (the busline, not the waitress), I catch sight of my home for the past four nights, the Tavira Inn, tucked in at the base of the train bridge, waiting for the next one. I twinged at the sight of my patio, where 30 minutes earlier I'd stretched and enjoyed the stillness of a sunny morning.
On the A22, Eva takes me to Villa Real, where I spent two nights in '10. I remember rain, and a pronounced grid system (courtesy Marques do Pombal again, who planned the reconstruction of much of southern Portugal after the earthquake of 1755) and a stately blue train station from which I caught a train west--over that bridge in Tavira, come to think of it.
The eastern Algarve on the route into Spain is filled with lovely villas empty until their owners come down for the summer to this area which is thus both saved and eviscerated by the tourist industry. A day like today is the reason: vast open blue sky by the sea.
After a brief stop in Villa Real, we head out to the A22 past that train station, which is not stately from the back. We cross the Rio Guardiana into Spain, pausing to flash our passports for the policia. I lived along the Guardiana for three weeks during that last trip, upriver in Mertola.
So we leave places and wonder if we'll ever be back. Or we're back to places and wonder--I suppose it's possible--if we'll ever leave.
True or false, I'll be back.
And later, Seville. In confess: I'm a non-adventurous eater, with no fridge in my cheap pension room. I'm going to have to get into the tapas culture. Wish me luck!