End of the Line

There is a place between dark and light, dream and day, where an answer is given and the truth is told. Some mornings I’m in that place, grateful to be there. Like yesterday, when the question “where to?” jostled my pillow. It was posed by Pa who had read Lewis Carroll long before J.K. Rowling came along:

“Begin at the beginning,” the King said “go on till you come to the end, then stop.”

I’d intended to return to Old Lisboa, believing I’d only scratched the surface. The King suggested otherwise. So I pored over the Metro map, landing on Telheiras, the end of the green line. When I arrived, I was far from the cobblestone streets with their shops and cafes, performers and northern visitors. I was in a quiet neighborhood, pleasant and off the beaten path. I spent much of the day there, watching everyday life go by.

The Metro exit was at the edge of a pleasant park,

beyond which was a community garden waiting for spring,

and a small enclosure for dogs waiting for the regulars to arrive.

Down a narrow road was a simple Catholic church waiting for Sunday Mass,

and a second park where school girls shared their lunchtime stories.

Nearby was the town center with its store front businesses, family owned markets and restaurants. It was a difficult decision, but I chose a tiny Japanese restaurant serving char siu bao, a delicious warm bun filled with steamed pork and vegetables. I would have stayed the remained of the afternoon but needed to move on, having made a reservation for the night in Sintra. An hour west of Lisboa by train, I’d been told it was a magical town not to be missed.

The journey from Lisboa to Sintra, the end of the line, is its own story.