Camino Portugues Day 3: Something's Wrong with Tom

— TOMAR

Today is my last day of non-foot transit for a while. I got up early in Lisbon, and not wanting to wake my roommates, started the day by trying to silently gather all my things. That included the pen I'd dropped from the top bunk the night before, cringing as it slid against the wall and hit the floor. As I crawled slowly under the bottom bunk this morning, the girl sleeping in it looked over at me. 

"I dropped my pen," I whispered. 

"I know," she said. 

And then I left. 

But not before the young man at the front desk asked for my autograph. 

"Why?"

"You are the priestess Ariel yes?"

"Nnnooo...." DId I look like some famous priestess? I didn't know anything about Portugues celebrities. Maybe they're more pagan than I realized, I thought, that's refreshing. Although... I mean I guess ... he coudn't possibly be talking about...

"You are mermaid no?" 

There it is. 

I responded by punching him in the shoulder and saying, "Ohhh you." 

After breakfast I repacked all the things, and headed for the train station. In the two hours it took me to get to Tomar, I decided to explore the English-Portugues offline translator app I'd downloaded. Brush up on a few more useful phrases. This is where I met Tom. Who I'm really hoping is real.

The app, which seems to be an excellent translator, not only pops up the Portugues word and any related words for whatever you entered, but it also provides a seemingly endless list of sample sentences for you to try your new word or phrase out in. And for some reason at least a few of the top examples for whatever I look up seem to be a window into some kind of bi-lingual domestic dispute. And they get more salacious if you keep scrolling. 

I looked up: "to get" 

I was offered things like: You need to get a real job. She wanted to get a divorce. I'd like to get a pregnancy test. You wanted me to get a job, so I did.  

I looked up: "Can you tell me"

I was offered: Can you tell me what happened to Tom? Can you tell me what's wrong with Tom? Can you tell me why is Tom doing that?

I looked up: "Do you know"

And I got: What do you know about the CIA? How do you know he's dead? Do you know anything about Tom's parents? You know Tom better than I do. 

And finally I looked up: "one night"

And got: Tom spent the night in jail. He can stay here for one night no more. I cried all night long. 

Based on these random samples, I'm starting to put together a picture of who this guy is, and the dark path his life has taken. Also the "narrator" is clearly either in love with Tom, or stalking him. Oh this is no ordinary app, some practical tool for translation. Rather it's a choose-your-own-adventure game. And I'm saying yes. Mission: find out what the hell is wrong with Tom. I'll fill you in when I learn more. 

***Addition*** Upon reading this again, I realized that the Tom story so far is basically the husband side plot of the excellent TV show Blacklist. 

Finally, a real thing I did today. I visited the original stronghold of the Order of the Knights Templar. Founded in 1160 and usurping what was once a Muslim settlement, the headquarters of the Templar Knights expanded over the centuries into a maze of not just fortified castle structures, but also a sprawling convent and gardens. 

It was rainy in Tomar today, and the busy season has not quite begun. I spent three hours nearly alone in the Templar Castle and Convento de Cristo, looking at its intricate wooden ceilings, occult carvings and hush-quiet courtyards. Coming from Alaska, where most of the structures are comparatively brand new, these places are always particularly mystical to me. I find that my concepts of history are more tied to nature than humanity. Particularly since my knowledge of Alaska's millennia of cultural history is sadly lacking, and I have no strong concepts of my own heritage. So much so that when I visit these places where history is captured and presented so effectively I am struck by the realization that I don't have a comparable sense of cultural history in my life. Not that it's not there if I were to look for it. Either in the peoples of Alaska or the people I come from. Just that, mostly, I don't look. And I would venture that I have that in common with a lot of people. I suppose that I identify so strongly as a fisherman because it's the most concrete thing I know about where and who I come from. But the roots I identify with really only reach to the 1950s. 

I often hear the search for one's identity mentioned in jest. The old "gone to find herself" joke. I make that joke. And it's not at all the reason I think I have for traveling. After all, wandering around looking for something as immaterial as identity seems so indulgent, so impractical and naive. But is it? That being said, the history I've been examining, gilded and ornate though it may be, has a wealth of darkness to it as well. It's both wondrous and eerie to visit places where the power struggles of human history are so well preserved in architechture. Our never-ending battles of faith, property and wealth shaping the communities built at the bottom of fortress walls, the lives of people born into the tension between forces.