Adventures and misadventures can happen anywhere.

Monday, June 22, 2026
Destination: Pousada Mosteiro Amares Hotel, Amares, Portugal.

I’ve previously described the joy and magic of São João. This year it coincides with the FIFA World Cup for a double dose of crowd excitement. At one end of my block, on the Praça (Park) Dom João I, a giant TV screen will provide free game viewing to all. At the other end, on the Praça General Humberto Delgado, a large stage will feature São João music performances throughout the week. So, I’ve decided to escape to quiet hinterlands in the east. I’m coming off a sinus infection that kept me homebound for the better part of a month, and I need rejuvenation.

My destination was the Pousada Mosteiro Amares Hotel in Amares. I like Pousada hotels because they have character. There are lots of cozy sitting areas where you can read a book or enjoy an afternoon cocktail. They are indulgent, a little bit old-fashioned (still using room keys), and never too fancy. The restaurants and the service are excellent. A quick bus ride to Braga, then a transfer to the Amares bus should get me there within 2-3 hours. Buses in Portugal are clean, comfortable, on schedule, and inexpensive. The entire trip will be less than $10.

I had just enough time between buses in Braga to stroll across the street to the Café Norton de Matos for lunch. It’s a classic Portuguese cafe. Wow! The large, crispy-breaded pork cutlet, salad, and ubiquitous potatoes were clean-plate delicious. Along with a beer and a bottle of water, the total was €8.50 (about $9.70.) I returned to the bus station fully satisfied and eager for the final leg of the journey.

Instead of proceeding to the next stop, the bus turned down a lonely industrial street and pulled into a car wash.

We passed through Palmeira, Cávado XIII, Lago, Rendufe, Feira Velha, and other villages before entering Amares. That’s when my best laid plans flew out the window, or rather, down the drain. Instead of proceeding to the next stop, the bus turned down a lonely industrial street and pulled into a car wash. For a minute, I tried to convince myself that it was simply because an overly proud bus driver decided to rinse the dust off his coach before the next stop. The alternative explanation was not acceptable.

The driver exited. I rose from my seat and looked around, only to see that I was all alone. Locked inside. This did not seem like a good thing.

Finally, the driver came back and began washing the bus. I banged on the door, much to his surprise. We were in Amares. But nowhere close to my hotel destination. I showed him where I was trying to go, but all I could understand was, “Não, já terminei! A última paragem era o dim da linha.” (No, I’m already done! The last stop was the end of the line.)

I had boarded the bus bound for Amares in the belief that the final stop terminated about a block from my hotel. Instead, it would be about a 2-hour hike from the bus wash. The sun was hot as I began trudging down the road, hoping to find some sort of transportation. I heard a shout and turned to see the bus driver waving at me. He had flagged down a friend passing by in a white van. After some discussion that I could not follow, they indicated that I should get in the van. My brain was flooded with all the serial murder movies ever made that featured men driving anonymous white vans. But the passenger door was unlocked and the window was down. Upon weighing the choice between a roasting 2-hour hike on the edge of the road, or possibly being kidnapped, I disregarded the internal red flags of caution and climbed in.

Rui explained that he would take me to the nearest paragem de autocarro, the local bus stop, where there was another bus to the hotel. He said a lot of other things I didn’t understand. Language school does not teach “real life” Portuguese, just like anyone who learns English in Portugal would be linguistically lost in the middle of Alabama. “J’eet yet?” does not sound anything like “Did you eat yet?” Once there, he consulted the route map and after some head scratching, showed me which bus to catch. In classic Portuguese fashion, Rui repeated the instructions three times. “Claro, claro (Of course, of course),” I responded. With that, he departed like a modern-day Lone Ranger in a flurry of muito obrigadas and boa tardes. (Thank you very much, have a good afternoon.)

As soon as he disappeared, I called a Bolt and was lucky enough to get the only one in town. It would get me there in fourteen minutes. I’d had enough buses for the day.

The misadventure was worth it. After a lurching ride on a winding, narrow mountain road, I was deposited at the doorstep of the Pousada Mosteiro Amares hotel. (Amares, right? Only, it’s not in Amares, it’s miles further in a tiny village called Bouro Santa Maria.) It’s a 12^th century monastery converted into a handsome hotel in the Serra Amarela, a range of gentle mountains in the Peneda Gerês National Park. My room is a former monk’s cell, though I doubt he had running water, a huge bathtub, or air conditioning. It is a perfect break from the city.

There’s any number of outdoor things to do here. But the forecast is for a humid 39 C (95 F) with a “real feel” of 40 C (104 F). It’s a good time to enjoy the amenities of a pool and the occasional cold beverage, and, finally, finish this blog.

Departure Three Days Later
I was determined to be smarter about the return bus trip. Ironically, the correct bus station was directly across the street from the hotel. The posted schedule indicated that the 201 bus was a 40-minute ride to Braga, and from there I could get a fast connection to Porto. Sure enough, the bus itself arrived right on time, its destination signage indicating Braga. Except, it did not go to Braga. It only went to Amares. From there, I had to change to another bus. Thank goodness, the driver warned me about it, and this time I knew what to do. Perhaps word had spread that some idiot tourist was wandering around Amares, lost at the car wash.

Rui, wherever you are, thank you for the lift in your white van!

Portugal! Portugal! Portugal!

The three Fs of Portugal: Faith, Family, Football

Friday, June 19, 2026

It’s hot.

The calçada portuguesa, the attractive black and white street tiles, have been soaking up the intense sun and now they release the accumulated heat into the slight breeze. I’m strolling to lunch in a convection oven.

I pass outdoor cafes where diners shelter under large umbrellas. It’s Friday, and normally, I’d expect them to be lounging in their chairs, sipping Super Bocks or Coke Zeros, considering which beach to go to on Saturday. But today there is a buzz in the air. Young men lean in and converse intensely in between sips of cold beer.

I hear “Ronaldo” uttered with every conversation I pass. It’s FIFA World Cup time, and Portugal is a talented team to be reckoned with. It’s anchored by Cristiano Ronaldo, one of the greatest players of all time.

Like most Americans, I knew very little about football before I moved here. I still don’t. But if you know nothing else about Portuguese football, you must learn about Cristiano Ronaldo. His #7 shirt hangs in the doorway of every tourist souvenir shop in the country. At 41 years of age – unheard of for a top tier football player – many fear he has aged out. But he delivers experience and leadership and is the team captain. This will be his last world cup. As amazing as his career has been, a FIFA World Cup championship has eluded him, with that glory going to Messi.

Though not likely to win the World Cup, Portugal should be strong competitors, and they’ll be cheered on in every café, bar and home, by grandparents, toddlers, and everyone in between. I plan to join them.

June 26 Update

The first game against the Democratic Republic of Congo was a 1-1 draw, inspiring disappointment and a flurry of press criticisms questioning the capability of the aging Ronaldo. But the 5-0 comeback against Uzbekistan, with 2 goals by Ronaldo, had all of Portugal cheering and temporarily silenced the critics. Ronaldo is the only player in history to score in six World Cups. Hopes are high.

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