The Blue Arrows
Then we headed north, aiming for the Roman city of Evora. We drove through the mountains. Good roads they were, with lovely autumn colors to the leaves, and great views, every so often, of the peaks. This is, I guess, what Spain is like at the western border. Remote. Mountainous. Beautiful. Everyone seemed to live well, if in isolation. I began to see Portugal as Utopia.
Beja was a red herring, an attractive one of which I got several nice photos, I hope. After that we came to Evora. By now I thought I knew how the Alentejo looked: white towns on low hills, with a steeple on the highest point or a fort. By now we had a strategy for not getting lost. First, follow the blue arrows. Did I forget to mention the blue arrows? They mark the most direct route into and then out of each town.
Sounds simple. In fact, they seem to preternaturally anticipate where
you want to go, and occasionally mark it. Just when you're hopelessly
lost: there's a blue arrow!!! follow it!!! However the blue arrows and
the street signs are always only visible at the last possible minute.
Craig kept griping, couldn't I look ahead a little? I said no and griped
back, don't you have a turn signal you could use?
Meanwhile, the pictures got stranger. Above, Craig studies a guide book as Pirate peeks out of a photo used as a bookmark.
