Day 9, 21 August: It was a wistful goodbye to Portugal. In the airport, I crossed paths with a Portuguese-Canadian, a woman in her 50s or 60s who said she couldn’t wait to get home to Canada. She was so glad she left, all those years ago, she said. Portugal was her roots, but all her children and now grandchildren were in North America.

Here I was, sad about leaving, and she happy to be getting away. But you know, I’ve never bitten the meager fruit of poverty. And it’s one thing to vacation somewhere, another to live there.

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Day 8, 20 August: Cathy’s conference over, we left the Marriott. Our Rough Guide suggested O Duque, just under the crest of the hill in Bairro Alto.

We went and were treated gruffly by a man there who said he hated George W. Bush. He even had a cartoon that he shoved under our noses as I was signing in. Something from Le Monde. The man was going on and on in Portuguese and French about what a monkey George Bush was.

He had no idea what my politics were; for all he knew, I too disliked Bush. But he didn’t care. I was American, and that was enough. I made one mistake. I said, “But surely there’s more to America than Bush. You know, our culture, our people, freedom, democracy … ”

Day 7, 19 August: I climbed to the top of the Castelo de S’Jorge and admired the view. Below me, Alfama, the Baixa, Bairro Alto, and the River Tagus, or Rio Tejo. Spanning the Tagus, the Ponte 25 de Abril, once known as the Salazar Bridge, after the economics professor from Coimbra who became dictator. After the regime fell on April 25, 1974, in a virtually bloodless coup, the new leaders changed the name. Since the revolt, Portugal has been on a democratic road, exchanging the rule of the caudillo for the rule of law.

Day 6, 18 August: For breakfast, I had my bica (Portuguese espresso) and a nata (pudding in a small pie crust) at a sidewalk caf’Bicas are strong and oily and wonderful; if your car leaks oil, just replenish it with a bica. And so I had my Latin breakfast. Of course, I was hungry and jumpy all morning.

We explored the Bairro Alto, atop one of the seven hills. Its streets are narrow enough to squeeze out most auto traffic, and there are old ladies walking in the streets and looking out their windows and greeting one another, and there are grocery stores so narrow you can barely turn around in them, stretching meters deep to the back, where through a half-open door you can just glimpse a stout old tree in a secret courtyard. I would have lingered on every alley.

Day 5, 17 August: I spent the morning at the Conimbriga ruins, the best Roman ruins in Portugal. The mosaics, which used to be the floors of wealthy Roman citizens’ houses, are well-preserved. A guide would have been nice, though. I saw two lucky (and probably rich) Americans with theirs, a bellman from Quinta das L’imas in Coimbra. We greeted one another, and I felt almost like a local.

After my self-guided tour, I was back in the parking lot, opening the door of my car. As I was about to get in, I noticed something crawling out from under the car. It was a dog, scrawny and mangy, about to lose his shade. He looked friendly enough, the sad sack. As soon as he wiggled out, his comrade joined him. He too had that forsaken but friendly look. I gave them both a thorough rub on their heads and wished them luck.

Day 4, 16 August: Drove from Pinh’ through Lamego to Coimbra, the university city. In Lamego we stopped long enough to admire the pilgrimage church, Nossa Senhora dos Rem’os, high above town. The truly repentant ascend to her on their knees.

Portugal is like West Virginia: full of ambitious and expensive roads through the mountains. Only, Portugal’s aren’t finished yet. So we made do on the two-laners. It’s a pretty country, but most of the forest I saw was pine and eucalyptus.

In Coimbra we stayed at Quinta das L’imas. Are you going to Coimbra’ Invest in a night in this classy establishment.

Day 3, 15 August: Awoke at Quinta de la Rosa, a port wine estate in Pinh’ on the Douro River in northern Portugal. The night before, we’d arrived late and found no one from the estate to let us in. Two older Dutch couples pulled in in their rental car and told us not to worry; just pick a room and occupy it. The keys were hanging in the door. We slept well.

In the morning we walked in the hills above the estate. There’s the river below, kind of sluggish from the dams; vineyards terracing up the slopes; and the rough outlines of the ridges above. A very pretty scene. It was warm and we were sweating, and the sun all full on your face.

Day 2, 14 August: Cathy and I drove more than 500 km (310 miles) today, from Sintra to Coimbra and through the mountains to Muxagata and Castel Melhor, near Vila Nova Foz C’At Castel Melhor, Cathy and I toured the Penascosa area of the Parque Arqueol??o do Vale do C’. We then drove on twisting highway across the Terra Quente (Hot Land) to Pinh? the port wine capital, in the Douro River valley.

It was a lot of driving, much of it on narrow mountain roads. Often, the landscape was beautiful. Often, it was charred, the calling card of the fires. Around Muxagata, the area looked semi-arid: few trees, and the gorse like tumbleweed. It was hot in that remote little village, with the old men killing time sitting in front of a store, and the old women, many of them dressed head to toe in black, lining up to get into the local church. Stray dogs kept a wary distance from you.

Day 1, 13 August: We awoke at 04:00 in Sibbe. At 04:45, we were on our way in our little VW Polo to the Brussels Airport, 128 km (79 miles) away. Fog slowed us down on the Belgian highways, eating up the cushion of time I?d built in. Our flight took off at 07:00. I sat next to an ear, nose and throat specialist named Luc and his wife. The couple is from Ghent, Belgium, a Flemish city. The couple consider themselves Flemish, but they spoke French to one another. Most of the innovations in his industry are coming from the United States, Luc said.