Rick Steves’ Travel Blog

“Day after day, the roads were messing up my itinerary. I’d arrive in town hours before I thought I would.”

Driving from Lisbon to Évora, I remembered this joke I used to tell in my lectures, which has since faded out of use. It saddened me to think of the many fine jokes (I liked them, anyway) that I’ve used to spice my talks over the years that have become lost…nudged aside by new material and insights being packed into talks that must not grow longer.

Anyway, I remember a time when there were absolutely no freeways in Portugal. Now, even my Michelin map is missing new freeways. Ninety minutes after pulling out of Lisbon, I was in a different world — humble but proud Évora, capital of the Alentejo region.

Évora — while a Tombstone kind of town with barely a building over three stories high — is crowned by the granite Corinthian columns of a stately yet ruined Roman temple. And three times as old as that, just outside of town, stand 92 stones erected by locals to make a Stonehenge-type celestial calendar. Évora sits on lots of history.

Alentejo is a vast and arid land — the bleak interior of Portugal, where cork seems to be the dominant industry. The rolling hills are covered with cork trees. With their bark peeled away, they remind me of St. Bartolomeo…and seem to suffer in silence.

The people of Alentejo are uniformly short, look at tourists suspiciously, and are the butt of jokes in this corner of Europe. There was a man here who nearly succeeded in teaching his burro to live without eating. He was so excited. Then his burro died. Libanio, my Évora guide, circled the words “arid” and “suspiciously” in my guidebook and did his best to turn my chapter into a promo for Alentejo. Actually, in April, it is a lush countryside. But I’ll stand by “suspicious.”

Libanio said it was the mark of a people’s character to laugh at themselves. He asked me, “How can you tell a worker is done for the day in Alentejo?” I didn’t know. He said, “When he takes his hands out of his pockets.” My guide continued more philosophically: “In your land, time is money. Here in Alentejo, time is time. We take things slow and enjoy ourselves.”

While this corner of Portugal is humble, there’s a distinct pride. Every country has its Appalachia, Ozarks, or Newfoundland. I’m impressed when a region that others are inclined to insult has a strong local pride. I often wonder if it’s honest pride, or just making the best of the cards they’re dealt.

For Alentejanos, quality and authenticity require the respect of tradition. The finest restaurants simply do not ornament a standard rustic dish. They love their sweets so much that they seem to know the history of each tart.

Many pastries are called “convent sweets.” Portugal once had access to more sugar than any other European country. Even so, sugar was so expensive that only the aristocracy could afford to enjoy it routinely. Historically, many daughters of aristocrats who were unable to marry into suitably noble families ended up in high-class convents. Life there was comfortable, yet carefully controlled. Rather than sex, they could covet and treat themselves with sweets. Over time, the convents became famous as keepers of wondrous secret recipes for exquisite pastries generally made from sugar and egg yolks (which were leftovers from whites used to starch their habits). Barrigas de Freiras (Nuns’ Tummies) and Papos de Ango (Angel’s Breasts) are two such fancies. In Évora, I, too, treated myself to lots of sweets.

Doing my research rounds, I was happy to find a romantic little restaurant that offered live Fado music three nights a week. I really wanted to recommend it as Évora’s only late-night action worth a tourist’s lost sleep. Esperanza, the woman who ran the place, explained that she liked the diners to be finished by 10 p.m. so the musicians could perform without waiters wandering around. I was impressed by her commitment to the art.

For my last stop of a very long day, I snuck in between songs and sat in the back of Esperanza’s place, hoping to be wowed by the ambience. During some applause, I snuck back out and headed home, happy to affirm my hunch that this experience merited a spot in my new edition.

When I was half a block away, Esperanza ran out the door and charged after me. I thought she was angry that I left without paying a cover charge, or the door made too much noise, or I had insulted the musicians. Like a guilty little boy, I nearly ducked down an alley and ran away. Then I decided to turn back and “face the music.”

She apologized for not welcoming me and begged me to come back for a glass of port and to meet the musicians. The rest of the evening was a plush experience, and next year travelers with my book will help Esperanza — whose name means “hope” — keep the art of Fado singing alive in Évora. Sweet!