Sailing with da Gama

Baudolino’s Eco teaches us that if our minds can conceive a thing it must be verdad, so I know that, in the land of Presbyter John, the Common Sense Advisory is truly that and the wit and wisdom of Angela Merkel shall lead the Greeks and Portuguese on the Straight And Narrow Path to Full Economic Recovery. Se non è vero, è ben trovato.

So I realized as the road turned from Lisbon and the highway named for my patron Saint da Gama took me across the ocean bridge toward Paradise. He and I set sail on a sea of asphalt and tears, the canvas full with the wind of song, carrying us to a new world.

We passed through a green and pleasant land of milk and vinho verde, the sun smiling on our journey as I woke slowly from the frigid nightmare of el norte, rubbed my eyes and saw clearly

the signs which would lead me to freedom again.

On the road without tolls, less travelled, I passed through the fogs of thirteen years,

fortified myself with café and sandes mista at roadside inns when my body required sustenance,

passed by Golden Arches with their promises of culinary delights.

Entering the gates of the City Upon The Hill at last, I followed the broad avenue to the palace,

my glance passing in tired benediction over the mendicants and students resting in the sun with the others laughing and quarreling before it.

Quite a knocking indeed I made as the porter, young and lively at his work, turned the key and bade me enter.

Master Policarpo welcomed me and showed me to my chambers, where I changed sweat-soaked garb grimed with the dust of Teutonic Tribulations and dressed in gayer, brighter attire better suited for the feast which awaited that evening.

As I made my way back through the corridors to the room that night, tipsy with tinto, I diverted briefly to the courtyard chapel, where I lit a candle and spoke a prayer of thanks to São da Gama for guiding me safely to this place.