If Portugal were a Yelp review, it might’ve gotten two stars from us that day. Maybe three, if we were feeling generous and slightly less hangry. But the truth is, it wasn’t entirely Portugal’s fault. We were tired, hungry, a little emotionally crispy around the edges and in search of one simple thing: coffee.

That humble quest turned out to be surprisingly difficult. We wandered Lisbon’s streets, parched and espresso-deprived, past restaurant after restaurant that looked like they’d shuttered for the summer.  The one café we did find was open in the technical sense but seemed to operate under a strict “no backpacks, no service” policy. There was a numbered-ticket kiosk just to talk to the cashier (I wish I were kidding), and when we finally sat down, the other patrons looked like they were offended at our presence. We took the hint and bolted.

Eventually, salvation arrived in the form of a tiny sandwich shop with tolerable coffee and no side-eye. It was just enough to keep us standing upright for what came next: a six-hour bus ride that would test both our patience and skeletal integrity.

Now, I’ve taken a lot of buses in my day. But this one was special. The seat in front of me reclined to what I can only describe as “nap position for giraffes.” The passenger in front was practically in my lap.  At least one of us was comfortable.

We were finally dropped off in Valença—still technically in Portugal—and started our three-mile walk to the albergue. It was halfway through this walk that we crossed a long, high bridge and—voilà—we were in Spain. The border didn’t just bring a change in geography; it brought a full-on vibe shift.

In Spain.... Finally

Tui welcomed us with streets that felt tidy and loved, and people who greeted us with warmth instead of indifference. It was as if Spain had been waiting at the door with a cold drink and a hug.

Still, we were wrecked. Drenched in sweat, fueled only by our sad little sandwiches, and functioning on minimal sleep, we texted our albergue to reassure them we were indeed coming, just very, very slowly. We made it by 8:00 p.m., collapsed into our bunks for a minute, and then rallied for Mass at St. Francis Church.

Afterward, as if to reward our spiritual perseverance, we were lured by the sweet smell of BBQ. The burger we ordered arrived looking well enough on the outside, but once sliced, it revealed a vivid red interior that mooed ever so faintly. I am talking super rare.  I ate mine anyway but the girls mostly poked at theirs like it might get up and walk away. The real stars of the meal were the croquettes, patatas bravas, and the ice-cold water.

Super super rare

Back at the albergue, we were ready to crash… until Portugal struck one last time.

One of our pilgrims realized his U.S. passport had gone missing. Cue the frantic bag-dumping and flashlight searching. We think it may have slipped out while his bag was sideways on the bus, but honestly? Who knows. Ever had to apply for an emergency passport in a foreign country? Yeah, me neither. 

So yes, I’m griping a bit. And yes, I realize I’m gallivanting around Europe while most of my family is back home, holding down the fort and probably eating food that’s fully cooked. But here’s hoping that with some real sleep and real nourishment, we’ll turn this whole adventure around.

Camino gives. Camino takes. And sometimes, Camino hides your passport just to see what you’ll do next.