. . . is a Sunday stroll . . . less than two hours . . . it takes longer to find the tourist info and the youth hostel . . . where they offer discount to pilgrims, even though the route goes east from Tavira or north from Fatima . . .
Faro feels good in the sun and a trip to its very own temple of consumerism, Forum Algarve, finally secures me a Portuguese sim card and some gigabytes of data, so I am not reliant on cafe wifi . . . can learn some Portuguese with Duolingo . . . and check out walking routes that avoid the main road.
Having bought some vegetables to cook up for an economical meal, I spend twice as much on a glass of vinho verde for a prime spot to watch the sunset. A plane takes off, reminding me that family and friends are only a few hours away, though I am not tempted to buy a ticket.
Albufeira tomorrow may not fill me with joy, but Portimao looks too far in one day . . . let's see. Of course buses and trains regularly run along the coast and my room mate, Luigi, is driving to Lagos, but I feel like walking it all . . . slowly.
Luigi is 62, is retired from his job as an accountant, and is travelling until March, to avoid winter in Milan. I don't speak Italian and he doesn't speak English, but we manage to communicate in a mangled up mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and French.