Eventually, we reach a parking lot. On a hill to the right of us, several buildings painted white are encircled by a white wall. A lighthouse stands tall inside the compound. The reddish roofs and the bright red top of the lighthouse lend the scenery a charming touch. I have no idea where we are. Rita circles the parking lot, looking for an empty spot, and stops near a building that looks like a visitor center. The number of coaches and tourists that walk the grounds give me the impression that we have arrived at a well-known place.
I can see the ocean at the end of a fenced walkway that leaves the parking lot. A tall stone monument overlooking the ocean far below rises at the end of the trail. To the left, narrow trails cut through invasive-type vegetation that covers the rocky landscape. Many previous visitors obviously ignored the signs to please stay on the marked walkways and stepped on the vegetation to explore the area on their own. I choose one of the unauthorized footpaths and head toward the monument to discover what it commemorates.
The place is called Cabo da Roca. The stone plaque at the bottom of the phallic monument announces, “Aqui onde a terra se acaba e o mar começa,” easily translated to “Here is where the land ends and the sea begins.” A cross on the top of the monument lends it a seal of approval. Apparently, this is the westernmost point of Portugal and continental Europe.
Unsurprisingly, knowing that I am standing on the very edge of Europe does not make me feel anything special. I think I once stood at the westernmost point of the coast of California, but I have no memory of feeling overwhelmed by the thought. In general, I am not one to be impressed by anything defined as “the most.” I will never try to conquer the summit of the highest mountain or the deepest cave of any continent so I can say I’ve been there. I don’t see any merit in activities that disturb the natural environment and endanger my life. I am more moved by nature’s beauty than by geographic curiosities. So, this Cabo da Roca can be anywhere in the world for all I care, and still be a beautiful place. Just like Big Sur, which I consider my weekend playground. A place where I go to see narrow, white sand beaches surrounded by tall granite cliffs that drop straight into the ocean; observe sea birds glide above me on the wind, motionless with their wings outstretched, and gray rock formations rise from the ocean’s depths to meet unforgiving waves.
I walk to the edge of the cliff away from the crowds to feel the wind on my face, get my blood moving, and breathe the fresh salty air. I can see my travel mates walking slowly on the designated trail to the monument, where Rita takes pictures of her mother, who obediently poses in front of it. Anna keeps to herself again and veers away from the two of them to look at the spectacular view and take pictures. I take my time exploring the different trails away from the center of attraction, where most of the tourists congregate. After a few days in the city, it’s refreshing to be out in nature where I can see all the way to the horizon and feel dirt instead of asphalt under my feet.
When I return to the monument to meet everyone, Rita is busy taking her quintessential selfies with the imposing rocks down below. She smiles at the cellphone screen, adjusts the angle of the phone, tilts her head to one side, then the other side, smiles again, and click, click, click. She loves taking selfies, especially since she has started getting Botox shots that erase even the most stubborn lines between her eyebrows. Selfies are her trademark. She has hundreds of them on her Facebook page. Wherever she goes in the world, she takes a closeup selfie with something small in the background as proof that she was there. She beckons me to pose next to her in one of her selfies. I acquiesce. Refusal might be seen as a repudiation and I am not in the mood to advertise my subversive disposition.
Now that we have proof that we’ve been to the westernmost point of the continent we can look for the bathrooms and relax over a cup of coffee. I follow Rita and Vera into the building at the end of the parking lot. Inside, there is a gift shop with the typical tchotchkes Portugal offers to its tourists, and a friendly attendant by the cash register. Since I am not inclined to buy anything, I proceed to the spiral staircase that leads me downstairs to an unassuming café with only a few patrons. Rita and her mother are still upstairs deciding whether to buy something or not, but Anna is already seated at one of the small tables by the window with a cup of coffee in front of her. She seems preoccupied with something, paying no attention to the beautiful view outside the windows. I wave to her and go to the counter to ask about the bathroom. The woman behind the counter tells me I have to pay to use the bathroom and also buy something. I order coffee and receive a card that will unlock the entrance to the restrooms. As usual, I skip the sugary pastries on display.
The woman hands me an espresso. I ask her to add a little milk to it and join Anna by the window. “Did you try out the restrooms?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says putting down her cell phone. “But you have to pay to get in.”
“The cashier gave me this,” I show her my card, and ask if the bathrooms are clean.
Life has taught me that it’s always good to be prepared. In general, my experience with European bathrooms has not been completely positive. In addition to the questionable quality of the toilet paper and the unfamiliar flushing contraptions I encountered not too long ago in London and Vienna, I also had to pay to use a public restroom. In the United States, I’ve never been in a situation where I had to pay to use a public toilet no matter where I found myself—a rest area in the middle of nowhere on Interstate 5 or the boardwalk in Monterey—but in Europe it’s a common practice in some places. At least in Brazil they don’t charge seniors to use public bathrooms. But in Portugal, they ask you to pay to use the bathroom at a restaurant. Live and learn.
“They’re fine,” Anna shrugs off my question as irrelevant. I can feel she nurtures a hidden contempt for my attachment to the bourgeois notion of cleanliness.
When I finally leave for the bathroom, I find myself standing behind a man and his son who are trying to figure out how to insert their cards into the slot in a turnstile that blocks the entrance. I watch them closely because I’d hate to make an idiot of myself and have to ask them how to do it. Eventually, they pass through the turnstile and I follow them. When I come out, Rita and Vera are on the other side of the turnstile with their cards.
“Just push it in here,” Rita shows her mother.
“I know, I know,” Vera says, grabbing the card from Rita’s hand.
“Good luck,” I say to them and join Anna, who is still sitting at the table by the window scrolling on her phone.
Later on, on the way out of the parking lot to the next unknown destination, I spot a line of women standing outside a grungy-looking door in another smaller and less attractive building. On the door, I can see a small square sign with the blue shape of a person in a skirt. It looks like in our rush to the gift shop, we missed the free toilets.
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