Park, ruins, soccer!

No signs of rain today, so a late morning scoot under the Roman aqueduct…

…before entering the botanical gardens and ambling down a path through the bamboo forest and out onto the riverfront walk. We stopped at a cafe that had a tables on a deck built off the river bank above the Mondego. I had my second tepid cappuccino of the day and thought, okay, it’s Sunday in Coimbra and to hell with coffee worshippers.

How about museum goers? We visited a museum (Ella will say more) where the artist had an explanation of how her reality continually merged with her memory. I can identify with this. Different historical sites, different train rides, restaurant fare, and places meant to inspire religious awe, all keep reminding me of other trips. The train from Lisbon to Porto was like the train from Florence to Siena; the three mile tunnel in the Douro Valley recalled the tunnels we drove through in Greece; the Roman ruins, hell, pick a place in Europe that doesn’t have Roman ruins.

But how about those Roman ruins in Coimbra? Don’t ask Ella; her lips are sealed. She’s seen one Roman ruin and, well, it goes a long way. Me, on the other hand, I can’t get enough of that leftover empire. I mean, just take the aqueducts. To engineer, build, and deliver—it staggers the imagination.

So, how about those Coimbrian ruins? Gotta hike up to the top of the hill the university sits on and purchase a ticket to the Museo de Castro. Once inside, one can visit the cryptoporticus! What, one might ask, is a…

Yep, that’s it. Impressive, no? Stone corridors built on the original Roman settlement. Cold, half-excavated dusty enclosures. Enthralling.

And by that I mean how “thralldom” makes one think of being enslaved. Massive stone walls, no natural light, voices crying out in the dark echoing with fear. At the end of the cryptoporticus there are some encased shards, marble busts, and a few 13th Century alter pieces of angels wielding swords to lighten the mood.

Outside, the splendor of the sun until, across the plaza, I see a cathedral. It’s Sunday, how can I resist? Easy, Ella says, take a picture and walk on. So I go inside. One euro and I witness a baptism in progress beneath another understated Baroque altarpiece.

In the early evening we took a walk after dinner (a soupy bland seafood rice dish that was heavy on the prawns—a shellfish that doesn’t repay the effort to crack out the negligible meat) and found a university soccer game taking place in a park behind the stone walls of a modest stadium.

My limited soccer viewing has usually been World Cup matches, so it was amusing to take in university level competition. Sort of like someone from Portugal whose only exposure to American football being the Super Bowl suddenly observing a Lobo game.