Some borders demand to be noticed. Between India and Pakistan, for example, the daily Changing of the Guard ceremony at the Wagah Border is a spectacle of military precision, patriotic fervour and carefully choreographed pageantry. I’ve had the privilege of witnessing it more than once, and it is every bit as full of pomp and circumstance as one might expect.
Given the long and often complicated history between Portugal and Spain, part of me secretly expected something similar. Instead, this is twenty-first century Europe. Thanks to the Schengen Agreement, the border is so understated that, if you blink, you’ll miss it. Or, in my case, you’ll simply drift off to sleep.
Somewhere before Badajoz I closed my eyes, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the coach. When I woke again, it wasn’t a border sign or passport check that alerted me to the fact that I had entered another country. It was my power bank.
Reaching into my bag to rescue my increasingly depleted phone, I glanced out of the window and realised the scenery had changed. The broad plains of Extremadura had quietly given way to the rolling countryside of the Alentejo near Évora.
The only other clue came from the driver. Gone were the bilingual announcements in Spanish and English. He had slipped effortlessly into full Portuguese mode, as though crossing an international border were no more remarkable than changing radio stations.
It was rather anticlimactic, but perhaps perfectly suited to this Iberian Crossover. I had indeed crossed over, leaving behind not only Spain but also the ceremony of borders.
The remainder of the journey unfolded through increasingly familiar landscapes. The Alentejo’s golden fields and vineyards gradually yielded to the outskirts of Lisbon, and somewhere along the way another subtle handover took place. The Monterey pines that had framed my departure from Cornwall quietly gave way to Portugal’s stone pines, as though the landscape itself had come to escort me home.
World Cup champions may return beneath military flypasts and ceremonial honour guards. Mine consisted of kilometres of Portuguese stone pines, each sporting what looked suspiciously like upside-down Vidal Sassoon bobs. Once you’ve seen it, you simply can’t unsee it.
Looking back over the itinerary, it had been quite the expedition. By the time the journey was over, I had travelled approximately 4,740 kilometres.
The Proclaimers famously declared they would walk 500 miles, and then 500 more. Admirable dedication, but I was perfectly content to let Ryanair, Great Western Railway, National Express, FlixBus, Gipsyy and a succession of remarkably competent drivers do most of the heavy lifting. My own contribution consisted largely of supplying the passport, the snacks and, at one point, the nap that carried me across an international border. My passport can finally enjoy a well-earned rest, at least until the next adventure.
Before I’d even reached home, Vodafone welcomed me back to Portugal and hoped I’d had a pleasant journey. Moments later, Uber Eats also sprang into action. Apparently travelling nearly five thousand kilometres had left me looking both tired and hungry.
Dinner? Not yet. The first order of business was putting the rice cooker on. Only then did it truly feel as though I was home. There was, however, one final checkpoint still waiting.
Beside the front door sat the Furry Border Patrol. The reception was mixed. Most officers approved my re-entry immediately after conducting the customary customs inspection involving cuddles, an exhaustive examination of shoes and luggage, and a thorough analysis of every interesting smell I had inadvertently imported from three countries.
One junior immigration officer, however, chose to maintain a diplomatic distance. Clearly, my prolonged absence required further investigation before full diplomatic relations could be restored. Additional negotiations, preferably involving treats, would almost certainly be required.
After nearly five thousand kilometres, two flights, countless train and coach journeys, an invisible international border, and an honour guard of Portuguese stone pines sporting Vidal Sassoon hairstyles, it turned out the most rigorous immigration procedure of the entire trip was waiting behind the front door.
Home, at last.
FrogDiva Thoughts 