It is a city full of hidden secrets around every corner, of ancient legends and mysteries that fascinate those who visit it.

Legend has it that one of the Alentejo towns was born thru Elbur a hermaphrodite. As a man he married and had a daughter called Evora. His wife die and he took the female form, and then as Elbura, remarried. By giving birth to a son, who named Evorinho, she died. Evora and Evorinho grew up in the tower that Elbur / Elbura built, and that is still there. They began to rule the city together, but each of the factions that supported each other wanted the exclusive power. So the two brothers eventually got angry and separate. But one day, Evorinho proposed peace to his sister, advised by his sectarian that led him to a betrayal. He set up a great feast to celebrate peace in the tower Elbur / Elbura, where the banquet was attended by all the townspeople. At one point, Evorinho attracted his sister the top of the tower, claiming to remember their parents, but in order to kill her, pushing her down here. Évora, realizing the intention of his brother, when he would push her, resisted, fought and... eventually fall, dying clinging to each other. Their two heads perpetuate the arms of the city.

A curious tale to say the least, over a metropolis that was influenced by various people over time, with particular emphasis on the influence of Romans and Arabs. Like the legend, what was perpetuated as a remembrance is worth visiting. The first impression we have by traversing its streets and alleys of the old city, is the weight of time, with its white centennials stone walls that haunts us at every turn. The first stop is the temple of Diana, who still rises to heaven despite its old age. But, the Roman mark was not only carved in this monument, the baths are another of these city attractions and left traces that can be visited.

It is not only a path, but a rediscovery of the island.

The journey that I propose is as if we leave the lush paradise of the island into the bosom of a skin parched mountain by a rail that will take us to the most extreme east of Madeira Island, Ponta de São Lourenço. A name that comes according to the legend from the name of the caravel of the discoverer João Gonçalves Zarco. It is a ride that ends the mysteries of the volcanic origin of the Madeira. First things first. The route begins in Caniçal, in the beginning awaits a small mobile trailer that will delight the most addicted to coffee. The adventure begins. We saw at once the long way modeled on the rock by the thousands of steps that have marked this geography for centuries. Waiting slopes glide to an intoxicating sea so blue that bewitching our signt. Rocks cut by the winds, remnants of other times, were we can see the evolution of the planet in its different layers. It's like a journey in a prehistoric world.

The time runs out in the breeze, and here we are in the belt of the island, Ponta do Castelo and the sea surround us on both sides, it's like a very narrow isthmus that in good weather allows us to spot Porto Santo island. We are reaching our destination and you only need to be aware of small loose rocks, although they have put small fences at some points. We continued our journey. In the recesses of the mountain, hidden from the blazing sun we see small groups of walkers who enjoy this oasis to rest and take pictures. We follow the path charted by thousands of anonymous, when finally we saw a palm tree and a stone cottage is the house of the Sardines, the name stuck, the owner did not. This whole track is enclosed in a protected area for its endemic evasive flora and fauna and geological interest. In the distance you can hear the seagulls. We approached the open bay. It's kind of a crack in a cliff that ends with a flight of stairs to a small hiding place where we expect a well-deserved bath. It's time to spice forces with a deserved lunch and enjoy the clear waters that let us see to the bottom studded with rocky basalt. Time to get back the same way, but in reverse, there is no other pedestrian access. On the way up, make a stop of the House of sardines to talk to the supervisors of nature and deep insights of the barley and the lighthouse island, only reachable by the rough sea. It was worth the harsh landscape that haunts us, the glimpse of a lost world and the ocean, always the ocean.

It is the oldest concert hall in the island. Follow me through this journey in time.

I have had many names. In the beginning was Dona Maria Pia. With the establishment of the republic they rename me to Funchalense , imagine! As if that was not enough again they decided to change my identity to Manuel de Arriaga. Finally it was decided, Baltazar Dias Theatre, named after a blind playwright born in this island! It is not unlikely that I was named after someone who to be alive could never admire my long and white facade? The day that the last retouching was applied, I cannot say for sure, the year was 1887, in the temperate month of July. I have added a whole of 124 years of existence well preserved, who ever looks at me gives says I only look seventy years old. I was privileged. But, come, do not be shy!

Come then, thru the archway that leads to the main hall, filled with faces of other times, artists who came here and left their mark on my white walls. The access to the audience is a narrow walkway, is on purpose, so you never know what to expect. Do not fear the creaking of my boards, is the age you know? Sudden shadows deceives at first, then be bathed by the light of my womb, one hundred fifty seats face the stage, the altar of the artists as I like to call it. Look around! Small insuls, as I heard someone whisper, circle the entire space, accessible by short flights of stairs with iron railings. On top, the cherubim peeking through glass flowers, happy, gay and at the same time curious to what is happening deep inside. Despite my ripe age, my acoustics is the best. Unblemished. I still remember fondly my first concert, sponsored by the Music Association of the 25th of January. It was a triumphant inauguration, the house almost came down, such was the amount of people and curious who graced me with their visit. Of course I stand tall bravely, I was younger. Popped up on the cover of the daily news of the day, it quote that I was lovely. Not to brag, but despite my rigid figure and old appearance who knows me well tell me that I am a cozy theater. During this hundred years of existence for me has echoed great voices of national and international reputation, have felt the most beautiful melodies ever played and heard the most joyous and tragic texts ever written. I was built to be as a temple of commotion. Around here thru me audiences have already wept, laughed and be touched to the core. It is my fate, my destiny. I welcome all and favor none. Therefore, I'll welcome you with open arms, I hope for another century at least. For now, the curtain falls, and this show is ending. Until one day, but be back often!

It is one of the most beautiful cities of Europe and a must for lovers of architecture.

Have you ever visited a place and had the distinct impression that you were in a new world? Barcelona had that effect on me. It is a city where there are no limits to the imagination. The capital of Cataluña is like a revelation in every corner, each angle is always a surprise full of fascination and fantasy. Las Ramplas it is always a meeting point for all who live in this metropolis and tourists. It's a long walk in the plaza de Catalunya, surrounded by beautiful buildings, where we can find a little of everything, art, music and many, many people until late at night. It is a strong constant rumor, which dominates over the noise of the city it selves. It's graphic, colorful, has movement and seems never ending. When you leave las Ramplas more surprises are lurking.

One is La Pedrera, one of the great buildings designed by Antoni Gaudí for one of the wealthiest families in Cataluña. It is a unique apartments complex inspired by nature, is imposing and a labyrinth at the same time. It is an organic building, with its strange arches and their waving wrought iron balconies. It is a temple of parables and unusual tones. The roof is dominated by the chimneys guardians who store the skies of the city. The roof corridors with unrealistic sculptures that seem to come alive when caressed by the first rays of the sunset. Living sheltered by the walls of Casa Milá must be a thrilling and unique life experience, different every day. No room for boredom.

It's my personal perspective of an unforgettable trip.

The capital of Italy is considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world and it is so. It is a most fascinating of cities and at the same time more complex than I ever known. We begin with the historical center. The designation of the Eternal City makes perfect sense, the city rises up under the aegis of the Roman Empire and there are numerous monuments that we can visit to remember the influence of great historical figures of the then known world. The Coliseum is one of these mandatory stops. It is an imposing stone structure that leads us to a cruel past, where men and beasts died in the arena for the amusement of the masses. The Roman Forum is adjacent to and worth a stroll through the ruins that in those times was the center of the vast Roman Empire and where Julius Caesar perished by treachery, the place is easily accessible and the most curious is that people today still put flowers and offerings in what is thought to be the exact spot where he died.

The Trevi Fountain is another of the many sights worth visiting, is the conclave of several shopping streets and in front of the national pantheon. Thousands of tourists a day visit this beautiful classical architectural example. It was there were I saw for the first and last time sitting in the lap of Neptune d’artagnan. It's not who you are thinking! It is a curious character of the city that decides to invade the fountain when he desires and say it will commit suicide with a razor blade pointed to the neck, because according to him, his life is meaningless, because it cannot find work. The police of course, denied access to the site and had to close the water to prevent the three agents who were assigned  the task to dissuade him from his insane purpose not to slipp and fall, with a global audience who did not stop filming and take pictures the hole time. The funniest thing  was the reaction of a group of American right next to me, tourists like me who were questioning the lack media covereged. Where were the TV channels? The helicopters to film this event? And the backup police? Welcome to southern Europe, gentlemen! Crazy is what many are not lacking in this side of the Atlantic. It's the Latin blood that rises into the head. Of course our friend did not want to kill himself! The next day I read a small article about him, it was not the first time he had tried such a feat after all, it seems also he was not very fond of work, because in the past had job offers who he kindly declined, of course. What he wants I know! He like it to show up as a character says, in the contemporaries. The strangest thing was the judge's ruling, which prohibited him from returning the Trevi fountain, rather than the fine that could he not afford. My question was how could he prevent him from returning there again?

The title of the Eternal City turns out to be a weigh in the urban dynamics of this great metropolis. On one hand, there is a pride to shown the past, on the other hand becomes unbearable for those who reside there. In terms of contemporary architecture, the concept does not exist, simply collides with the Romanesque style of the buildings. If you are attentive there are no buildings more sophisticated and daring. Nothing. It is not simply allowed. The real estate speculation is so rampant that the city center, swarming with old palazzos, belongs only and exclusively to foreigners with sufficient financial capacity to acquire these old building that came with very high taxes. As the city is divided into sectors purchase sums for housing vary depending on the proximity to historic areas, transportation systems, schools and health institutions. The only sustainable way for the majority is renting a house. Rent in Rome is a luxury that must be shared. An income can vary from 1.500 Euros to 5.000 Euros depending on the location. Many Romans fight this serious housing problem one way, occupy old buildings. The "future residents" carry the structural improvements and inside their apartments, although it is an illegal occupation. Should now be asking themselves why they are not expelled by the legitimate owners? Because they suffer from the same plague that devastates the Portuguese courts, proceedings in these cases drag on for years and so compensates to prevaricate. Although in this case my sympathy swung to the usurpers.

The urban transport are another Achilles heel of this dense and populated city. It is total and utter chaos. Do you know why the tube has only two lines? Each time they equate the opening of a trail, surprise, surprise, comes up an ancient Roman ruins! So its historical you cannot build on them. Buses are the only possible way, but with unpredictable schedules as the city is plagued throughout the year of major events that further complicate the fluidity and flow of traffic. The famous motorino, or wasps, are the best option. But beware! Traffic rules do not govern the inhabitants of Rome. Drivers ignore the crosswalks, the roundabouts and anything is possible. It is not for amateurs. There are no priorities or any police of any sort. If you are aware that there is a difference between vehicles that are park on the street and those with a garage. The difference is evident in those cars parked in public spots, everywhere we see  dents and bumper tied with rope and lights crashed. There are no friendly agreements to anyone, I saw it, believe me. If by chance there is a collision and no injuries, people leave their vehicles argue, insult each other if the engine works each go back their own your life spending as very little time as they can in the road arguing. Time is always running out in Rome. Everyone is always in a hurry to be somewhere. It is a city that never sleeps. It works almost 24 hours a day. It is eternal even with time.

The idiosyncrasy of the Italians is inextricably linked to its geographical origin and food. I will not talk about food, because it is a redundancy, I'll just mention that we perfectly distinguish that part of the country a person comes by way it prepares the meal. In Rome, the ingredients are not the same for the same dish as compared to another location, for example, Naples. The way the Portuguese cook pasta is an attempt to Italians. A horror and rightly so! It's still think is funny. At one thing we agree on, in the cafe. Strong and aromatic, and no watery mess. I should add that, I love Italian food and my voyage was not like the movie love, eat and pray.

When you visit Rome do not forget to drink water that flows fresh and tasty from the free fountains mirrored the city. I've met people who have never understood, why there was only sparkling water bottled for sale, now you know why! Drink it is so wonderfully refreshing in the summer. And one last advice, do not visit to Rome in August is a furnace! Even so, my love for her is eternal!

Dancing with the difference is a small project that was born of the will of a few, grew up and jumped the stigma of disability. This dance inclusive troupe tore consciousness, freed itself from the prejudices and showed that dancing is a physical expression without limits. There are no physical boundaries, or mental that cannot be felled. I ask only that accompany me on this journey through the life of one of his interpreters, Telmo Ferreira.

When I was a kid I've never dreamed about what I am today. A dancer in an inclusive dance company. In my world there was no room to be an artist; I was just a child who had to work from dawn to dusk to earn money to take home. I studied in a public school in Camara de Lobos, but due to my learning disability was transferred to another educational establishment, Quinta do Leme. So there I learn what dancing was. Then I had to battle with my complex and deeper limitations. I felt the gaze of others the stigma of disability, when I knew deep down I was not. I just didn't know how to express myself. Dancing with the difference helped me in that transition. To show what you have inside. A place where there is no limit. There are no boundaries. It depends on your body, does not show your writing or your reading skills shows how you feel, who you are and what you do here.
Whenever I step on stage I feel a great thrill. Every fiber of my being vibrates. It's like a force, are waves of enthusiasm that push you for that moment. Dancing is like breathing for me. It is essential, I express myself without words. I have a greater awareness of each member, each beat of my heart, and every gesture of my body. I levitate. No concept of time or space. You do what you like and that's enough. You only realize its over, when you hear the applause of the audience, the stamping of the feet in gratitude. You feel the love and affection from the ones on the other side. It's like an energy flow that feeds you.

It is the ideal slace to spend a holiday away from everything and everyone. Come and meet it, make this trip with Henrique Afonso.

I bought a very old, very old house. It was already abandoned for several years. I thought it ironic that I hated so much this site, I now have a resting place here. I was doing work over time, always with the help of my friends, and was one of them who suggested the name, Maktub. Why is that? It means, what was written in Arabic. It was my destiny to return to the Garden of the Sea. Those words stuck in my memory, I recalled all those years out there and without knowing how, I went back and started making improvements in my house because I have three children. Build a room for each to have their corner whenever they come to visit. I did even more with the terrain, because I have many friends, build a space just for them. That was how it all began. Everything is done for me. To my taste. There is a not a single piece to please you, or the other. It gives me pleasure to share and I do not like the solitude, I was alone for thirty days and that's sufficed, so I always invite my friends.
Feasts and gatherings have always attracted many people and one day an American surfer asked me to rent a room. At first said no. Maktub is not for rent, is my house, but eventually I rent it. The pass-word did the rest. My son, in between begins in the surf. Starts to arrange boards and he comes with friends, the Sea Garden, becomes the ideal haven to practice this extreme sport and start receiving surfers from all corners of the world. We have this fantastic places to surf on the west, the Tristan point, the small point end and Paul de Mar. There are three patches of sea where they are not many people. Are large waves and very strong ones, the pebble is dangerous, are not for any type of surfer. Only for the more experienced. Therefore, for very few.

A group of irreverent young university students live the greatest odyssey of their lives.

Every year the academy at the University of Porto promotes a radical week-end in the Serra da Estrela. In the year to be forgotten of 1991, a group of young adventurers decides to participate in what would be, but still little they know, one of the worst days of their lives. It sounds like the synopsis of an American horror movie with teenagers, I'm sorry, it is not. Happened.

The story starts upon arrival in the country's highest mountain, 1993 meters of height of this giant rock that our intrepid friends were going to climb, do rappel and slide. Sweet deceit upon arrival at that crisp morning of March, the weather threatened rain. A dense fog that lurked at the back of the mountain just dictated the departure of the central mountain range to the collective transport. Each group followed the trail accompanied by their guide to their bus waiting at the roadside. We left. The route that wound through the mountains suddenly ceased to be so clear, with a sudden snowfall. Following we went in great commotion, entranced by the white flakes falling so rare sighting below these altitudes, when suddenly the guide pole. It seems stunned. He hesitates and recoils at the same track and before his patent confusion, we realize our sudden new reality, we are lost. Silence is cold. What cruel irony. No one dares to say it, talking would make it real. Inevitably it happens. We proclaimed how? Where's the map? The compass?  I was caught off guard by the snow. I don’t have it. Forgot to bring. How is it possible? It's not worth whining over. It is necessary to walk. the cold begins to affect the members; the group takes a random direction.

The snow falls gently, slowly turns into a blizzard, we must continue. We cannot stop. I must say that there is nothing scarier than a stark white landscape. Our sense of direction disappears. There are no points of reference. Everything is covered by a blanket of blank. Panic installs silently. Visibility is nil. We can only spot the marks of our boots in the snow; we are surrounded by a dense fog. It is urgent to do something, or we perish here transformed in ice cubes. We stopped again at what it seems to be a cliff. The group decides to go down. No way. Well, let's open it. As far as we know we should be walking in circles for several hours already. The descent begins cautiously. Our legs sink into the snow, slip and slide some few yards up the ravine. Nothing serious happens. Continued to go his way through the bushes that beginning to appear. As the altitude decreases, the snow turns to rain, the earth turns to mud. We fitted by a hope that warms our tired bodies and heavy water that condenses in our clothing. We hear shouts of joy. Someone spotted a trail. We laughed, jumped and hugged each other upon arrival. It is the civilization ahead. We are saved. We ran thru the small trail in search of something or someone, in the end is the road. I was never so happy to see tar. Now yes, the fatigue starts to take care of all. We try to spot houses, but nothing. We are surrounded by the mountainous wet landscape. The rain finally relented.

It is the largest and most sumptuous example of the Baroque in Portugal. Born over a promise of a Portuguese king.

Finally came the most glorious of days. The imperishable date of twenty-two of October of the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and thirty, when King D. John V is forty-nine and sees the consecration of the most marvelous monuments ever rose, in Portugal, still unfinished, it is true, but by the countenance we know the catablind. Thus is how, José Saramago ends the memorial of the convent. But pulling back a little in time. It begins: Once upon a time a king who promised to raise a temple and a sumptuous monastery attached, as a promise to the Lord, high all mite and most serene both in heaven and on earth, in return for an heir. The prediction was fulfilled, but not in the way that the king wanted most, a girl was born, as promised and to avoid the wrath of God, a place once called the site of candles, our lord commanded to build a magnificent artistic monument that would lead to awe the people of this and other lands.
After 281 years, ten months and four days, the convent of Mafra is a colossal project, which includes a convent, a palace and a basilica in an estimated area of ​​40,000 m2. At the entrance, we must recede before the 232 meters high of the façade flanked by two imposing towers. Then we walk the marbled hallway that leads to the palace. The yellow room was the favorite convivial space of the sovereign. One of the other compartments is the room of the trophy with its walls studded rods of deer hunted by the kings in the woods that are part of this monument.
We returned to the hallway, you hear the falling motion of the feet in marble before us stands an imposing gate, opens up loudly, we are momentarily blinded by the light, suddenly there is a never ending hallway lined with books. Thousands. It is the library of the palace lavishly decorated with baroque motifs, which houses 40, 000 editions, many of them rare. It has no more and no less than 88 meters in length. It is the dream of every scholar and one of the most beautiful in Europe.
The convent was first a monastery to house 330 monks. It has one of the biggest kitchens I've ever seen in my life. Have tables with a capacity to sustain an ox. The fireplace occupies a vast area, since they were made large meals at once and the no less famous convent sweets. Another curiosity is the stream, you read well, this one ends in a small artificial lake, the water comes from the nearby river, the monk's fish was caught directly to the table and it was also use to wash their food. Cells are small compartments lined up next to each other, all identical and scarce in furniture. The cloisters are adorned by beautiful geometric gardens, to think that 52.000 men were needed to build this monument.

It is one of Europe's alternative capitals, but not everything is as it seems.

Amsterdam is an interesting city, but with some contradictions. Looks can be deceiving. One of the points required to see and little known in the capital, is the Museum Amstelelkring, better known as the Lord in the attic, it is a house with a Catholic chapel inside, confused? Let me explain, when the Protestant movements swept Europe, the Dutch responded to the call and was born the Netherlands Reformed Church. So, as there were many religious persecutions to non-Christians, the infamous Inquisition, the Dutch, in turn, persecuted Catholics in their territory. There was a very wealthy merchant family who secretly continued to practice their own religion by building a small shrine inside the house, which was also a place of worship to other Catholic families. Were discovered, tried and stripped of their fortune. From those times to our days, Amstelkring is a symbol of religious intolerance.
The Anne Frank house. A stop rather than mandatory, but you must get up early to visit, the queues go around the block and the space itself is very small. It is an old house. I was very emotional during the visit, had read the diary of course, was there to see with my own eyes and try to imagine what is like to live in an attic, hidden from an intolerant world. I met a group of American Jews, who reported their experiences of life, as they lost friends, their family and brothers of heart in a senseless war. I was truly touched; fortunately I hope I never go through such an ordeal, while I felt privileged, because I heard history being told in the first person. On the ground floor, do not hesitate and enter, there's a small interactive room that addresses intolerance in all its forms and that makes us think.
The masters of painting are a delicious option. I know there is a broad spectrum of people who think is a real torment to lose an afternoon looking at old pictures, but I cannot resist such beauty. When I look at one of these masterpieces I think there is something truly divine in the way they, the artists interpret the world. The frantic strokes in rolling landscapes. The intense colors which perpetuates the moment. One evening in Arles by Vincent van Gogh. At the home of Rembrandt we can appreciate the utensils, pictures and models that the painter used on his large canvases, then, yes, it can be seen in the famous Rijksmuseum.