On day three of our pilgrimage, the true treasure of travel rewarded me when we saw a Portuguese dog staring at a cat.

The cat poised indifferently on the wall, protecting a old, tiled house. The dog — more red than brown and more lame that spry — sat in anticipation. For what?  Neither the dog or I were sure. Maybe a chase. Maybe a flirtatious play date. Maybe a snack.

But that stare-down broke down when a silver passenger van approached. The driver buttoned down her window, distracting the dog. The van puttered around the corner. Then the dog followed, pawing left for a turn north toward a café. Suddenly the driver stopped and opened her door, inviting the dog to get in. He refused.

Instead, he raced against the car — surprisingly fast for a crippled canine —  taking the left side of a one-lane, stone road and over-shooting the café by a good 20 yards. He eventually retreated backward toward the driver who had parked. The apparent owner of the neighborhood café-mercado, she was bringing back additional goods to sell. But that task was a abandoned when she bent over to scruff those whiskered, red jowls with both her hands: Love — man and beast — on the hilly, cobbled streets of Portugal.

And that’s what you won’t experience in urban centers where shops are hocking magnets made in China. These are the same ubiquitous stores that promote their faux-filigree keychains out into the sidewalks, so we have to nudge toward the street in search of that American Starbucks store we won’t give up.

In contrast, a step-by-step walk miles outside the easy-to-find venues, where light poles can no longer be found, the true joys of travel come to light. That’s where we discover how local people live their lives. They tell stories, sometimes with words, but more often in actions.

So when I passed a Portuguese fishing village, I stopped by a tarp-walled shelter where a fisherman sat repairing a rope. We tried to talk, but it was useless. We connected with smiles and hand gestures nonetheless, his story being that no rope goes to waste when two good pieces can make something new.

“Can I take your picture?” I asked. He consented and wished me, “Bom Camino.”

Down the street, in a fishing warehouse (the smells were rank), past vibrantly painted houses of orange, green, red, and blue, I heard extra loud voices.

“Maybe a fight,” I thought, but it turned out to be boisterous Portuguese laughter. I peeked in. Four men waved and smiled. Their sea-weathered faces told me the story of their lifetime against the salty winds of the Atlantic.

And before we headed farther inland, Portugal presented a scene I’ve never viewed on the Pacific shore — a man and his tractor harvesting piles of seaweed. Steps later, I’d find a woman with a straw broom, cleaning the street of those seaweed trailings that had fallen off a truck.

Heading up toward the coastal trees, I glanced to my left at two elderly women, one with a cane, sitting on a garden wall, deep in conversation until they spied me, stopping to give me a wave.

So, I presumed, that’s how rural neighbors get together, where there is no gathering park, no meet-in-the aisle supermarket, and no sit-and-chat café. How gracious that they would take time to acknowledge me amid their exchange of private secrets.

Step-by-step it continued, 1,500 calories up into the hills, the coastline still in view, where I passed a disheveled woman raking up after her chickens, a tiny Portuguese boy wanting to acknowledge us with English words (his mom helped), and a one-eye-peeking yellow dog who gave no mind to people with backpacks and walking poles.

This is my best entertainment. This is the needle that pokes my myopic bubble. It’s the best way to see differently, to think new thoughts.

Not that I don’t enjoy a Godly landscape, a hike where I only see cactus, or a gondola ride. But a glimpse of people in a new setting reminds me that we all live, first to survive, then to find the beauty in our own circumstances.

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