Goodbye

Steven P. Doheny
April 26, 1949 - May 5, 2008





A month or so ago, my dad recited an old saying:
“My father was a farmer so that I could be a doctor so that my children can be artists.”

I can’t think of a more succinctly beautiful expression of my father’s story, his view on life. His story is one of hard work and self-sacrifice. He worked his way up from a humble background to a successful career in a prestigious profession. He was a dreamer. He dreamed the American Dream: if you work hard enough, you will succeed. But there was more to his dreams, because it wasn’t really his own success and fortune he was interested in. He believed in working hard to improve the lives of others. He was able to enjoy the fruits of his labors when he allowed himself the opportunity, but he always seemed to put the needs and desires of everyone else before his own – especially his family. He grew up watching his own father work incredibly long, hard hours building houses to provide for his family. So my dad’s dream was to provide his daughters all the resources we needed to be able to lead the lives we want. He gave us the gift of absolute freedom of choice. He gave us the opportunity to be artists, to be dreamers. He gave us the ability to be creative and intellectual, the luxury of not having to bog ourselves down with everyday concerns.

Dad always supported and encouraged us to follow our own dreams. He especially wanted us to have the chance of trying new things, of doing the unconventional, if that’s what we wanted. He himself was a lover of new experiences and always ready to try something new, be it eating sea urchin at the local sushi bar or trying out a whole new career as a professor at the medical school on Grand Cayman. I know I got my Wanderlust – my desire to travel and see the world – from him. It’s very much due to him that I’ve had the opportunity to see so much of the world, too. He always did whatever it took to make sure nothing stood in my way. When I had to get to Tampa for an interview for a scholarship program to go to Germany, he drove me there, driving long into the night after a full day of work, while I fell asleep in the passenger seat. Just a few weeks ago, when my taking a summer position at Assateague Island was contingent on having a car to get me there, he told me he would take care of everything and invested a small fortune in getting my old Mercedes fixed up. That’s what he always did: took care of everything so I wouldn’t miss out on life’s opportunities.

I’ve always had an innate understanding of what kind of person my dad was, but I’ve also come to really understand him and know him as a person as I entered adulthood. I went and visited him for about two weeks when he was teaching on Grand Cayman and we got to spend time together, just the two of us. That’s when I noticed for the first time something especially remarkable about my dad. He could strike up a conversation with anyone, and make that person feel special. I watched him do it time and again and a realization swept over me: every person on earth has a story to tell, and each story is valuable and interesting. My father knew this intrinsically. He knew exactly how to talk to people, to help them open up and tell their stories, and he knew how to listen and make them know that what they have to say is important. This revelation totally altered my perception not only of my father, but of the world.

See, I’ve always been a lover of a good story – which also comes from my Dad. I have vague memories of him reading The Iliad and The Odyssey to Shannon and I when we were quite young. (I imagine he used abridged children’s versions rather than the epic poems themselves.) I remember begging him for more tales of Ulysses when the book was finished, and in the end he had to make up some new ones for me because I couldn’t accept that the story was over. Thanks to Dad and his talent for talking to people, I now know there’s a limitless supply of good stories out there, and I know how to find them. And thanks to him I understand how valuable this knowledge is, and how precious every single person is.

I’ve come to realize how much alike my dad and I are – we’re both so curious about the world, wanting to explore and experience it, and excited about life and all of its wonders. I’ve also come to realize how much my dad sacrificed his own chances to really experience the world in order to give me those chances. I know with certainty that my dad was proud of me, that he loved me. I know that everyone who knew him knows how much my father cared about them, because he was always able to show it in a million different ways both large and small. I want to continue to make my dad proud, but I know that he was never worried about how I would turn out, because he always encouraged me to make my own decisions, and he was always happy to accept my choices in life and support me no matter what.

It’s still so hard, so impossible, to accept that all of our plans for a shared future will never come to be. And I know that the cliché that “he would want you to move on” holds true in this case, it’s not just a platitude for my family, we can know with certainty that he would want us to go on living our lives and fulfilling our dreams and his dreams. I’m sure he’d prefer to be here with us just as much as we wish he were still here. But it’s thanks to him that we have the great opportunities we do, the freedom to live and enjoy life so much. The way we go on, the way we live is our tribute to him. We need to continue making our stories, and sharing our stories, and sharing his story.

It’s the greatest story I know:
My grandfather was a farmer so that my father could be a doctor, so that I can be an artist.

Venezia, 19 & 20 August

According to my Lonely Planet guide, "Little matches the beauty, and teeth-grinding frustration, of stunning Venice..." and there cannot be a more apt description.

The idea of Venice has tugged on my Wanderlust for a long time, astounding facts such as her network of 117 islands, some 150 canals and 400 bridges -- not to mention her complete lack of cars -- piquing my interest. Hemingway really did me in, though, with his descriptions of the city's breathtaking beauty, and romantic gondola rides, and the seductive flavor of ruby-red Valpolicella...

So, Venice. La Serenissima...



From the moment of arrival at Santa Lucia train station, she enchanted with her vividness and vitality. For some reason, I had been prepared for a city of cool, polished marble, but Venice is a kaleidoscope of earthy brick and soft pastel pinks, oranges and yellows, all offest by the curious chalkboardy blue-green of her canals. The hordes of tourists and the multitude of souvenir stands peddling innuendo-rich articles of clothing alongside culinary delights like squid-ink pasta and baubles of glittering Venetian glass only add to the bustling liveliness of the city.

While seeing Venice by boat seems the obvious choice, it turns out a gondola ride is ridiculously wallet-breaking, and the city is best discovered on foot. Follow her winding alleys and you will most certainly discover achingly beautiful nooks and crannies, hidden plazas, crumbling walls and statuary, ornate wrought-iron railings on canal bridges, and the inevitable dead-end.







Wandering our way to the famous Piazza San Marco, we stumbled upon a wedding party winding their way through the streets, the radiant bride and groom, hand-in-hand, surrounded by elegantly clad, laughing family and friends. As they passed, onlookers joined the contagious festivities, applauding and cheering the beaming new couple. At the tail-end of the party, an enthusiastic older middle-aged gentleman sang boisterously in a lovely Italian tenor, gesticulating broadly with his tuxedo-clad arms. His tune was occasionally joined by his fellows, and even other passers-by, and we could only assume he was the proud father of the bride, pouring out his joy at the occasion.

The narrow streets opened out to the extraordinary expanse of the Piazza San Marco, lined with long galleries of fantastic Venetian architecture and crowned with the San Marco Basilica. The most astonishing sight, however, was the fact that the piazza itself was covered not only by tourists, but by pigeons. To say there were millions of them would not be an exaggeration. It was pure Hitchcockian nightmare. Apparently one of the trademark activities at the piazza is to buy pigeon food for a euro a bag. People of all ages and walks of life were engaged in the activity, some appearing to be soulfully spiritual as they held out their arms for the greedy, disease-riddled vermin to perch upon.


The wedding party also made its way onto the piazza, and the newlyweds partook of the pigeon-feeding ritual, too. Perhaps it brings good luck? This idea did not make me any more inclined to invest my hard-earned money in increasing the pigeon population of Venice.


Two days flew by remarkably quickly, and we saturated ourselves with the city, the magnificent sights, the constant cacaphony of voices, chattering and singing, laughing, in a mixed whirl of languages. The tastes: the smoothness of Valpolicella, the cold, refreshing sweetness of Limoncello... and of course an obscene amount of delicious, creamy gelato. Two days was enough to feel the pulse of the city, to get an impression... and to leave before frustration reared its ugly head.

Evening in Pécs, 25 July

Rough, time-worn and sun-warmed timbers and gray weathered stone form the bastion that protected the city for centuries and now hosts an incongruously festive atmosphere of various vendors of spirits and snacks.



The raised bridge leading to the bastion's portal overlooks an open-air stage in what was once likely a moat, where a band of indeterminate nationality warms up for a show, blending flute, viollin, guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocalists singing strains of perfectly ethereal Irish folk before breaking back into their own incomprehensible tongue (Hungarian? And... French?) to comment on levels. A nondescript middle-aged guy in nondescript T-shirt and shorts tests out his Irish step-dancing shoes, tapping and kicking sporadically in time with the warm-up music.

I lean against the low wall of the bridge, shifting my weight against the rough stone that digs into my palms, waiting for the show to begin. Washed-out blue sky harbours picturesque fluffy white clouds as the sun casts its final glowing rays on red-tiled roofs, bathing everything in that perfect golden light of dusk as it sinks its way behind the green hills of Pécs.



Those hills invite further investigation. We enjoy the decidedly non-spectacular but pleasant performance of the Hungarian Irish folk band as they play and step dance their way through a set of Irish folk standards interspersed with pop and The Cranberries. The juxtaposition of their between-number monologues in Hungarian with their perfect imitation of Irish folk accents while singing is beguilingly puzzling.

And then the hills beckon and we set off in the direction of a distant TV tower high above the city. Rounding the corner, the spires of the cathedral come into view, lit spectacularly in the fading sunlight. I snap impatient photos, eager to climb and reach a vista that will offer a complete sunset panorama.



The narrow street is lined with the type of houses common to hillsides with views, modern and impressive. And selfishly blocking strolling pedestrians from enjoying the view they pay premium prices to closet away in their backyards.





A sign indicates the elusive TV tower can be reached via an even narrower, steeper street cobbled with large, uneven stones, and we continue on in the atmosphere of calming, falling dusk. Snatches of uncomplicated local life add interest to the journey, families unloading groceries, or having murmured conversations on porches. Then we spot a tree laden with deep purple plums, situated invitingly on the street side of a fence surrounding a steep property flanking a house at some disance above it. The plums are sweet and juicy and irresistable and we revert to our anthropoid nature, foraging happily.

A family group makes their way slowly up the hill in our direction, merrily pantomiming the strain of the steep climb and chattering happily with each other. They turn in at the house above our plum tree, obviously the residents here, but just smile and lob a few phrases of Hungarian I don't recognize in our direction as they hike up to their house, clearly unperturbed at our scavenging of their tree. I try to convey my gratitude and enjoyment of their plums, though no appropriate Hungarian phrases enter my brain and I have to resort to grinning broadly.

A fluffy gray cat slinks like a wisp of smoke in our direction, followed by the smiling young matriarch of the family. She seems to be attempting to recover the cat and return it to the house, so I momentarily abandon my plum harvest and join in on heading off the cat so she is able to scoop it up into her arms. She strikes up a very one-sided conversation with me, as I shrug my helpless lack of knowledge of her language. She grins and laughs, shrugging her own lack of English, so we content ourselves with stroking the velvety soft, thick fur of the somewhat perturbed cat while Arlo sagely impresses with his knowledge of the Hungarian word for cat. (cica = tseetsa) Our friendly hostess wanders her way back up to the house as we return to our own steep upward climb.

A paved sidewalk jags off to the right into a tree-filled area that seems more appealing than the continuing suburbia-lined cobbled street, and we climb in this park-like area, still hoping it will open out to present the much-awaited vista of Pécs. But alas, it is not to be -- any possible view is blocked by houses. The hilly forest holds its own charms and beckons further exploration, but the sun has disappeared and the darkness is wrapping its tendrils ever more thickly around the landscape. I consider awaiting the advent of the moon and stars from the vantage point of some inviting star-gazing rocks on the hillside, but the inadvisability of navigating strange streets in a strange city by moon and starlight sinks in and we decide to make our way back down the hill before complete darkness sets in. Our meandering route takes us down a dirt and gravel road through construction sites and into the backyard of an apparently unoccupied house, where we finally get a decent panorama of the city below, though too dark for opportune photos.

Winding our way back into the city, we return to the bastion where the festival is continuing even more full-swing. A Colombian band has the crowd in its rhythmic sway, and I recognize the charismatically cute lead singer and the dark-haired enchantress who sings back-up and mesmerizes with her amazing full-bodied gyrations from the tail-end of their show we had caught two nights(?) previously on the chain bridge in Budapest.

And I am back full circle on the same rough-hewn bridge wall over the ancient moat, enthralled in the sensual pleasures of the intensely rhythmic music provided by a three-man percussion section, and an incredibly amazing funky bass player who would give Flea and Les Claypool a run for their money. And the lovely Claudia, bewitching the audience with her voluptuous vivacity, and the lead singer with his eager, face-splitting grin and soulful voice... losing myself to the beauty and energy and foreignness of the night.

Budapest, 22-24 July

There's something vaguely enigmatic about Budapest, a city claiming over a thousand years of distinctly Hungarian civilization, yet having fallen time and again under the opressive thumbs of various other dynasties: the Ottomans, the Austrians, the Soviets.

Perhaps the best way to understand Budapest is to follow the Danube as it churns muddily on its meandering route, linking the two great capitals of the faded Austro-Hungarian empire.

Vienna flaunts her status as the favoured sister, the one who was always lavished with attention and pretty baubles. Vienna glitters as the prized jewel of culture and marbled grandeur, reflecting the pomposity of the imperial Hapsburg past. Today her monuments gleam with a pristine, brilliance, and she is also awash in the sleek trappings of upper class modernity, shining pedestrian malls of chrome and glass, showcasing expensive designer tastes. Her charming gardens are perfectly manicured and painstakingly well-coiffed.

The train from Vienna to Budapest more or less tracks the lazy route of the Danube, winding east through well-apportioned suburbs and then ridiculously charming Austrian villages and countryside of quaint farms and fields and lustrous green forests, all lining the gently swelling, rolling hills.

By the time thepassport checkers board the train, their evidence of border crossing seems incidental, because the actual border is palpable. The landscape becomes flatter, and gives off a general aura of negligence. Things seem unkempt, dusty. The villages seem a vaguely distored refection of their counterparts over the border, harboring the occasional crumbling wreck in their midst.

The Danube chugs along, now paralleling the train, now a few bends away beyond the scrubby trees, casting its swathe of liquid light in the bleak dustiness. Then the sort of desolate industrial outbuildings that signal the outer limits of a big city, and suddenly Budapest rises up, shrouded in her veil of bleak mystery.

That she always stood in shadow of her favoured sister is evident. She was never quite as sophistcated or naturally gorgeous, perhaps she was even considered a bit homely, a wall flower at the ball, though there is also the impression she cleans up surprisingly well and could be a beauty in her own right.

Perhaps sensing this, the Hapsburgs built the great Buda palace to ornament one of the great hills on the western bank of the Danube and, of course, to showcase their own glory. Ornamental gates with the powerful Hapsburg eagle cast a forbidding shadow down on the river below. Yet the Austrian imperials never pulled themselves away from the spell of Vienna, and never occupied their palace in Buda save for the occasional state visit.


Yet for all of the neglect she suffered at the hands of her Austrian rulers, Budapest was always adored by her own. They remain fiercely loyal, proud and only too happy to boast of the many attractions of their city. They evidence their pride with great monuments such as the Heroes' Square, where likenesses of great kings and leaders of the past gaze scornfully down at visitors ignorant of their roles in the history of their beloved folk.


In the 1890s the people of Budapest built their own showcase palace in a park in the eastern side of the city to commemorate 1000 years of Hungarian culture, and they built the iconic Fisherman's Bastion to share the Buda Castle hill, a beautiful structure of white stone arches and turrets resting on remnants of the original city wall.


The Bastion complements the gorgeous neo-Gothic Matthias Church, which mirrors elements of Vienna's own Stephansdom, such as the mosaic-tiled roof.

But whereas Stephansdom is nestled in the heart of Vienna, hidden away in a ring of other structures, the Matthias Church rises up over the Danube in magnificent spires of glory.

Observing the way the Danube so fetchingly bisects Budapest, one imagines that the spirit of the river resides here, rather than in the more stately and formal capital to the west. The Danube seems to flow more freely in Budapest and flit about more willingly, capturing and reflecting the Budapest skyline by day and adding her twinkiling lights to those of the stars at night.



Budapest may have been second rate for those who preferred to dictate from afar, but those who took the time to get to know her sensed her hidden magic. It's still there today, just below the surface, beyond the guide book packaged sights and multi-lingual bus tours, waiting to be recognized by the traveler willing to look deeper, willing to wander her streets and gaze down at her from her hilly heights, willing to meet her gaze, reflected in the sweep of the mighty, loving Danube.

(Finally) wrapping up Portugal...

Belem, June 3
Sintra, June 4

Belem lies like a gleaming jewel in the west of Lisbon. The shining white of ancient buildings and the lush green of parks complement the azure background of the Tejo River. Belem played an important historical role as the port of embarkation for the Portuguese explorers, and today it attracts modern explorers as well.
Perhaps the most spectacular sight in Belem is the Mosteiro dos Jeronimos, an imposingly beautiful piece of Manueline architecture harking back to 1496.

The monastery's cathedral has enough Gothic arches to rival any of the other famous cathedrals in Europe, but it can additionally boast of being the final resting place of explorer Vasco de Gama.


The monastery also has an entire room decorated with yellow and blue azulejos, hand-painted tile paintings. Most impressive of all is its courtyard, festooned with stunningly intricate carved stone arches and pillars.



Across the street from the monastery, a great monument rises up over the Tejo, celebrating Portuguese exploration. At the base of the monument is a mural of inlaid stone and tile depicting a map of the world.

The monument bears the same sense of heroic idealism shared by such objects world over, but with this one there is a sense that it is actually deserved. Honoring forebears who indulged their curiousity about the world around them and ventured out into the unknown seems much more noble than honoring those who "courageously" slaughtered the enemies of their nation in war. In addition, it is located near the exact spot where the depicted explorers set out on their adventures. Standing by the stone figures you feel an inclination to follow their gazes out over the Tejo, shading your eyes against the blazing sun to follow the course of the river to where it meets the endless possibilities of the Atlantic.

From the monument you can also gaze down the river at the real point of embarkation, the Torre de Belem, an island fortress of majestic turrets, vaulted ceilings and ornate arches. It rises out over the river like something out of a fairy tale, or an idealized vision of history. Like the monastery, it is a masterpiece of Manueline architecture, but it had a practical defensive purpose when built between 1515 and 1521.




Seemingly endless narrow, winding spiral staircases beckoned the way to lofty heights and spectacular views over the river from the top terrace of the tower, 35 meters high.
After clambering all over the tower under the relentlessly blazing sun, we headed off for a break, to test the widely-reported belief that the custard pastries of Belem, pasteis de Belem, are the best in all of Lisbon. (They are.) We took our snack to a riverside park where there just happened to be some kind of folk festival. We were surrounded by natives in traditional costume, young and old. On a stage at the front of the open green musicians played and groups performed folk dances. The music seemed to feature high, shrill female voices in a nasal tone, akin to ululations classicly associated with the Arabic-speaking world. It was peculiar but enjoyable in the quaint, comforting way of folk traditions.


We next headed to the Parque das Nacoes in the eastern region of Lisbon, a thoroughly modern area constructed for the '98 World Expo. In stark contrast to the classical historicalness of Belem, this area is replete with a shoppng mall, restaurants and modern glass-and-steel architecture. Yet somehow it was still a pleasant place to watch the sun set over the Tejo and to people watch, trying to get a feel for the modern Portuguese. It is an ecclectic mix that promenades along this flower-filled riverside park, from the packs of teenagers laughing uproariously to secure their pecking orders, to couples obliviously lost in their own romantic fantasies, to beaming mothers pushing strollers, to the leather-clad Hell's Angels, apparently in town for some kind of international convention.


Back in the center of the city, we wandered the narrow alleys of Chiado to hear some fado, the traditional ballad-style music of Portugal. While the restauranteurs plied us with Vinho Verde (green wine) and amazingly delicious sheep's milk cheese, throughout the night several different singers took the "stage" (a tiny space cleared for them among the tables). How to describe fado? It is acoustic, a single singer backed up by only a guitar and a 12-string Portuguese guitar. The singer really makes the genre, though. Fado means "fate" in Portuguese, and the music is tragically soulful, longing, nostalgic. It is simply captivating. A fado singer belts out a song in a way that entiwines you in not only the sound, but also the mood. It is music meant to be sung in small, smoky, candlelit places, with the smoky, haunting melody lingering in the air. It is primal music, music of the torturous, inescapable emotional maelstrom of the human experience. Fado is also about love, but not love as we like it to be in pop music, vapidly beautiful. No, fado speaks of love - and life - as it really is: complex, confusing, terrible, tragic.... and worthwhile. Worth everything, worth clinging to in a tooth-and-claw struggling-for-survival kind of way. An evening of fado is dreamlike, cathartic, mysteriously life-affirming.

*******

Sintra lies only a 45-minute train ride from Lisbon but seems like it belongs to another world. It is a charming town with a meandering network of shady tree-filled parks and grand palaces nesled in the hilly countryside. It is also being discovered by the masses and its hilly streets are blooming with kitschy tourist shops, but it is only a small blemish on the mystique of the place.
Historically the country playground of the royalty, Sintra boasts a number of palaces, some more accessible than others. While the famous Castelo dos Mouros perches high above the city (a very steep 3-km trek), the Palacio Nacional de Sintra is right at the center of town, dominating the skyline with its unique twin chimneys. The palace mixes the Manueline Gothic architecture with Moorish influences for an amazing array of carved stone archways, winding towers and hand-painted tiles.


The amount of charm possessed by this quiet hillside village is almost ridiculous. Wandering its streets, a traveler encounters photogenic vista after photogenic vista, in handpainted tile murals, interestingly ornate building architecture, tropical gardens, and views stretching out across red-tiled rooftops.


A roadside tiled fountain beckoned to thirsty travelers and proved an apparent favorite haunt of locals, as one guy pulled up with a car-trunk filled with plastic containers that he proceeded to fill from the fountain, one after the other, a task that he was still occupied with when we passed by a second time hours later.

Wandering along in a near-dream state induced by the hazy picturesqueness of the town and the ever-present sunny heat, we came, accidentally, upon a most amazing place: the Quinta da Regaleira. Long a country estate of various nobility, it was purchased in the early 20th century by a wealthy visionary, António Augusto de Carvalho Monteiro, who, with the help of a gifted architect, Luigi Manini, transformed the place into a garden of wonders. Monteiro, a doctor by trade, was really a philosopher and mystic by nature who believed in alchemy and mythology and all kinds of mysteries. According to the sketchily-translated brochure from the Quinta de Regaleira (now a UNESCO World Heritage Site), Monteiro envisioned his property as a sort of Garden of Eden. "The paradise is materialised in coexistence with the inferious - a Dantesque subterranean world - in which the neophyte would be guided by the Ariadne thread of Initiation. A full sensorial and environment-conditioned approach has been devised to represent and impart the experience of the Initiation quest... through a symbolic garden where one may feel the Harmony of the Spheres and scrutinize the alignment of an ascent of consciousness."

Monteiro's mansion is now a museum dedicated to explaining the symbolism of the estate's many chapels, towers, gazebos, grottoes, statues and other features. The architectural blueprints for every feature are displayed in the mansion, their precision and attention to detail simply mind-boggling.

Towers and turrets seem to be generally beloved in Portugal, a staple feature of all architectural masterpieces, and Monteiro took this love of towers to an extreme level, with turreted features all over his garden. On the mansion he had his own Alchemist's Tower, which he gaurded under lock and key from unwelcome guests while he resided there. Today visitors can tromp up and down the tower's spiral staircase as much as they want. The view is, of course, spectacular.


But did Monteiro realize his vision of a spiritual landscape that initiates visitors to a new plane of consciousness? The place is certainly imbued with an atmosphere of surreality. We traipsed through the garden, occasionally following the map in the brochure but more or less just wandering and marvelling at it all. It was a place where you could spend hours and still not see everything, around every corner there seemed to be something new and even more fantastic. I wanted to explore the labyrinthine network of caves and grottoes but we didn't have any source of light, and the darkness, once we had traveled a few feet in, was amazingly, petrifyingly thick and impenetrable. In conrast to the brightness of the sun outside, entering the grotto was like running into a brick wall.
Eventually we came upon the Initiate's Well, a feature I had noticed on the map and felt a growing curiousity about. It turned out to be, in fact, a well, but a well with a spiraling staircase leading down its sides to a bottom that seemed incredibly far away. We dared each other to go down those stairs, joking at first, but then... it became more and more appealing. I jested that I needed to build up courage, so we rested on some convenient nearby benches, eating sandwiches we had brought along.

Then we descended down into the well, spiraling ever deeper, ever earth-ward. The sunlight , so bright at the surface, quickly lost power, and the way became increasingly darker, and wetter. Water seeped from the walls and trickled down the narrow stone steps. I found myself with one hand on the slick wall beside me for guidance, descending slowly in near-complete darkness. And then, sooner than expected, we were at the bottom. We stepped out into the middle of the well, on a tiled mosiac that seemed to represent compass points, and looked up at the perfect circle of light above. There was a certain eeriness, yes, spirituality, in the symbolic crossing from light, to dark, to light.

But before I could really focus on this mysterious feeling, meditate upon the experience, there were voices and heavy foot treads of a larger group of tourists, loudly making their way down into the well, and the mood was broken. That was the only fault of the Quinta de Regaleira, really; too many people are interested in this intriguing place, and it doesn't give up its secrets to the masses.