Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

When the traveller awoke and opened the bedroom window, the world had been created. It was early, the sun was not yet up. Nowhere could be more calmly beautiful, nobody could be happier with such simple things as the broad earth, the trees, silence. The traveller, who has seen many things, appreciates these to the full, and waits for the sunrise. He experienced it all: the light gradually changing, the first shadows being created, the first birdsong, and he was the first to hear a woman's voice calling these simple words out of the darkness: "It's going to be another hot day. " Prophetic words, as the traveller was later to learn to his cost.

A detour via Serpa did not produce much of interest: the Renaissance portal of the former leper hospital of Santo André, nowadays known as the church of Nossa Senhora da Saude, the walls of the fortress and its giant, ruined tower. The best of the village were the ordinary houses, built solid and white, like whitewashed arms embracing the streets, moonlight that has impregnated the walls and never fades. The traveller finds someone to ask what road he has to take to get to Pulo do Lobo. The traveller is still an innocent. He's thought this many times before, but today he gets the proof. The man he asks, a calm man with a slow drawl, explains how to get there, then wants to know: "Are you going in that car? " It's still too early for the traveller to grasp the meaning of such a question, and he thinks it's just an insult. So he replies curtly: "Yes, in that car, thank you. " The man shakes his head pityingly, and moves off.