A shallow breeze whispers through the night air along the foothills of the Serra de Sintra. John and I drink from a two-Euro bottle of full-blooded Ramisco wine, share a supper of cigarettes and pickles, and, under the raucous scrutiny of a small crowd, begin a second game of chess on the sidewalk outside of the train station. Meanwhile, João attempts to recruit a gathering of young squatters to break us in to the tunnels beneath the Monastery dos Capuchos. John and I eat with the shamel...