I can still remember the first time I ever drank coffee in Italy. It was early one morning in the fall of 1997. I had just flown into Rome the afternoon before, and my wife Mary Pat had met me at the airport. Together we had taken the train to the city’s central Termini station before taking a taxi to our hotel.

As I’ve written before, jetlag is no fun. And it explains why I was up early the next morning, not so much hungry as wanting some coffee. I went alone to the hotel’s roof, where breakfast – “la colazione,” as the Italians call it – was being served.

When the server (“un cameriere”) approached me, I said in what was likely abysmally pronounced Italian that I wanted coffee with cream. And what I got was precisely that – a huge mug of coffee with just enough cream (or milk, I’m not really sure) added to give it the shade of blonde that I prefer.

In the years to come, I would become ever more practiced in ordering coffee in Italy. A cappuccino in the morning, a caffé macchiato in the afternoon, and sometimes a caffé corretto in the early evening. Nothing, though, would beat that first taste of what was likely just an ordinary blend of beans but to me tasted like ambrosia.

I didn’t expect to find the same thing in Salema’s Pasteleria Solmar. As I’ve been documenting over the past few weeks, I was in the final days of the trip that Mary Pat and I made in late May and early June both to southern Spain and Portugal. We had arrived in Salema, a beach town in Portugal’s Algarve region, the day before. As usual, I had risen earlier than either Mary Pat or our friends from Spokane, Ann and Matt.

I speak only phrasebook Portuguese, but everyone understands “café” (or “caffé” or even just “coffee”). And the friendly server at Solmar didn’t blink when hearing my request for “um cappuccino e um croissant.” And that’s how I came to be sitting a few minutes later, under an umbrella that shielded me from the blazing sun, sipping at my drink and munching on a freshly baked pastry. It wasn’t the worst way to start my day.

After Mary Pat joined us, we spent the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon lounging in our reserved chairs on the beach. And then we got ambitious: We’d come all the way to the south of Portugal, so why not go to the end? That is, to Cabo de Sao Vicente (Cape of St. Vincent), which is famous for being the southwestern-most point not just of Portugal but of mainland Europe.

The Algarve is a big contrast to other, lush parts of Portugal. As one website describes the area around the cape, in prose that is both purple and at times redundant, “(I)t is not picturesque or scenic but immense and dramatic … The ferocious waves of the Atlantic Ocean pound the massive cliffs, while high above the immensely bright lighthouse guards the treacherous cliffs.”

Rick Steves is no big fan of what the Portuguese have done with the cape itself, which is where you’ll find a lighthouse and some associated businesses – a small museum/curio shop, a restaurant and some souvenir merchants – that Steves describes as “an impossibly tacky tourist trap.” But some of us like our tacky treats, and I couldn’t resist buying a t-shirt that proclaims, “I was at the end of the world.”

Before that, however, we’d managed to tour the nearby Fortaleza de Sagres, a fortification that dates back to the time of Henry the Navigator (1394-1460). Considered to be the “patron of Portuguese exploration,” Henry supposedly founded a school of navigators and mapmakers, though a number of modern historians debunk this much-told tale. The fort itself is nearly as empty as the surrounding countryside, though in one separate building we toured a surprisingly critical historical exhibit examining Portugal’s ties to the African slave trade.

Here's a quote: “Once the Portuguese had developed the slave trade, bringing the slaves to Portuguese, European and West Indian ports, the black slave trade quickly spread to all the other European countries that had colonies in America. In Lisbon, slaves were numerous both as labourers and domestic workers.”

Emerging from the exhibit, we trekked much of the mile-and-a-quarter-long trail that lines the cliffs before exiting the fort, which closed its doors at 5 p.m. As we left, we saw a number of visitors approaching, several of whom expressed disappointment at being denied entry when – it’s not hard to imagine – they’d traveled so far.

Oh, and of course, we had to visit the nearby village of Sagres, a jumbled collection of drab buildings that guidebook maestro Steves, again departing from his usual cheerleading self, describes as “scrappy, humble and visually underwhelming.” That’s where we discovered a restaurant called A Sagres, which clearly caters to the young surfing crowd. Turns out the Praia do Beliche, which is located a mile and a quarter north of the town, is a popular surfing spot. Anyway, the burgers we ate there rivaled anything I’ve ever eaten in Spokane. Just saying.

And speaking of dining experiences, upon returning to Salema, Matt, his Portuguese flawless to my ears, managed to make a reservation at a busy beach-side restaurant called Olhos n’Agua (which to Google Translate means “Eyes in Water”). So, when we returned at 8 p.m., they had a table waiting for us.

Here's what I wrote in my travel journal: “Unlike the night before, we were attended to promptly by a team of guys, cheerful and jokey, who worked the whole room efficiently and expertly. One guy, from Romania, even speaks several languages. And the food, though I would never compare it to French or Italian fare, is filling and tasty and relatively cheap.

Then we took one last post-meal stroll along the beach, glowing from our dining experience but a bit sad, too, that our Portuguese adventure was nearing its end.

Next up: Back to Lisbon.