Check out new photos under the “Northern Portugal” album, from our recent jaunts to Viana do Castelo, Guimaraes, and Braga. There may be a few new ones under the “Lisbon” album since you’ve looked last, too. Tomorrow it’s on to Porto for our last week in Portugal!
Monthly Archive for July, 2008
I’m just going to come out and say it: there are a lot of punk teenagers in the US. I know, because I was one. I mastered the art of sulking from an early age, and there are few vacation photos of me taken between the ages of 12 and 17 in which I look happy, as if to say, “You can make me go on vacation, but you can’t make me smile.” I see a former version of myself in so many kids when I travel, arms crossed, a permanent scowl wiped across their faces as they dine with their parents. The only difference is now they have texting capabilities.
Portuguese youth - especially teenagers - tend to be kind and polite. Even ones who look like they might be trouble hold doors and throw a slight grin your way. We found ourselves hungry in Viana do Castelo’s train station, which left Maikael having to communicate with a Portuguese teenager to procure pastries. Maikael emerged 10 minutes later, reporting that the boy was nothing but kind and patient. I think Maikael expected him to roll his eyes, smirk, and and mumble when Maikael asked, in his halting Portuguese, “What this?”
Today we took the bus to Braga, an hour outside of Guimaraes, described in my Lonely Planet guide as “the Rome of Portugal.” It is, indeed, the ecclesiastical center of the country, and countless travelers have told us that, if we do nothing else, we must see Braga. We had nothing particular on the agenda for today except to see Se, the oldest cathedral in Portugal. Built in 1070, it just seemed like the right thing to do.
The cathedral sits, unsurprisingly, in the center of town. We first wandered through the main sanctuary, taking in the insanely ornate filigree adoring every surface of the space. Giant rose flower arrangements were being set up for a wedding. Our guidebook advised us to cough up the two Euros to tour the chapels and choir lofts. We were told to have a seat, and we figured that a tour group was assembling. Five minutes later, a gawky teenage boy approached us, dressed in T-shirt and jeans. “I give your tour today.” Not only was it the first time I had been given a personal tour of a historical site, it was the first time I’d been given a tour by someone under the age of 22.
Andre asked us where we were from, and couldn’t believe that we had come all the way from New Mexico - New Mexico! — to see Portugal. He is giving tours as his summer job, and has only met one other American couple, from California. “But New Mexico!” he said. “That is very arid, and there are many American Natives.” We were impressed with his knowledge, given the fact that most people - Americans included - think New Mexico is separate country altogether. He showed us a number of different areas of the church, guarded by a large, iron key that was cloaked in patina. He seemed passionate about history, sharing with us his thoughts on Rome and the pontiff’s role in Portugal. Whereas most kids his age are concerned with the latest cell phone or One Tree Hill episode, this young man was ruminating about the dawn of Portugal.
As we continued on the tour, Andre asked us all sorts of questions about our life in the US, the most pressing being, “When is the election?” Whereas most people we meet immediately launch into a diatribe about our current leadership, Andre had more finesse. “I don’t know how best to ask this question. Do you prefer McCain or Obama?” He seemed to understand more than most adults do in these social situations: assume nothing.
He shared that he is originally from Braga, but that his mother teaches school in Tras-os-Montes, one of the most rural regions of Portugal. “But Braga is my home,” he said. We finished the tour and went our separate ways. After touring the church a bit more we walked around the back and ran into Andre, leaning against the stone facade, a green sweatshirt slung over his shoulder. He asked us about our plans for the day, and when we said we had none, he said, “That’s good. It’s more free that way.” As we talked, the wedding party pulled up in a Mercedes festooned with tangerine ribbons. The girls emerged from the car, giggling, wearing matching taffeta gowns, their beige pill-box hats sitting askew on their heads. “This is not a normal wedding, I think,” said Andre. “They change white for orange.”
We shared with Andre that we are traveling around the world for eight months and gave him one of our business cards, which has a world map with our locations marked. Even from a vague map he was able to identify nearly every country we will be visiting. “A trip like this, it changes your personality,” he said. How can someone so young be so wise? He said that someday he, too, wanted to take a trip like this, and that he would come to New Mexico and find us, and that if we didn’t remember him he’d bring our card.
He had to meet up with his dad so they could go shopping, but not before providing us a spot-on lunch recommendation. Who was this 14-year-old, we wondered, who seemed to know more about the world than most adults?
I’m an idiot. Yesterday I was had for the princely sum of 1.30 Euros, about $2.00 for those of you in the U.S. I should start by saying that I’m not a particularly gullible person. I’ve survived innumerable solicitations for money, many scams, and even three robbery attempts, and have luckily escaped these situations mostly unscathed.
Last night, Elizabeth and I went to a fabulous dinner at Valdonas, a stylish converted 17th century manor house in heart of the Guimaraes historical district, serving nouveau Portuguese cuisine. The ambiance could best be described as a fusion between historic architecture and modern design, with smart pendent lighting that cast a warn glow over our table and hipster instrumental music (much like you’d hear in a Banana Republic) piped into the dining area. Elizabeth’s Iberian pork, a specialty in this region, was especially succulent, and my bacalhau, wrapped in corn bread, tasted as fresh as any seafood I’ve eaten, with only the slightest hint of saltiness. We were impressed with the attentive service, and even managed a full fledged conversation in pseudo-Portuguese, which lifted our spirits, giving us a great sense of accomplishment.
After leaving Valdonas, we headed to the historic central plaza, to snap a few pictures during the dusk’s golden hour. Guimaraes’s annual festival to honor its patron saint is slated for next weekend, and the medieval structures were appropriately adorned with a festive display of lights. As we meandered, our spirits could not have been higher. “Boa noite, senhor!” I heard this phrase enthusiastically repeated perhaps four times before turning around. A man with dark, lacquered hair and Cheshire smile blurted a few sentences at me in a rapid-fire fashion. Once he saw the look of incomprehension creep up on my face, he repeated the same well-rehearsed speech in Spanish. He expertly conveyed that he was collecting money for a foundation to stop the spread of AIDS in Portugal, since as a country it has the second highest incidence per capital in the European Union, or so he said. He was quickly joined by an older woman with similar dark features, that linked the two via a strong familial relationship. Not having heard the man’s speech, she repeated the shpiel almost verbatim.
Feeling particularly charitable, I fumbled in my pockets for a coin. Not finding one, I deferred to Elizabeth, who had a “what are you doing?” look on her face. I opened my wallet and handed over a five Euro bill, asking for four in change. The lady handed back a few coins, and hurried off before I knew what had happened. I examined the change and felt that something was not right; the sizes of the coins were smaller than I expected. We looked at each other, mouths agape. A slightly queasy feeling took hold that quickly boiled into embarrassment and anger. “Why did you give them that money? It was obviously a scam,” Elizabeth inquired, a bit of resentment in her voice. “I don’t know… I felt so good about life tonight,” I responded.
Elizabeth was absolutely right: I had fallen for a scam, and not a good one at that. Perhaps it’s very overtness fooled me. We marched away, watching the pair working the cafe tables. We both felt sour about the affair for a while afterward, and I continued thinking into the night, at the cost of a bit sleep. In the end, this was an inexpensive lesson for us that we’ll continue to use throughout our RTW trip. It’s impossible not to move on, as each day brings new, exciting adventures.
Any of you who know me know that I am slightly obsessed with grocery stores. One of my favorite things to do when I am traveling is to go to the supermarket and see what the locals are eating. You can tell a lot about the culinary preferences of a people by noting the amount of shelf space dedicated to a given product. In Lisbon I was surprised by the vast selection of yogurt, ham, cheese, and dried bacalhau, a salted cod that is a specialty here.
But what I really wanted to do was visit a local market off the beaten path. I think I’ve always harbored this secret, romantic dream to make a picnic from what I can forage from the bounty of area farmers. Maybe it comes from watching too many Rick Steves’ episodes on PBS. Whatever the case, I read that Guimaraes, our current base in northern Portugal, had a great municipal market. On the continuum of stress-inducing food procurement, I wasn’t sure where this would rank. Most sit-down restaurants are tough - there are too many choices, I don’t know what 74% of the items on the menu are, and even if I do, I usually end up ordering the wrong thing. Supermarkets are the least stressful - there is very little communication involved, as numbers flash on the monitor, and I can take as long as I need.
We set off this morning for the market using the map in our Lonely Planet guide, arriving to find locked, wrought-iron gates strewn with cobwebs. We smooshed our faces against the bars and noticed tattered canvas awnings and abandoned avenues. “I’m guessing the market isn’t here anymore,” I said. Just then, a man approached, as if he could read my mind. People are always eager to help, and the language barrier seems to make little difference. I was able to decipher “not here anymore,” “down blah blah blah road,” “ten minutes.” He made swooping motions with his hand that led us to believe that the market was down a twisting lane.
We walked down a narrow cobblestone road, which soon turned into an even narrower path, eventually reaching a dead-end at a field of grapevines with chickens running to and fro. A man pushed a wheelbarrow piled high with boxes of vegetables in the opposite direction. “We must be heading the right way,” Maikael said.
Based on my experiences at Latin American markets, as well as the skeletal remains of the previous location, I was expecting something rustic, outdoor, and slightly dingy. When we arrived, I was surprised to find an attendant guiding traffic into a modern parking structure. Slick elevators shuffled shoppers upstairs to the market, which ended up being a huge, open warehouse space filled to the brim with stall after stall of vendors.
We first inspected the produce section, admiring the local bounty: shiny oranges; globes of grapes with the tendrils of vine still attached; elegant beans; petite melons; plump cherries; gigantic figs; fragrant strawberries. Bakeries, butchers, fishmongers, and florists filled in the gaps. After perusing the goods, we decided to take the plunge. Despite the language barrier, everyone was exceedingly patient with us, and we somehow managed to order and pay for exactly what we wanted. We emerged with 13 Euros worth of thick slabs of tender pink ham; local cheese; fresh-baked artesian bread, four decadent pastries; and a bag of fruit.
I think we paid a bit more than we would have in a supermarket, but for farm-grown products and the experience of going to the local market, it was worth it. And, it was less stressful than going to a restaurant. We packed up our goods and headed for Penha, 7 kilometers outside of town, nestled in the mountains. The weather was iffy, but we decided to take our chances. To reach the peak, a cable car ushers passengers to the top. When we arrived at the base, the rain had picked up, clouds swallowed the top of the mountain, and the teleferico didn’t seem to be running. Clearly, we were the only ones fool enough to go into the clouds in this weather. “When does it run?” Maikael asked. “Now, if you want it to,” the operator said. Suddenly, the teleferico sprang to life, gears whirring, as the cars began moving in a loop. We hopped in our egg-shaped car, and were soon soaring over fields of grape vines as the red-tiles roofs of Guimaraes faded into the distance. Magnolia trees sidled up to palm trees, and, as we continued our ascent, clouds enveloped the car altogether.
Once at the top, it was as if we had been transported to another world. A thick shroud of fog hugged the mountain. I felt like a characters in The Secret Garden - was I in Portugal or the British Isles? Giant boulders, dripping with moss, supported one another by its broad shoulders. Rustic stone stairways, seeming as if they had sprouted from the rocks themselves, appeared out of nowhere and then disappeared into the fog. Tiny niches revealed statues of religious icons; candle wax caked onto the stone facade. Each time we turned a corner, a new path appeared. The fog played tricks with our eyes - is that a cloaked man in the distance? We discovered a small church and peeked in. A man pounded ivory cloth banners into the ends of the pews, unaware of our presence. Fog slipped through a door, cracked ajar, like a ghost.
The rain pounded down, and we discovered a stone bench perched under an awning formed by an abiding rock. We huddled close to one another as I bit into the fig’s fleshy skin, perfectly sweet and soft. I had never eaten another like it. Our pastries, filled with cream, crumbled apart and dripped down our fingers. They couldn’t have been fresher. It wasn’t exactly the European picnic I had always imagined - we were soaking, I slipped and fell (twice), losing my silver band somewhere in the mossy banks - but it came pretty darned close.
We have spent the past two days in Viana do Castelo, a sleepy beach town near the Spanish border in the north of Portugal. We had hoped to spend another day, but the fates saw it otherwise: tomorrow a folk festival is beginning, and everything was booked. I’ve been feeling a little bummed that we haven’t been able to spend more time here. I have a general rule that, given the hassle involved in transporting our things, less than three nights in a place is generally useless. When we arrived in town yesterday, the temperature was blessedly cooler than Lisbon, where we spent the last week in sweltering heat. Blue skies reigned, but since we arrived late in the day, we promised to hit the beach first thing in the morning.
When I woke up today, a blanket of clouds shrouded the city. “What luck,” I thought. I checked the transportation schedules for tomorrow, when we will travel to Guimaraes. It looked more complicated than I had hoped for, given the short distance we have to travel. “Why did we come here in the first place?” I moaned. I was off on the wrong foot.
Despite the cool, gray day, which I had pined for two days ago but was suddenly irritating, we decided to head to the beach anyway. The city sits perched on the banks of the Rio Lima, and a small boat ferries passengers five minutes across to Praia do Cabedelo, reported to be one of the best sweeps of beaches in northern Portugal. The beach was more or less deserted but for a few brave souls who bundled up in beach towels after taking a bracing dip in the Atlantic. I laid on my shawl, exhausted, and tried to nap. But the breeze was distracting, and I could hear Maikael in the distance talking to a sunburned, Speedo-clad German.
The sun slowly began nudging its way through the clouds. My mood hadn’t improved, and we were hungry. Unsure as to whether the sun would make its daily appearance, we decided to buy some time by sitting down to lunch at a beachside cafe. We are conducting an informal study of sangria prices in Europe, and thus far have found Viana’s to be the most reasonable (4.6 Euros for a liter, compared to the whopping 12 Euros we saw in Madrid). Deeming this to be a find, especially at a landlocked beach, we ordered a liter.
By four a clock my mood had begun to improve. The sun was shining, though still too cool to spend an afternoon at the beach, and I was beginning to see the brighter side of things. We crossed back to town, walking along the waterfront back to our hostel. From a distance, I could hear the faint strains of Brazilian samba music from the park. “Do you think that’s live or recorded?” I asked Maikael. I am a huge fan of this style of music, so we crossed over to the tree-line thoroughfare to see for ourselves.
There we saw a full Brazilian band jamming to an infectiously rhythmic beat. One man played a large, green drum; another the bells. They danced in a large circle, as the lead singer sang his heart out. A cadre of young women pulled the audience out of their chairs, who appeared to be a large group from the local retirement home. One girl swung an old lady’s cane over her shoulder as she helped her dance the samba. Another girl wheeled an old woman around the square to the beat of the music. I looked to my left, where I saw a school group listening enthusiastically. My attention immediately went to one boy, who clasped both hands tight over his ears. (I imagined this boy to be Maikael as a kid, who has always hated loud noises.) Then, the boy suddenly jumped up with his friend, who was wearing powder blue Crocs, and they began dancing manically, thrusting their appendages in every conceivable direction. Everyone was having the time of their life.
This isn’t the first time that we’ve heard a spontaneous concert break out in Portugal. We currently have a Spanish youth orchestra staying at our hostel, and have been treated to their daily rehearsals. Back in Lisbon, we returned one evening to our hostel just in time to hear a Portuguese gospel choir performing on the patio below. As we ate sandwiches and fruit above, as such American favorites as “This Little Light of Mine”, “When the Saints Come Marching In” (the second time we’ve heard that song performed thus far), and “Say a Little Prayer for You” drifted up from below.
We rested this afternoon and finally mustered the energy to go to dinner. We had hoped to eat at the hostel, but missed the reservation time for dinner. Now, we had to walk to town; I was grumpy. As we made our way through the narrow lanes of Viana, I heard a big, brassy voice belting “Georgia on My Mind,” as the notes reverberated off the azulejo tiles. We turned the corner, finding not only a full jazz concert in a small square, but our restaurant adjacent to the impromptu festival.
We were seated next the open windows, where we ordered excellent pizzas, as well as a bottle of vinho verde tinto, as the music played outside. I was excited to try this Portuguese wine, which I had read about in my Lonely Planet guide. Vinho verde is a semisparkling wine grown in northern Portugal. It apparently has a bad rap in the wine world because it doesn’t ship well, having a poor shelf life. Therefore, the only place in the world that it can truly be enjoyed is exactly where I was sitting. We ordered a bottle from a few towns over for the bargain price of 6.5 Euros, and it was delicious. As we ate, two little boys at the next table over were clearly dying for dessert. The waiter scooped up the first boy, carrying him to the freezer case, where he chose ice cream in a Donald Duck-shaped cup. Next he led the second boy to the towering case, where he stood on his toes, peered over the edge, and chose Pluto. The waiter made a “ruff-ruff” sound, making like a dog as the boy giggled.
I know it sounds terribly cheesy and cliché, but it’s these small moments that turned my day around. I’m trying desperately to let go of my expectations, to accept the day for whatever it brings. Most of the best things that come my way are never things I could have planned in the first place, and in the end, I’ll remember that little boy dancing a crazy samba more than the effort it took to get here.
Travel days make me nervous. I know something difficult and out of my control will happen; I just don’t know what it will be, and it’s this unknowing that makes me uncomfortable. I had an inkling that today would be hard from the moment we purchased our tickets to Viana do Costelo, 200 miles north of Lisbon, near the Spanish border. We will spend the last two weeks of our time in Portugal based in the north, shuttling between Viana, Guimaraes, and Porto. When we purchased our tickets a few days ago we tried to buy them from the automated machine, which was confusing. It asked us if we’d like a half price ticket (yes, please), or a first-class ticket (versus what?). We aborted the process and went to the ticket window instead.
Here we learned that half-price tickets are for seniors, and that first-class seats are “just better.” Being 30-something budget travelers, we chose the second-class tickets for 26 Euros each. The ticket agent informed us that we’d have to change trains in Porto for Viana do Costelo, and that our connection time was five minutes. She advised us to take a later train with a better connection, but we are gamblers when it comes to such things. I convinced myself that I was okay taking the risk, until it came time to actually take the risk.
I studied our tickets before leaving the hostel. “CARR 21, LUG 114-116.” I confirmed that this meant we were in car 21, in seats 114 and 116. Paolo, our front desk guy at the hostel, was kind enough to print out a train schedule for us, totally unsolicited, while we were at breakfast, listing all the cities we would pass through. “Do you think we’ll make it?” I asked. “Eh, I don’t know. That Lisbon Porto line has lots of problems. But I think you be okay.”
As the train approached the station, I looked for car 21, but all I saw was 1 and 2. Which one was ours? We hopped on at the back of the train, in a car marked one, heaving our backpacks onboard. The seats looked very plush. “This has to be first class,” Maikael said. “One must be for first class, two means second.” We made our way towards the front of the train. The cars were marked in the following fashion: 8, 42, 81, 21, 22. Our aerobics teacher at home, DJ, often counts out of order to keep our minds off the fact that we are doing 100 repetitions of a certain exercise; walking through the train had the same disorienting effect.
We made it to what looked like Car 21, and there was a woman, chatting on her cell phone, sitting squarely in Seat 114. “Maybe this is a different car?” I said. Maikael stayed with the luggage as I crossed into the next car, the train lurching back and forth. It looked as if the next car was 22. “Disculp?” I asked a woman. “Este es car veinte uno o veinte dos?” The other car was 21 - how would we tell this woman she was in the wrong seat? My Portuguese phrasebook doesn’t give any guidance on this matter.
I made it back to the other car, and asked the man seated across the aisle for help. He confirmed this was, indeed, car 21, and told the woman something in Portuguese to the effect of, “You’re in the wrong seat. Get out.” She shook her head vehemently and pointed to her tickets. Her seat was 114, but it listed completely different cities. A pitt formed in my stomach. We must have gotten on the wrong train.
I sat next to the woman, and our de facto translator, Pedro, offered Maikael a seat next to him as we waited for the conductor to sort things out. Upon studying our tickets, he determined that we were in the right seats, the right car, and the right train. The conductor spoke to the woman in the Portuguese, and she got up, looking surprised, and left. “She was on the wrong train,” said the conductor. He took our tickets and looked at our connection. “This is very fast,” he said. “But if you miss this one, there is another five minutes after.” He mapped a route for us and gave us very specific directions for transferring in the Porto station. “Do you think we’ll make it?” we asked. “Maybe. It’s possible.” The Portuguese are nothing if not optimistic.
As we reached the outskirts of Lisbon, the cityscape quickly changes to gently rolling hills of golden grain and lush countryside, something of what I would imagine Tuscany to look like. Soon, the landscape unfurls into pure green. Acres of grapevines surround fields of corn, with an occasional palm tree sprouting out of the field. Huge manors mingle with modest, red tile-roofed houses. Even the passengers change, as urban hipsters are replaced by salty old men sporting the characteristic garb: a short-sleeved dress shirt, a pocketed fisherman’s vest, slacks, and loafers, topped with a driver’s cap.
The conductor provided periodic updates as we approached Porto. I had been watching the time, and we were quickly falling behind schedule. We’d never make it. “This isn’t looking good,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll make the first train, but maybe the second.” As Porto loomed in the distance, even making the second train seemed unlikely. Ten minutes outside of Porto, the conductor came by. “I called the train in Porto, and they are going to hold it for you. But you’ve got to be ready to run.”
I was completely taken aback by this gesture, the ultimate demonstration of the kindness of strangers. I had heard that you can tell a lot about a country and its people by how their trains run. Portuguese trains are often late, but now I have an inkling as to why: putting humans ahead of schedules is more important.
As we pulled into the station, the conductor called ahead to check what line we were arriving at so he could give us more specific directions for our connection. He ushered us to a separate door. “I’ll stand here and tell you where to go.” “We’ll run fast,” I said. “I hope we make it.” “Don’t worry,” he said, “if they said they’ll hold it, they’ll hold it.” As the train ground to a halt, he opened the door. “Look for the train marked Valenca. Be careful. NOW RUN!”
We raced down the escalators, our backpacks swinging. I wanted to wave back, to blow kisses for this kind act, but I didn’t have time. We rounded the bend, not seeing any trains. A conductor was waiting for us and pointed to the left. Another passenger pointed, too. Finally we saw it: Valenca. We hopped on the train, breathless and laughing. An old woman spoke to us in Portuguese. “Are you the people we’ve been waiting for?” she asked, as if we’d been eating bonbons and simply lost track of the time. “How long have you been waiting?” Maikael asked, in Spanish. “Five minutes!”
Moments later the train chugged out of the station, taking us closer to the beach and farther away from skepticism.