PORTO
Our train sweeps northward from Lisbon through cities, small towns and green countryside. In three hours we're on a very high bridge, crossing the Rio Douro and arrive at the Campanha station in Porto. A short ride on the Metro puts us at the unassuming Atum Guest-House. It's not in a prime neighborhood, but it's clean and comfortable, with kitchen facilities. It's near a Metro Station, and it's a reasonable walk to many interesting areas around town. Pedro, the owner, is very accommodating – he's already sent us numerous emails about upcoming events in Porto and we're barely in the door when he even invites us to a party that's happening in two days time. As we found in Lisbon, the Portuguese are generally a warm and welcoming people without lots of 'attitude.' It's a nice place to be.
We spend the next few days exploring Porto. Several blocks away from our hostel is the odd, modernist Casa da Música, designed by Rem Koolhaas and opened in 2005. It looks like a giant metallic 'crystal' dropped into an older decaying neighborhood with little attempt at integrating the two. Maybe it was hoped the investment would generate nearby private efforts, but the overall impression is that the money ran out before the project was properly finished.
It's surrounded by a vast and empty plaza that's well-enjoyed by the city's skate-boarding youth, who go hurtling by the rest of us at high speed. But it's not a welcoming space. And that is a common problem with much Modern Architecture. The end product often looks as if it were intended as a stand-alone sculpture in a park. Something unapproachable and not to be bothered by humans. It might have looked good in a presentation or as a model, but we wonder if the architect ever knelt down and really looked at the first floor, as pedestrians might see it.
The Casa da Música is also not aging well on the exterior, and that calls to mind a common problem faced by much of the world's 'modern' architecture. So much of what began life shiny, gleaming, and full of promise is soon shabby and dull, with rusting screws and rivets drooling brown stains down the surface. There's hardly anything sadder-looking than a Modernist structure that's aging poorly.
Modernism broke the rules of the past, but there were good reasons for some of the rules. Like proper overhangs, for one, to drip water away from the building so it doesn't discolor the surface. And a certain amount of complexity – anathema to many modernists – can give a structure a bit of charm that off-putting modernism often lacks.
Mies Van de Rohe's dictum that "Less is more" was quickly adopted by developers as "Less is cheaper!" and the public accepted it as 'progress.' In later life, Mies himself once said (I'm paraphrasing), "Sometimes when I wake up, I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder, 'Where did we go wrong?'"
I'm a fan of good Modern Architecture, but it's a difficult thing to accomplish and important details often seem to be overlooked. Most cities are studded with an abundance of bad examples of the genre. Good advice for architects: if you're not a true master of modernism, it may be best to stick with the classics. Classical architecture is more forgiving.
We step inside to explore the challenging interior spaces and buy two tickets for a recital by three talented young pianists. It's a well attended event in a simple, elegant, recital hall with very good acoustics. Afterward, the piano is caressed by daylight streaming through tall curtains. It begs to be photographed. We emerge into the hallway to find large numbers of suited dignitaries sipping bubbly in an adjacent lobby. We quickly make our exit, as we're not wearing anything appropriately uncomfortable to blend in with that crowd.
Pedro has invited us to his artist friend Isabel's house for a São João (Saint John) party. São João is the most important holiday of the year in Porto, and we just happened to be there! We'd never even heard of it before. We've been pretty lucky to just stumble into good things during this trip and others. Planning ahead is definitely overrated.
Pedro tells us the party will go on all night and few places will be open the next day. That's okay. We have tickets tomorrow for the train through wine country up the famous Douro Valley. We don't want to be up all night and hung-over the next day, but we're looking forward to the party.
As we walk through the streets to the flat we pass people setting up wood-fired grills on sidewalks. It's a São João tradition. At the party, we step into a warren-like back courtyard. In one nook there's a grill with sausages roasting, and in another, a fireplace where they're roasting 'sardinhas.' This will be a feast of fish, potatoes, sausages, bread, salad, and whatever anyone else brings in the door.
A female guest arrives in a costume with, …, well…, a knitted 'dong' she has sewn onto the front. It's a very large one. I ask if this is a Portuguese custom, and am assured that it is not. The guest is an artist and, well, you know how they are. She's in her seventies and is still an overtly free spirit. She blends in well with the crowd at this particular party.
Isabel's upstairs apartment is a tasteful, comfortable flat, decorated with excellent art by the owner and her many friends. One of the guys on the outside stairway peers into the dark sky and says, "Oh look. There goes one of the fire balloons."
"The what?" I ask. I see a glowing object drifting high across the sky.
"The fire balloons they light for São João every year." he says. "There goes another one. And another one."
We count about a dozen 'fire balloons,' all drifting southerly at various altitudes. I still have little idea what he's talking about. He assures me there will be fire balloons lighted at this party. Someone always brings them.
A little later, three guys stand on the roof of a small shed and delicately unfold a paper balloon, careful to avoid tearing it. It looks like an orange Chinese paper lantern. The trick is to light a flammable substance that's suspended below the paper balloon. Without lighting the balloon.
The first balloon is a spectacular flameout, as a breeze wafts the lighter flame into the paper. They release it to float upward and burn out – somewhere else in the neighborhood, I guess. The next one is a success. The flammable substance ignites, the balloon warms, and soon it's released to join the dozens that are already high overhead, drifting southward on the prevailing breeze. I hope it's rained recently and there's no great fire hazard. I can't imagine many US cities where you can release hundreds of floating flaming paper balloons into the night sky, but here it's an annual tradition.
Except for us and a German guy who works in a European Standards lab in England, all the other guests are Portuguese. Lucky for us, most of them speak some English. A young woman named Antonita tells us that European Portuguese is a very difficult language. They even have to speak slowly for Brazilians to understand them! We don't feel so bad about our linguistic failures.
We tell another guest we've had trouble finding a place to stay when we get to Madrid, in about a week. He says it's because we'll be there during the largest Gay Pride event in Europe and everything is already booked. We learn that Madrid is the most gay-friendly city on the continent; people will be there from all over in the world!
Oh.
After dinner the entire party heads down to the center of town, where the night's events are getting into full swing. Bands are playing and beer is being sold in large cups. People of all ages are 'bonking' each other on the head with noise-making plastic mallets and stuffing garlic blossoms under noses of the unsuspecting. It's another Sao Joao tradition. I get plenty of garlic stuffed up my nose, and people I don't know keep bonking me on the head with plastic mallets. It's a very weird tradition.
It's a massive crowd scene in the center city and it's difficult to stay in sight of our friends from the party, so Carolyn and I soon 'tack for clean air,' as we sailors call it. It's around midnight when we leave the happy revelers and head back to the flat. Tomorrow we have a train to catch.
The DOURO RIVER VALLEY
Grapes are the game in the Douro River Valley. Grapes and wine. It's one of the world's premier wine growing regions.
The train leaves from Porto's beautiful old São Bento station (most European train stations are beautiful) about mid-morning.
We roll eastward through small towns and past lush backyard gardens filled with ripening vegetables. Porto's huge old Mercado do Bolhão is filled with such produce, but it's rare on menus. Vegetables just aren't a big part of local restaurant fare. We sure miss getting our daily ration of veggies.
The hills along the valley are devoted to grapevines, as we pass numerous vineyards and wineries. The industry here dates back hundreds of years, the cultivation of grapes may even date from Roman times. The train stops at various towns along the way. We especially like the looks of a small town named Pinhão. But we've bought tickets to the end of the line, in Pocinho. We want to see what things look like at the remote end of the tracks. And why there's little mention of it in guidebooks. Often we find that guidebooks overlook simple and attractive places that just don't exude that 'touristic vibe.' Sometimes these places are real gems.
Pocinho is not. It's a nice enough little place in the dry hill country that segues over into Spain. But it looks a bit more industrial than we'd hoped. We hike uphill from the station to a little restaurant and get a snack. We ponder our next move. The train will be leaving in about 45 minutes. We decide to jump back on the train and check out Pinhão instead.
Back aboard, we tell the Conductor we'll get off at Pinhão instead. He tells us the tickets don't allow that. There's no 'hop-on, hop-off' provision. Then he looks away for a brief moment, and decides not to punch our tickets. It's Friday, after a big holiday; there's no large crowd on the train. He winks and says OK.
The beautiful Pinhão station is decorated with large and historic tile murals. We spend the next several hours wandering the quiet streets and riverfront. It was a very good decision.
It's a hot and lazy afternoon and we're soon enjoying a tasty lunch with a fine bottle of Ogiva, bottled by the inn-owner's family. The best wine country seems to be in dry areas with good water sources nearby. That way the vintners can control exactly how much water the plants receive. Pinhão qualifies, along with most of the Douro Valley.
Many local families bottle their own wine. We enjoy another glassful as an occasional car or pedestrian passes by outside the window. But it's a sleepy day in the countryside. We're entranced.
We walk down to the waterfront and pass a luxurious-looking place, called the Vintage House Hotel. I'm getting photos when Carolyn says, "Watch out! There's a car behind you!"
I say, "That's no 'car.' That's a classic Jaguar." But if that's the kind of money we'd need to stay at the Vintage House Hotel, there's no need to look at the prices.
Several tourist boats are tied to the dock, replicas of the ones that used to ferry wine and grapes down the river to Porto. We soak our feet in the cooling water and speculate on the possibilities for a swim.
One of the tourist-boat guys says it would be better to swim above town. If you know what I mean. Behind him, kids are jumping into the river and having a great time on a hot summer's day. But the afternoon is wearing on and it's time to catch the train back to Porto.
We enjoy our last few days in Porto wandering its colorful back streets and art museums for a few last impressions. The Serralves Museum hosts an exhibit called "Off the Wall." It truly is. There are massive installations to explore, electronic displays, and huge paintings to consider.
A lady tells us we need to see the McDonald's just around the corner. She says it's probably "the most beautiful McDonald's in Europe." We are skeptical but decide to have a look. They've remodeled an old palace or something and it's certainly a step up from the usual, although I don't intend to survey the others for comparison.
As in Lisbon, there are plenty of Smart Cars on the street. The Portuguese are some of the more energy-efficient people in Europe.
Portuguese architecture has unique qualities. Tilework facades are a common sight, but especially in Porto, the city for which the country itself is named. On townhouses, train stations, churches, and many other public buildings, tilework facades and tile details have long been a popular style and the variety of patterns seems endless. Intricate and curvaceous balconies are seen everywhere. And the rounded classical "Manueline" style, named for a former king, is classically Portuguese.
My friend Peter Pacheco has told me that, according to his grandmother, "Portuguese is the only language in which one can properly address God." It's little wonder that churches in Portugal come in for special attention.
While some areas of the old city are camouflaged by intense graffiti and the lovely old tiled facades cry out for care and restoration, the central area is well preserved and stunningly beautiful. We stroll the streets on our last morning and stop for breakfast at the elegant and famous Café Majestic.
It' a bit sad to see cigarette butts thickly littering the ground and filling nearly every crevice in the old cobblestone streets. Many Europeans are smokers, but the Portuguese seem to be among the most addicted. There's always someone smoking in a doorway, or outside a metro station. As a non-smoker, I've never understood the attraction. And the butts are everywhere. It's not a pretty sight.
Portugal has been good to us, and the people were very welcoming. We spend our last day doing laundry and hanging around the guesthouse.
Our time was well invested exploring the streets of Lisbon and Porto, and the rich wine country of the Douro Valley. I can well imagine we'll return some day. But we have a long passage ahead of us. We decided not to travel all the way to Madrid in one day, but to stop for a visit to the historic city of Salamanca, Spain. We'll share that great experience with you in our next blog.
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