Believe it or not, this trip account is being written at the request of a reader of my last year's tome on our travel to Tuscany. (I’ll try to shorten it this year though.) As is becoming our custom, Jeanette and I did another sojourn this year -- this time to Portugal. We were offered (and gratefully took) the opportunity to accompany our good friends from California, Liz and Russ Seymour, to Portugal. The Seymours live near SLO (San Luis Obispo to the illiterati) and one of their neighbors had offered his condo in Viana do Castelo, Portugal to them for the donut. It fortunately had two bedrooms so we were given the extra one. So free housing combined with free air travel (frequent-flyer miles) was too much for us to resist. Our trip there only lasted ten days (including air travel) but we managed to "do" a great deal of north and central Portugal as well as a bit of Northwest Spain. My expectation going-in was that Portugal would be somewhat behind Tuscany in terms of sophistication and amenities. As we shall see, this was an erroneous assumption.
The flights to and from Portugal via American Airlines and British Airways were reasonably uneventful and much more enjoyable than last year's odyssey. The only complaint I have is that the transfers in London's Heathrow airport seem unnecessarily time-consuming and nerve-racking. Going over, we had to transfer from terminal #3 to terminal #1 and the reverse on the way back. This involved a long walk, a long bus ride and then another long walk. Since these are all international flights, it would seem that such London connections could be located closer together. Also, on the way over, after much travail, we assembled in terminal #1 waiting for British Airways to get the gate number for our flight to Lisbon. Posted all around were signs warning that it might take twenty minutes to reach your gate. When, twenty minutes before our flight was to leave and our flight’s gate was still not posted, I had a mini panic attack. Going to the information booth, I got the royal run-around. Needless to say, I did little to promote the U.S.'s image among the Brits. (A Canadian man about my age also had a hissy fit over this same issue.)
Tuesday, Oct. 21: When we arrived at the Lisbon (Lisboa) airport we had to wait for our friends coming in on a later flight from London. We had a brutal lunch at a cafeteria in a haze of cigarette smoke (as it was all over Portugal). I grabbed the International Herald Tribune to do the X-word puzzle and see what the Euro-peons were saying about the U.S. (It wasn't good.) When our friends arrived, we rented an Avis car (an Audi) and Russ drove us up to Viana do Castelo on what appeared to be a new 4-lane super highway. I couldn't drive since I was jet-lagged to the point of stupor. Russ had been in England with Liz for a few days so he wasn't similarly afflicted. It took about four hours to make this trip so our first day in Portugal was pretty much shot. We settled into our condo (hint: don't start to raise outside shutters until you unlatch them first), and then went out to dinner at a nearby restaurant. The menu consisted mostly of spit-roasted meats (mostly beef and goat) that generally defied recognition. When I told Liz that one offering was probably goat testicles, she lost most of her enthusiasm for this repast. Needless to say Jeanette had flan for desert (which she had most meals in Portugal.) Portuguese flan turned out to be different from Spanish flan in that it is much firmer and not as sweet.
The next day (Wednesday, Oct. 22), after I went shopping for provender at a nearby mega-market (think Wal-Mart), we enjoyed a very yellow-yoked egg and lean bacon breakfast before setting out in intermittent rain for northwestern Spain, (Vigo) only about 40 miles away. We got a late start (jet lag again), but on the way we stopped at the Portuguese equivalent of a flea market at Vila Prale de Ancora, a little north of our home base. There we bought some ceramics and then wound our way up into Spain. I say "up" since the terrain rises from coastal plain to piedmont. The actual country boundary is the river Rio Minho that runs between the high foothills. Then it is superhighway all the way to Vigo. Vigo is a medium sized city located above a large harbor on the Atlantic. We parked the car underground and proceeded down a long hill toward the docks. After much window shopping and picture taking we stopped for a pleasant coffee. The walk back up the hill was a little daunting since I am woefully out of shape and Russ has serious heart problems. Being too early for dinner (Spain is an hour behind Portugal) we started back toward Viana. We passed trucks loaded with cork bark from cork oak trees, a product whose use may be on its way out. But hunger finally overcame us, and we stopped in Tui, Spain for dinner. It was a charming town overlooking the Rio Minho and reminded me a bit of Salamanca, Spain (as much as I can remember). We explored the downtown area as much as we could before dark. Liz bought a beautiful Spanish doll dressed in a costume of the region and then we retired to a local bistro (El Molino, the mill) recommended by a shopkeeper (I suspect a cousin of the bistro owner.) Actually the food was quite good and reasonably cheap (60 euros for four of us). I, being the designated driver, suffered the same fate I did over and over on this trip -- I had to refrain from too much wine so we wouldn't end up in a ditch. The other three had no such inhibitions. But I must say that despite our boisterous behavior, we were treated quite well by the Spanish service people. It seemed to me as though they genuinely liked Americans.
The next day (Thursday, Oct. 23) was overcast when we set out for Barcelos and its huge weekly open-air market. Unfortunately we had a little incident along the way. We stopped to gas up and I, thinking it was a gasoline car (which I had asked for from Avis), filled it up with the wrong fuel ... it was a diesel. Now, all the clues were missing: it didn’t have a smaller fill tube (like in the U.S.); it ran just like a gasoline car (good pickup, no “dieseling” when you turned it off, etc.). And I didn’t notice the small sticker on the “gas” cap. So, this bonehead move on my part cost us about three hours of down time (and me, considerable euros). I must say however that the people at the nearby Mercedes dealership were extremely helpful during this ordeal and I wasn’t too badly ragged on by my traveling companions. Anyway we got a replacement vehicle (a station wagon whose make we never did figure out) and shortly arrived at the outdoor market in Barcelos. It was a sight to behold --- acres of booths selling everything from overshoes to olives. One of the more interesting sights were groups of four or five live chickens tied together by their legs laying on the ground awaiting the stewpot. They seemed quite quiet, rather Zen-like in their contemplation of their fate. I bought Jeanette a few dozen beautiful coral roses and a verity of olives, both for a pittance. We had some snacks for lunch and I got another Herald Tribune. While doing its puzzle by a fountain, Russ explored a nearby church and found a corpse lain out by the altar with no one around. We did see a gathering of men outside the church in animated conversation so we assumed that this was the style of a Portuguese wake. After spending a few hours here, we went onto Braga, a larger nearby city. We first visited a very old and famous church (the Se). It is a mixture of many architectural styles including quite a bit of rubble saved from various renovations over the ages. Russ posed prone in an abandoned stone sarcophagus (we naively think that burial is forever) and he asked that Liz use the pictures we took at his funeral. We wandered out the side door of this church into a very fashionable shopping arcade with at least one beautiful garden and its centered fountain. Finally we ate dinner at a restaurant again recommended by a local shopkeeper. I had octopus salad for which Russ developed an instant liking. After dinner we headed home and, after meandering all over northern Portugal, for a few hours, finally found Viana.
Friday, Oct. 24: This day we traveled to Porto (Oporto in Portuguese), the seat of the port (a fortified wine) traffic to England for the last few hundred years and, seemingly the reason for the name Portugal. This was a most interesting city and perhaps my favorite. As was becoming the norm, it rained on and off all day. (The weather in northern Portugal mimics that of our own northwest, rainy in the fall and winter with some drying in the spring.) Porto is a city built on two steep hills that sweep down to a large harbor that is really the Douro river that has had breakwaters constructed at its mouth. Much of the grape-growing region (which supplies the many port-making operations or lodges that dot this city) is located up this “river of gold.” While shortening the life of our car’s clutch traveling up and down the hill on the south side of the river, we, by chance, happened on one of the best port lodges, the one where Taylor’s port is made. (Please note that this is not the Taylor’s of upstate New York, but an English firm with a lot more class.) We took the tour of their lodge given by a very knowledgeable English woman who burdened with many facts about port wine ... most of which I have forgotten. However, there is one I didn’t forget -- vintage port needs to be drunk within a few hours of its opening whereas Late Bottled Vintage (LBV) Port can stay good for a few months after being uncorked. We traveled back down the hill with an attractive German girl who had attached herself to us even though she hated President Bush. (Hating Bush seems to be very fashionable over there even though the rational for this animus is rather fuzzy.) When we jettisoned her by the harbor she stood and followed us with her eyes like an abandoned puppy. We had lunch at a harborside cafe that was one of our better meals on this trip. Jeanette had a plate of boiled meats and the rest of us had kale and fava bean soup. We cut up some of the boiled meats and put them in our soup to make a savory repast when accompanied by crusty rolls. (Much of the bread in Portugal is a soft sweet bread which I don’t particularly relish.) The bill for the four of us, including drinks, was something like 17 euros. We then took a boat tour of the harbor crowding in with a Japanese tour group. It was crick, crick, crick every time the tour guide mentioned any harbor sight. Then, getting off the boat, many Japanese pushed ahead of us like they were crowding off a Tokyo subway ... very annoying. We returned to Viana and had dinner at the Bardello restaurant where Jeanette, Russ and Liz had the time of their lives while I, having to stay sober, sulked at the outrageous cost (200 euros) of what I considered a mediocre meal and drink, some of which was forced on us at the end. I guess everyone everywhere has his little con game.
Saturday, Oct. 25 was a “down” day. We hung around Viana do Castelo visiting its shops and a small museum dedicated to linen making and the local jewelry trade. There was valuable jewelry on some mannequins tucked away in the recesses of this museum with no one around to notice if it was stolen. (I’m afraid they’ll have to learn the hard way as this town becomes more touristy.) It rained heavily most of the day. We also went up another steep hill above the town to the basilica on Monte de Santa Luzia. It is of rather recent vintage (the 1920’s) but looked much older with lichens and other vegetation covering most of its exterior. (It must be the regional dampness). The views were impressive even though the valley was covered with mist. A quite mediocre painting that was mostly baby-blue sky and an awkward likeness of what I took to be Jesus covered the ceiling of the basilica. It looked like a velvet painting of Elvis when compared to the art we saw in many of the older cathedrals on this trip. We then had lunch at the nearby pousada, named for the basilica. Although it wasn’t cheap, the meal was quite good and the service was impeccable. After some more innocuous sightseeing and shopping, we went back to the condo and cleaned out the refrigerator making omelets, salads, etc. for dinner. Then we drank some port and tried to unravel the vagaries of the condo’s satellite TV.
On Sunday, Oct. 26, we went to Santiago de Compostelo in northwestern Spain. (It is a fair distance above Vigo.) This is the southern terminus of a traditional pilgrimage that draws Catholics from around the world. They traipse across the Pyrenees stopping at many shrines and receiving the hospitality of many locals. When they finish, they wear a scallop shell as a symbol of their sacrifice. On our way into Spain, Russ had an urgent call of nature due to his heart medications. Since we were many kilometers from a rest stop, I pulled over on the side of the highway to let him go. Just then a car also pulled over about 200 yards in front of us. When we re-entered the highway, it did too. Then, after we went through the last toll booth in Portugal, it was waiting for us with blue light flashing. The first cop didn’t speak English so he got his partner who asked what we were doing pulled over on the side of the road. Russ and I tried to explain about his medical situation. The cop finally relented but left us with the admonition, “We don’t do that in Portugal!” (After we were on our way Russ wondered aloud whether Portuguese dogs are allowed to piss on the side of the road.) When we got to Santiago de Compostelo, we parked below the cathedral and hiked up to the main square just as a mini marathon was dissipating. (I got a brochure for Rebecca in case she ever wants to participate in this annual event.) One of the more interesting sights here were the pilgrims themselves. They usually sported backpacks, walking shorts, long staffs, and expressions of rapture. The cathedral itself was built in the 9th century to feature the remains of St. James (the apostle) but also to attract pilgrims (and the economic boost they would provide to the locals). It was very impressive structure, but, to my taste, unkempt ... with small trees growing all over its facade. On the road back to Portugal I took a wrong turn and ended up on the Spanish seacoast just above Portugal. This seems a beautiful and fascinating summer locale, undiscovered by international tourists. (Something to look into further.) Liz, feeling under the weather, went back to the condo and Jeanette, Russ and I had dinner at a small cafe Jeanette had spotted the previous afternoon. It was filled with day laborers, many from the Portuguese colonies, watching a soccer game. No one spoke any English whatsoever. The owner got his very shy daughter to come downstairs and do some translating of the menu and thus we had a very satisfying meal of pork chops with the typical Portuguese rice AND french fries. Jeanette had flan again for dessert. The bill was very reasonable but, I think, about twice what the workmen paid for the same fare. But then, as I said before, everyone has his little con.
Monday, Oct. 27, we started back to Lisbon, taking a good part of the morning. Our first stop was in Obidos, a quaint hill town just north of Lisbon, topped by an old battlement. (More rain dogged us throughout which made the cobblestone streets there quite slick.) We chose to stay at a small bed and breakfast (Casa De Sao Tiago Castelo -- quite near the castle) that was recommended by Rick Steves in his book on Portugal. There was a small bar around the corner from our B&B that Russ and I settled into ... later to be joined by Jeanette and, still later, Liz. It served mostly a cherry wine (for which the town is famous) and sausages that looked a lot like hot dogs but much tastier. These sausages were cooked in front of you on a ceramic brazier into which was poured a white brandy that soon seared them into a delicious snack. Then small cubes of a cheddar-like cheese were added as an accompaniment. It was all quite pleasant. We were then treated to about two hours of exposition, in English, by the bartender (son of the owners) about the history of Obidos and Portugal. One of his more interesting stories was how Portugal lost its position as the premier trading center of the world. Portugal had gained this lofty perch after DaGama had discovered a route to the orient around Cape Horn. As a result Venice, Italy declined and Portugal ascended. However, the Spanish inquisition eventually changed things. The king of Portugal declined to follow Spain’s lead in suppressing his country’s Jewish population since they had a great deal to do with Portugal’s trading successes ... and paid their taxes religiously (pun intended). However, this king died … as did his young son on the field of battle shortly thereafter. Of his other two sons, one was a drunk and the other, slow-witted. His daughter was unfortunately married to the king of Spain (Ferdnand?) who then declared himself king of Portugal too. He quickly imposed the inquisition on Portugal too (with the able assistance of the Jesuits). The Jews had no choice. Most of them fled to the Netherlands taking all their knowledge and trading skills with them. (They had kept many trading ports secret.) Thus Portugal declined and Holland ascended to trading center stage. We had dinner at A Ilustre Casa De Ramiro, supposedly the best restaurant in town. Although the service was impeccable, the food wasn’t the best we had on this trip. We then retired to our charming rooms.
The next morning, Tuesday, Oct. 28, after a nice continental breakfast, I subtracted about another six months from the life of our car’s clutch trying to back up out of a steep dead end street I had entered by mistake trying to leave the town (very reminiscent of my conundrum in San Giminioano the year before). Smoke came out from under the hood for about the next twenty kilometers. Our intent was to visit Sintra before we went on to Lisbon. Following the signs we first decided to visit Cascais, a port in the Sintra region. There, we had a most delicious lunch at a nice restaurant situated atop the Inferno (steep cliffs with huge waves crashing below). We started with sangria made with a sparkling white wine and lots of fresh fruit. I had a dozen very succulent fresh raw oysters and the others, broiled fresh sole (brought to the table live for us to inspect). We then proceeded up to coast and then inland to the town of Sintra. While the girls did some sightseeing and shopping (and meeting again our Bush-hating German friend from Porto), Russ and I drove up a steep mountain (more clutch burn) and then climbed a fair pace further to the top of the Palacio National. This is a monstrous fortification built by the Moors and expanded by the Portugese after they had driven out the Arabs. It is a unique structure (in a fair state of disrepair) built among and atop boulders the size of large trucks and with a fair number of old trees filling in the openings. It was very dank, dark and otherworldly. It took me a few hours but I finally came up with the word “saturnine” to describe this mega-monument to man’s industry and belligerence. I was very concerned that the rigor of our climb to the top would be too much for Russ and that Liz would blame me for his demise. But he survived and it was I who was panting most. We left Sintra and proceeded to Lisbon, getting there just as it was getting dark. Parking near our hotel, the Lisboa Tejo (again recommended by Rick Steves) was expedited by a street hustler who gave us (for 5 euros) a parking space he was saving with traffic cones. We unloaded our growing parcel of parcels and settled into our rooms. (Russ was propositioned twice while unloading his luggage. We later learned that a pimp worked out of the hotel lobby watching his meal tickets through its large picture window. He was there most of the time we were in the hotel.) We ate that night (and the next also) at the Baleal restaurant only a few yards up the street from the hotel. It was quite delicious with standouts being the octopus salad, veal with mushrooms, hard crusty bread, and tournedos (filet mignon for only 12 euros!) … and, of course, french fries AND rice. The waiters were quite avuncular and efficient.
Wednesday, Oct. 29 was spent entirely in Lisbon. The bases of our tour of Lisbon were all-day passes on the city’s streetcars and a circuit on the double-decker Carris Tour bus (with earphones). I vastly preferred the streetcars. They were old-fashioned, small and charming and we could follow our progress on a local map and watch the local population going about their daily routine. When we saw something of interest (like the coach museum -- filled with extravagantly guilded coaches from Portugal’s heyday), we could get off and, when finished, catch the next one. (We also did this with the sightseeing bus that highlighted mostly statues and churches.) As you can tell by the shortness of this section, Lisbon was not the zenith of my trip. However, Russ, Liz and Jeanette thought much more highly of Lisbon and want to go back. I'll spend my time and euros in Porto.
The next day, Thursday, Oct. 30, we flew back to the good ole U.S.A.
The flights to and from Portugal via American Airlines and British Airways were reasonably uneventful and much more enjoyable than last year's odyssey. The only complaint I have is that the transfers in London's Heathrow airport seem unnecessarily time-consuming and nerve-racking. Going over, we had to transfer from terminal #3 to terminal #1 and the reverse on the way back. This involved a long walk, a long bus ride and then another long walk. Since these are all international flights, it would seem that such London connections could be located closer together. Also, on the way over, after much travail, we assembled in terminal #1 waiting for British Airways to get the gate number for our flight to Lisbon. Posted all around were signs warning that it might take twenty minutes to reach your gate. When, twenty minutes before our flight was to leave and our flight’s gate was still not posted, I had a mini panic attack. Going to the information booth, I got the royal run-around. Needless to say, I did little to promote the U.S.'s image among the Brits. (A Canadian man about my age also had a hissy fit over this same issue.)
Tuesday, Oct. 21: When we arrived at the Lisbon (Lisboa) airport we had to wait for our friends coming in on a later flight from London. We had a brutal lunch at a cafeteria in a haze of cigarette smoke (as it was all over Portugal). I grabbed the International Herald Tribune to do the X-word puzzle and see what the Euro-peons were saying about the U.S. (It wasn't good.) When our friends arrived, we rented an Avis car (an Audi) and Russ drove us up to Viana do Castelo on what appeared to be a new 4-lane super highway. I couldn't drive since I was jet-lagged to the point of stupor. Russ had been in England with Liz for a few days so he wasn't similarly afflicted. It took about four hours to make this trip so our first day in Portugal was pretty much shot. We settled into our condo (hint: don't start to raise outside shutters until you unlatch them first), and then went out to dinner at a nearby restaurant. The menu consisted mostly of spit-roasted meats (mostly beef and goat) that generally defied recognition. When I told Liz that one offering was probably goat testicles, she lost most of her enthusiasm for this repast. Needless to say Jeanette had flan for desert (which she had most meals in Portugal.) Portuguese flan turned out to be different from Spanish flan in that it is much firmer and not as sweet.
The next day (Wednesday, Oct. 22), after I went shopping for provender at a nearby mega-market (think Wal-Mart), we enjoyed a very yellow-yoked egg and lean bacon breakfast before setting out in intermittent rain for northwestern Spain, (Vigo) only about 40 miles away. We got a late start (jet lag again), but on the way we stopped at the Portuguese equivalent of a flea market at Vila Prale de Ancora, a little north of our home base. There we bought some ceramics and then wound our way up into Spain. I say "up" since the terrain rises from coastal plain to piedmont. The actual country boundary is the river Rio Minho that runs between the high foothills. Then it is superhighway all the way to Vigo. Vigo is a medium sized city located above a large harbor on the Atlantic. We parked the car underground and proceeded down a long hill toward the docks. After much window shopping and picture taking we stopped for a pleasant coffee. The walk back up the hill was a little daunting since I am woefully out of shape and Russ has serious heart problems. Being too early for dinner (Spain is an hour behind Portugal) we started back toward Viana. We passed trucks loaded with cork bark from cork oak trees, a product whose use may be on its way out. But hunger finally overcame us, and we stopped in Tui, Spain for dinner. It was a charming town overlooking the Rio Minho and reminded me a bit of Salamanca, Spain (as much as I can remember). We explored the downtown area as much as we could before dark. Liz bought a beautiful Spanish doll dressed in a costume of the region and then we retired to a local bistro (El Molino, the mill) recommended by a shopkeeper (I suspect a cousin of the bistro owner.) Actually the food was quite good and reasonably cheap (60 euros for four of us). I, being the designated driver, suffered the same fate I did over and over on this trip -- I had to refrain from too much wine so we wouldn't end up in a ditch. The other three had no such inhibitions. But I must say that despite our boisterous behavior, we were treated quite well by the Spanish service people. It seemed to me as though they genuinely liked Americans.
The next day (Thursday, Oct. 23) was overcast when we set out for Barcelos and its huge weekly open-air market. Unfortunately we had a little incident along the way. We stopped to gas up and I, thinking it was a gasoline car (which I had asked for from Avis), filled it up with the wrong fuel ... it was a diesel. Now, all the clues were missing: it didn’t have a smaller fill tube (like in the U.S.); it ran just like a gasoline car (good pickup, no “dieseling” when you turned it off, etc.). And I didn’t notice the small sticker on the “gas” cap. So, this bonehead move on my part cost us about three hours of down time (and me, considerable euros). I must say however that the people at the nearby Mercedes dealership were extremely helpful during this ordeal and I wasn’t too badly ragged on by my traveling companions. Anyway we got a replacement vehicle (a station wagon whose make we never did figure out) and shortly arrived at the outdoor market in Barcelos. It was a sight to behold --- acres of booths selling everything from overshoes to olives. One of the more interesting sights were groups of four or five live chickens tied together by their legs laying on the ground awaiting the stewpot. They seemed quite quiet, rather Zen-like in their contemplation of their fate. I bought Jeanette a few dozen beautiful coral roses and a verity of olives, both for a pittance. We had some snacks for lunch and I got another Herald Tribune. While doing its puzzle by a fountain, Russ explored a nearby church and found a corpse lain out by the altar with no one around. We did see a gathering of men outside the church in animated conversation so we assumed that this was the style of a Portuguese wake. After spending a few hours here, we went onto Braga, a larger nearby city. We first visited a very old and famous church (the Se). It is a mixture of many architectural styles including quite a bit of rubble saved from various renovations over the ages. Russ posed prone in an abandoned stone sarcophagus (we naively think that burial is forever) and he asked that Liz use the pictures we took at his funeral. We wandered out the side door of this church into a very fashionable shopping arcade with at least one beautiful garden and its centered fountain. Finally we ate dinner at a restaurant again recommended by a local shopkeeper. I had octopus salad for which Russ developed an instant liking. After dinner we headed home and, after meandering all over northern Portugal, for a few hours, finally found Viana.
Friday, Oct. 24: This day we traveled to Porto (Oporto in Portuguese), the seat of the port (a fortified wine) traffic to England for the last few hundred years and, seemingly the reason for the name Portugal. This was a most interesting city and perhaps my favorite. As was becoming the norm, it rained on and off all day. (The weather in northern Portugal mimics that of our own northwest, rainy in the fall and winter with some drying in the spring.) Porto is a city built on two steep hills that sweep down to a large harbor that is really the Douro river that has had breakwaters constructed at its mouth. Much of the grape-growing region (which supplies the many port-making operations or lodges that dot this city) is located up this “river of gold.” While shortening the life of our car’s clutch traveling up and down the hill on the south side of the river, we, by chance, happened on one of the best port lodges, the one where Taylor’s port is made. (Please note that this is not the Taylor’s of upstate New York, but an English firm with a lot more class.) We took the tour of their lodge given by a very knowledgeable English woman who burdened with many facts about port wine ... most of which I have forgotten. However, there is one I didn’t forget -- vintage port needs to be drunk within a few hours of its opening whereas Late Bottled Vintage (LBV) Port can stay good for a few months after being uncorked. We traveled back down the hill with an attractive German girl who had attached herself to us even though she hated President Bush. (Hating Bush seems to be very fashionable over there even though the rational for this animus is rather fuzzy.) When we jettisoned her by the harbor she stood and followed us with her eyes like an abandoned puppy. We had lunch at a harborside cafe that was one of our better meals on this trip. Jeanette had a plate of boiled meats and the rest of us had kale and fava bean soup. We cut up some of the boiled meats and put them in our soup to make a savory repast when accompanied by crusty rolls. (Much of the bread in Portugal is a soft sweet bread which I don’t particularly relish.) The bill for the four of us, including drinks, was something like 17 euros. We then took a boat tour of the harbor crowding in with a Japanese tour group. It was crick, crick, crick every time the tour guide mentioned any harbor sight. Then, getting off the boat, many Japanese pushed ahead of us like they were crowding off a Tokyo subway ... very annoying. We returned to Viana and had dinner at the Bardello restaurant where Jeanette, Russ and Liz had the time of their lives while I, having to stay sober, sulked at the outrageous cost (200 euros) of what I considered a mediocre meal and drink, some of which was forced on us at the end. I guess everyone everywhere has his little con game.
Saturday, Oct. 25 was a “down” day. We hung around Viana do Castelo visiting its shops and a small museum dedicated to linen making and the local jewelry trade. There was valuable jewelry on some mannequins tucked away in the recesses of this museum with no one around to notice if it was stolen. (I’m afraid they’ll have to learn the hard way as this town becomes more touristy.) It rained heavily most of the day. We also went up another steep hill above the town to the basilica on Monte de Santa Luzia. It is of rather recent vintage (the 1920’s) but looked much older with lichens and other vegetation covering most of its exterior. (It must be the regional dampness). The views were impressive even though the valley was covered with mist. A quite mediocre painting that was mostly baby-blue sky and an awkward likeness of what I took to be Jesus covered the ceiling of the basilica. It looked like a velvet painting of Elvis when compared to the art we saw in many of the older cathedrals on this trip. We then had lunch at the nearby pousada, named for the basilica. Although it wasn’t cheap, the meal was quite good and the service was impeccable. After some more innocuous sightseeing and shopping, we went back to the condo and cleaned out the refrigerator making omelets, salads, etc. for dinner. Then we drank some port and tried to unravel the vagaries of the condo’s satellite TV.
On Sunday, Oct. 26, we went to Santiago de Compostelo in northwestern Spain. (It is a fair distance above Vigo.) This is the southern terminus of a traditional pilgrimage that draws Catholics from around the world. They traipse across the Pyrenees stopping at many shrines and receiving the hospitality of many locals. When they finish, they wear a scallop shell as a symbol of their sacrifice. On our way into Spain, Russ had an urgent call of nature due to his heart medications. Since we were many kilometers from a rest stop, I pulled over on the side of the highway to let him go. Just then a car also pulled over about 200 yards in front of us. When we re-entered the highway, it did too. Then, after we went through the last toll booth in Portugal, it was waiting for us with blue light flashing. The first cop didn’t speak English so he got his partner who asked what we were doing pulled over on the side of the road. Russ and I tried to explain about his medical situation. The cop finally relented but left us with the admonition, “We don’t do that in Portugal!” (After we were on our way Russ wondered aloud whether Portuguese dogs are allowed to piss on the side of the road.) When we got to Santiago de Compostelo, we parked below the cathedral and hiked up to the main square just as a mini marathon was dissipating. (I got a brochure for Rebecca in case she ever wants to participate in this annual event.) One of the more interesting sights here were the pilgrims themselves. They usually sported backpacks, walking shorts, long staffs, and expressions of rapture. The cathedral itself was built in the 9th century to feature the remains of St. James (the apostle) but also to attract pilgrims (and the economic boost they would provide to the locals). It was very impressive structure, but, to my taste, unkempt ... with small trees growing all over its facade. On the road back to Portugal I took a wrong turn and ended up on the Spanish seacoast just above Portugal. This seems a beautiful and fascinating summer locale, undiscovered by international tourists. (Something to look into further.) Liz, feeling under the weather, went back to the condo and Jeanette, Russ and I had dinner at a small cafe Jeanette had spotted the previous afternoon. It was filled with day laborers, many from the Portuguese colonies, watching a soccer game. No one spoke any English whatsoever. The owner got his very shy daughter to come downstairs and do some translating of the menu and thus we had a very satisfying meal of pork chops with the typical Portuguese rice AND french fries. Jeanette had flan again for dessert. The bill was very reasonable but, I think, about twice what the workmen paid for the same fare. But then, as I said before, everyone has his little con.
Monday, Oct. 27, we started back to Lisbon, taking a good part of the morning. Our first stop was in Obidos, a quaint hill town just north of Lisbon, topped by an old battlement. (More rain dogged us throughout which made the cobblestone streets there quite slick.) We chose to stay at a small bed and breakfast (Casa De Sao Tiago Castelo -- quite near the castle) that was recommended by Rick Steves in his book on Portugal. There was a small bar around the corner from our B&B that Russ and I settled into ... later to be joined by Jeanette and, still later, Liz. It served mostly a cherry wine (for which the town is famous) and sausages that looked a lot like hot dogs but much tastier. These sausages were cooked in front of you on a ceramic brazier into which was poured a white brandy that soon seared them into a delicious snack. Then small cubes of a cheddar-like cheese were added as an accompaniment. It was all quite pleasant. We were then treated to about two hours of exposition, in English, by the bartender (son of the owners) about the history of Obidos and Portugal. One of his more interesting stories was how Portugal lost its position as the premier trading center of the world. Portugal had gained this lofty perch after DaGama had discovered a route to the orient around Cape Horn. As a result Venice, Italy declined and Portugal ascended. However, the Spanish inquisition eventually changed things. The king of Portugal declined to follow Spain’s lead in suppressing his country’s Jewish population since they had a great deal to do with Portugal’s trading successes ... and paid their taxes religiously (pun intended). However, this king died … as did his young son on the field of battle shortly thereafter. Of his other two sons, one was a drunk and the other, slow-witted. His daughter was unfortunately married to the king of Spain (Ferdnand?) who then declared himself king of Portugal too. He quickly imposed the inquisition on Portugal too (with the able assistance of the Jesuits). The Jews had no choice. Most of them fled to the Netherlands taking all their knowledge and trading skills with them. (They had kept many trading ports secret.) Thus Portugal declined and Holland ascended to trading center stage. We had dinner at A Ilustre Casa De Ramiro, supposedly the best restaurant in town. Although the service was impeccable, the food wasn’t the best we had on this trip. We then retired to our charming rooms.
The next morning, Tuesday, Oct. 28, after a nice continental breakfast, I subtracted about another six months from the life of our car’s clutch trying to back up out of a steep dead end street I had entered by mistake trying to leave the town (very reminiscent of my conundrum in San Giminioano the year before). Smoke came out from under the hood for about the next twenty kilometers. Our intent was to visit Sintra before we went on to Lisbon. Following the signs we first decided to visit Cascais, a port in the Sintra region. There, we had a most delicious lunch at a nice restaurant situated atop the Inferno (steep cliffs with huge waves crashing below). We started with sangria made with a sparkling white wine and lots of fresh fruit. I had a dozen very succulent fresh raw oysters and the others, broiled fresh sole (brought to the table live for us to inspect). We then proceeded up to coast and then inland to the town of Sintra. While the girls did some sightseeing and shopping (and meeting again our Bush-hating German friend from Porto), Russ and I drove up a steep mountain (more clutch burn) and then climbed a fair pace further to the top of the Palacio National. This is a monstrous fortification built by the Moors and expanded by the Portugese after they had driven out the Arabs. It is a unique structure (in a fair state of disrepair) built among and atop boulders the size of large trucks and with a fair number of old trees filling in the openings. It was very dank, dark and otherworldly. It took me a few hours but I finally came up with the word “saturnine” to describe this mega-monument to man’s industry and belligerence. I was very concerned that the rigor of our climb to the top would be too much for Russ and that Liz would blame me for his demise. But he survived and it was I who was panting most. We left Sintra and proceeded to Lisbon, getting there just as it was getting dark. Parking near our hotel, the Lisboa Tejo (again recommended by Rick Steves) was expedited by a street hustler who gave us (for 5 euros) a parking space he was saving with traffic cones. We unloaded our growing parcel of parcels and settled into our rooms. (Russ was propositioned twice while unloading his luggage. We later learned that a pimp worked out of the hotel lobby watching his meal tickets through its large picture window. He was there most of the time we were in the hotel.) We ate that night (and the next also) at the Baleal restaurant only a few yards up the street from the hotel. It was quite delicious with standouts being the octopus salad, veal with mushrooms, hard crusty bread, and tournedos (filet mignon for only 12 euros!) … and, of course, french fries AND rice. The waiters were quite avuncular and efficient.
Wednesday, Oct. 29 was spent entirely in Lisbon. The bases of our tour of Lisbon were all-day passes on the city’s streetcars and a circuit on the double-decker Carris Tour bus (with earphones). I vastly preferred the streetcars. They were old-fashioned, small and charming and we could follow our progress on a local map and watch the local population going about their daily routine. When we saw something of interest (like the coach museum -- filled with extravagantly guilded coaches from Portugal’s heyday), we could get off and, when finished, catch the next one. (We also did this with the sightseeing bus that highlighted mostly statues and churches.) As you can tell by the shortness of this section, Lisbon was not the zenith of my trip. However, Russ, Liz and Jeanette thought much more highly of Lisbon and want to go back. I'll spend my time and euros in Porto.
The next day, Thursday, Oct. 30, we flew back to the good ole U.S.A.
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