Last Saturday was relatively quiet – the only non-typical events were not going to the
farmers’ market and spending the evening on a plane to Portugal, ie. taking a
little 3-hour hop from Hamburg to the ancient city of Porto. Imagine my
surprise then when I walked out of the arrivals gate to find one of my dearest
friends waiting on the other side! – actually, there was no surprise as we had
planned this many, many months ago, but joy was there in abundance. And
slap-happy, giggling sleepiness. Josh's Saturday had been longer, crossing the Atlantic in the wee hours on his way from Maine. We had a week to play in Portugal with sights
to see, wine and custardy baked goods to consume, and, well, that was the
extent of my to-do list at the beginning of the trip. See, this directly
followed pretty much a solid month of A Midsummer Night’s Dreaming
(rehearsals/performances) on top of working fulltime with a nasty head cold,
leaving me too tuckered to do any research almost until departure day. The
library loaned me a couple travel guides to take along and I spent the plane
ride reading them and learning the necessary basics of Portuguese from a nifty
little language book. Josh had been much better on the planning front and had
booked the hotels for the first few nights, leaving us time to plan out the
rest of the trip more spontaneously once there.
To start: Porto. To get out of the airport, one had to follow the signs clearly marked "WAY OUT", which I found an entertaining alternative to the usual "Exit" indicators (ie. "Get me out of here!"). Anyway. From there we didn't have far to go to our hotel and a good bit of sleep. The next morning came with extreme wind and wetness, which I had a hard time believing upon opening the window and hearing the howling beyond. Gray skies and mild rain had been forecast, nothing of these sheets of water being hurled through the air. The plan was to explore Porto on foot and this was less than optimal, but off we went anyway. Luckily the rain let up as we left, coming back in spurts throughout the day but interspersed with blue skies and sun. Most spotted and inconstant weather, and also cold, but with great results nonetheless.
After much train navigating and a quick breakfast in a conveniently placed pastelaria, we got into the city in a moment of springy sunshine.
Following the motto of "the higher you go, the better the view", we found a church and went up the tall, slim, claustrophobia-inducing tower to take a look, managed one quick round around the top without getting blown away (for an even better view, I'm sure) by the great gusts of wind still huffing and puffing all over the place.
The journey then continued on solid ground, exploring the city on foot in fits of warm sun and freezing downpours, shining the often prettily patterned cobblestones and deepening the colors of the walls. The rain also did a number polishing the many colored and creatively tiled facades of fancy churches, public buildings and homes alike -- an architectural element that I find most quaint, picturesque and appealing.
(If you click on this picture for the fullscreen version, notice the cute couple in the upper right window.)
Eventually we made our way down the old, old, tiny, twisting alleyways of the Ribeira neighborhood on the Douro, then crossed the river just in time for some dramatic lighting on/over/behind the city.
These next two were taken 10 minutes apart and exemplify the fickleness of the weather.
From there we walked around Vila Nova de Gaia for a while, quiet on a Sunday afternoon with TVs blaring Portuguese soaps out of some windows, though many buildings were abandoned and unloved. The Mosteiro da Serra do Pilar perched over the double-decker bridge (cars below, trains above) had a nice little exhibit on Portuguese Northern Heritage with a cutesy film narrated by a grandmother/grandson, highlighting main points of interest in Northern Portugal, and interspersed with random "Grandson, you never visit me!"-moments of passive aggressivity.
Vila Nova de Gaia is where all the port wine is stored and processed after being shipped in (or these days trucked in) from the vineyards of the Douro Valley. There we toured a wine cellar in an old, old building, dark and cool and smelling of wine, made the more dramatic from the thunder booming outside. We learned fun facts about how the different kinds of port are stored (like the ruby in impressive 20,000-liter barrels to decrease oxidation and maintain its color, whereas tawny port is put in much smaller barrels and thus takes on a delicious oaky flavor, etc.). To be called port, it must be grown in the Douro Valley and processed in Vila Nova de Gaia. Also, yum.
Afterwards we tried out some local cuisine and I had my first experience with bacalhau, dried salted cod that can be shredded and cooked in endless varieties of dishes. I tried it in the most innocent version I could find (involving lots of cream) but it was still a bit extremely salty for my taste.
Hard rain drenched us thoroughly on the way back to the train station and we were pretty sopping and exhausted by the time we got to the hotel. Then came a delightful sleep, to be followed by a bright, sunny morning and adventures to the east.
