I’m going to dispense with chronology, otherwise I’ll never put this stuff up. So let’s start in the middle.
Porto was our first stop in Portugal. Our first impression was that we were no longer in Madrid – and that meant that things could only improve. But once we reached the historical center it quickly charmed us. I’d sooner spend 5 years in Porto than 5 days in Madrid. It’s a rough-and-tumble port town, like Naples, that’s past its prime but with a worn and weary elegance that’s seductive.
Porto is a very walkable city. Follow the narrow cobblestone streets past tumbledown art deco facades and you can wind your way up and over hills or jump on the streetcar and take it out to the mouth of the Douro River where it meets the Atlantic.
Lovely painted tiles, azulejos, lend character to almost every surface that isn’t covered with graffiti.
The food was marvelous in that there was flavor and it appeared to be cooked. Again, we had just come from Madrid. The pastries and confections rival french and italian for sheer variety and this flaky, buttery fan of dough filled with seasoned ground meat practically bears the impression of our satisfied smiles at the other end. We had our first taste of a dense and moist traditional portuguese bread at the Mercado do Bolhao and later that night enjoyed a simple, but lovely meal at Casa Aleixo where grandmas wrapped their arms around our shoulders and made sure we ate every last bite of alheira, octopus and pork.
We traveled up the Douro by slow, swaying train and stayed in the tiniest of towns called Pinhoa. Our hotel was more reminiscent of an industrial garage on the Balkan Riviera than riverfront in Portugal, but we were well fed and, really, for this trip, that was better than average.
One thing I was completely unprepared for was the language. The Portuguese spoken by locals sounded unlike anything I’d heard elsewhere, more measured and throaty than the slippery, rapid-fire tongue of their Spanish neighbors, like it was akin to some dialect in the Eastern Bloc. Thankfully, there’s always a bit of entertainment to find in language usage when traveling abroad. In past trips to Italy, we made acquaintance with the denim brand GAS, that offered underwear bearing the crystal-bedazzled label “GAS” on the backside. And the airport fast-food counter that beckoned customers with the slogan “Freshness is Protagonist!” On our train leaving Porto for Lisbon, we were amazed to find a package of dark choco-cookies called Filipinos. Is the name derived from a misinterpretation of girl scout Tagalongs as Tagalog? I have no idea. But one bite and it was clear the name was the most interesting part about them.
