Wow, what a trip. I seem to be paying for a full weekend of food, drink, and adventure with a wicked sore throat and cold, but it was so good that I want to write about it, despite my weakened weariness.
We travelled the 200ish miles from Lisbon to Porto on a speed train on Friday night. It was sleek, clean, and nauseatingly fast (up to 120 mph at times). Rolling in to Porto around 10pm, we got our first glimpse of the Douro River and the grand set of bridges that traverse its steep banks. Too tired from the week of teaching and travel, we headed out of the station, looking to hop in the first taxi that came our way... until I saw that said taxi was being driving by a someone still smoking a cigarette. Too nautious to want to to deal, I tried to make a beeline for the second taxi. I seemed to have upset the natural order of things with this move, as the driver tried to steer us back towards the first, so I told him in broken port-anol (portuguese + espanol... it's what I speak these days) that I didn't want to go in the taxi with someone that was smoking. The other taxi driver expressed his displeasure and dismissed us and T2 took us on, grudgingly. At first, the ride was slow and calm... the radio hummed with recaps of the Portuguese national soccer match against Israel, the streetlights seemed low and warm, and the buildings stood quiet around us; and then the taxi driver took his revenge for our touristy pickyness with an all out drag race through the now-not-so-calming streets of Porto. I motioned for him to slow down... he didn't... but then we arrived. Not the best start, but it would get better with a good night's rest.
We didn't know much about Porto going in to the trip; colleagues at school told us to just walk around and enjoy the scenery and good food. Although we certainly planned on doing that, my priority from the moment we woke on Saturday morning was to seek out what had been missing from my WI-born, CA-nurtured oh so spoiled life: good beer. After extensive internet research I had found that one of the only craft brewers in the country of Portugal could be found in this radical northern city. Long recognized as rabble-rousers with filthy mouths, Porto-ans (?) seemed like just the kind of people to demand more from their barley drinks than what the 2 huge breweries would provide. After a typical buffet-style dinner at our perfectly adequate and reasonable hotel (strangely accompanied by a television with MTV style "Urban Beats" playing), Jyl and I ventured towards the address, and found salvation: brewing supplies and a full line of flip topped refreshments, running the gamut from Stouts to Ambers, with a refined looking IPA to boot. The brewers were just the kind of folk you would expect from artists at the cusp: gracious, helpful, and happy to sell. We loaded up our backpacks with brew gear and craft beer, and waddled to the hotel feeling victorious before we'd even begun to see the city.
After unloading at home base, we wandered out in search of whatever cared to come our way. Porto quickly revealed itself to be even more grand, vertical, and spectacular than Sintra, which we had endeared itself to us the week before. The air was cool and smelled of fall and old stone. Decrepit buildings stood waiting to become homes again, while other had been kept and cared for. All of it was beautiful. After taking in the sights for awhile, it was time to find sustenance. Co-workers had suggested finding the sandwich to end all sandwiches: the Francesinha (roughly: "Little Frenchie"). I dragged my meat averse wife (who wins the "good sport" award for the day) halfway across the city up 2 hills just to find the place that one blog claimed had the best in the city. I think the pictures can tell the story better than I can: It's a sandwich that seems like it belongs in the Midwest, with several layers of different meat products (sausage, ham, beef, etc), big old pieces of Texas toast-style bread, an egg and cheese draped and melted over the top, and a hearty (but certainly not healthy) dousing by some sort of beer sauce. Needless to say, I cleaned my plate, and am now several years closer to death.
From there, we were in need of a good walking, and the city obliged. We stumbled down the steep gorge towards the Douro River and marveled at the beautiful view from the bottom. Eventually we headed for a tour at the Offley cellars, one of the many port wine producers that is based here. It was a quick tour, but a tasty one, which was much enhanced by an overly provocative and dramatic video of people drinking port in the room (lots of slow motion close ups of wine-soaked lips made it seem like porn for port lovers). Regardless, and perhaps unsurprisingly, we left happy. We strolled along stone-cobbled streets and meandered along the rolling river.
Contented and feeling a little worn down from many hours of explorations (with a solid 7-8 miles under our belt already) we hopped onto a boat for a "6-bridge tour," which sounded like just the right number... I couldn't have handled 7 (who could?). Sunset was rapidly approaching, so it was the perfect time for peacefully enjoying the sites of ancient buildings roll by... until a well meaning Bulgarian man boisterously commandeered our ears with stories about different buildings (which we couldn't really understand), and demands that we kiss each other while he took our picture. The moment he diverted his attention to another unsuspecting couple, we bolted for the bow, and resumed peaceful appreciation of the 6 lovely bridges.
"For first time guests, YOU decide what you think it should cost. Just come!"
It sounded dangerous, but as sure as the port still coursed through our system, we were ready for adventure. We came back at 8, and thoroughly enjoyed an epic meal at the "non-restaurant concept" known as Pedro Limao (see my next blog post for more details and lots of pictures).
Looks like a wonderful place for a weekend to eat, drink and explore! Beautiful photos.
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