Category: Portugal

My arrival in Porto set the tone for a lot of things. A thoughtful train ride vomited we passengers into the streets and to our own recognizance. Without an internet connection to summon Uber, I was left at the mercy of the local Taxi mafia. Portuguese taxi drivers are some of the most brutal you will ever meet.

My history with Taxi drivers is no secret if you’ve read much of the site. It goes back years, to when a social friend of mine who happened to be a taxi driver gave me a ride into town after I had been in a significant motorcycle wreck and could not walk. He charged me $50 for a ten minute ride. I never called him again. I’ve been overcharged, robbed, and abducted by taxi drivers… so when I say Portugal has bad ones, please understand that this is a qualified statement.

I walked up to a taxi driver, setting down my bag and asking him if he knew the street I needed to go to. He grabbed my bag off the ground next to me, threw (actually threw) it in the trunk of his taxi and slammed the trunk lid shut. I yelled at him, and he yelled back the name of the street I had mentioned and he got in the driver seat, shutting the door. I quickly yanked open the back door and jumped in, so as not to lose half my worldly possessions to languidness.

The Porto taxi driver took off like a madman. The guy was a complete bastard. He drove like a psychopath with a death wish. It was the most fun I have had in a car in Europe. I was smiling and laughing the whole time. Don’t misunderstand me, this guy was a total asshole, but the ride was exhilarating. I am a bit unhinged myself.

Gallery Hostel in Porto is one of the best I’ve been to. Well run, clean, nicely decorated; the staff is attentive and available 24 hours a day. It is not without it’s shortcomings, but if you need a place to stay you could do significantly worse. Alex, an art historian from a family of anthropologists who works at Gallery, sat down in their bar with me until late in the night pouring 10 year aged Port wine and telling me stories about the region and it’s historical connections with the rest of the world. It was unexpectedly interesting and something I would recommend for any visitor. It’s full of fun art, too.

The following day, the plan was to get on a train and spend the rest of my time in Portugal out in a little town in the countryside. The more I looked into this and the more informed individuals that I spoke with, the more convoluted and further away this goal seemed.

Everyone, absolutely everyone, in Portugal has a better idea for what you should be doing. I was a little put off by it at first, but eventually just started ignoring everyone. Often, before you can give your name to a local, they are telling you where you MUST go or what you MUST do while you are there. Take all of it with a bucket of salt. The hostel telling you that you must rent a car to the tune of $60 euro a day is not telling you that you can rent the same car for 30 euro for 3 days if you just take a 4 euro Uber to the airport.

Life lesson: just do whatever you want.

After several hours of searching for guest houses, AirBnB, or any lodging in the countryside that resembled what I wanted, I gave up. The goal was to unwind, and so far the whole process was just a huge stressor. I found an apartment of the top floor above a quite plaza in Porto on AirBnB, and booked it.

Whilst booking the apartment on my laptop, I overheard some people discussing going out for lunch. I volunteered myself as a member of their party and our lovely mixed group went out for some local fare before I set off for my new apartment.

I spent most of the rest of the week with an open laptop and wine bottle, writing down stories, and enjoying my time alone. One of the girls from my hostel lunch team, Lena, had the marvelous idea of getting out of town for a day and we made plans to do just that.

Porto itself is all hills: Up and Down. While this can be tiring, it also may be contributing to the impressively powerful and curvaceous lower halves on some of the locals, so I can’t complain. Walking anywhere is likely the fastest way to get where you need to go, as the city was not built with cars in mind: a ten minute walk may well be a 15 minute car ride. If you can, just walk. If not, relax and don’t expect anything to happen in an expedient manner. Portuguese are not particularly skillful or careful drivers, in my experience; given the striking volume of times my Uber drivers drove the wrong way down a one way street, got stuck in a dead end, drove over a curb, or made me an accomplice to vehicular homicide. That anyone is alive in this city is a testament to their agility.

Sunset park to the side of the Justice Palace is a great place to be around 8 p.m. to sit and watch the sun set over the ocean. It’s lovely, and it just gets better for the hour after sunset. The contrast of twilight and street lights sharpens the world over the Douro river into a painting the likes of which you will not see elsewhere. Stay; it’s worth it.

The best place I found to eat in town was this little alley immediately off of Fonte dos Leões Fontijn: Rua de Sá de Noronha. It was full of fun people, good food, and importantly, no weird beggars. The worst place… Rua das Flores. It was afflicted with all kids of homeless beggars and loud buskers of dubious quality. Local beggars have realized acting like you are mentally disabled gets you more money… either that, or the sum total of Portugal’s population of retards all reside in this one street.

Best place to start your morning? Moustache Coffee shop. How come you taste so good? Good coffee, great snacks, pretty girls, nice location. It can’t be beat.

Peneda-Gerês National Park was not on my radar. That being said, it was a great day trip with Lena from the lunch crew. Rent a car and go. There is a surprising lack of ANY useful information on this area, and any google results on swimming there just direct you to tour groups. While this may be your bag, it wasn’t mine. There is a tourism info office at the main roundabout in the town of Gerês; ask clarifying questions!

I had seriously intended to tell you how to get to Tahiti falls, my favorite place in Gerês. I thought I had saved a GPS point, or a screenshot of the map, or something… but I didn’t. The best I can tell you is leave Ermida in the direction of Fafião. At the first bridge, park and cross to the far side of the bridge, turn right, and just keep going. Even the walk is an adventure. Stop when you find somewhere you love.

That actually might good advice for life in general.

Here are some pictures showing what we got into on our own. Lovingly crafted, irresponsible fun.

Porto was worth this visit in so many ways. If you are on the fence, just go. The simplest answer is to act.

Even the flight out was entertaining. Filled with some group named “Club Tour” that seemed composed entirely of pensioners who had never been on an airplane before. Picture the stereotypical grandmother learning to use technology for the first time, then fill a plane with her in varying stages of disarray. People who didn’t understand that someone needed to step over them to get to the window seat. Ladies standing in the aisle while others were trying to board the plane so she could take pictures of her friends in their seats. They seemed unaware that there was a seat belt, what it was for, or how it functioned. Throughout the flight they were leaning in front of my screen as I watched a movie, talking loudly to each other; placing their hands on the touchscreen causing my movie to end prematurely. The old farting lady in my row with her clawed hooves dangling over the lip of her shoes really took the cake.

Costa Coffee provided me with a mocha before I boarded. The gate agent informed me that the flight attendants may not allow me to take it on the plane, but to try anyway. No one attempted to warn me against it. In fact, all the flight attendants were smiling at me looking me straight in the eyes; a trend that continued for some time into the flight when I finally  discovered the chocolate coffee/mocha drop that was dead center on my nose from blowing on my drink to cool it off. They weren’t looking in my eyes… they were staring at what a slob I was. 🙂

One of the important lessons we learn in traveling: sometimes things aren’t always what we think they are.

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Wrap-Up:

• Moustache Coffee
• Gallery Hostel is solid
• Rua de Sá de Noronha for dinner
• Avoid Rua das Flores
• Watch the sunset
• Go to the beaches north of the city, not the one to the south. It’s the wrong kind of blowjob.
• Go to Geres. It’s fun! Just don’t rent from the place your hostel or hotel tells you to.
• Just walk. Taxi/Uber will scare you or take almost as long.
• Drop the expectations… just roll with the punches. You’ll be happier for it.

I didn’t know what to expect here, but I didn’t expect this.

Portugal is the only 100% work free country of this trip. I wanted to take some time, and just get away from everything and do some writing. Initially, I thought I might go to Tuscany and rent a little place and then I remembered Love Actually; where the writer went to Portugal to write. I thought that sounded good. The Portuguese would say “Ter macaquinhos na cabeça.” I have monkeys in my head.

Stepping off the plane, there is free WiFi in the airport, and Uber is in full effect in Portugal. It was a welcome change, and I was at my AirBnB place in Lisbon (pronounced Leash Boa) in no time. Unfortunately, I forgot there was a time change and I got to sit on the stairs for a while until my host showed up.

My apartment is near the top of a building, above an old underground night club, and smack in the middle of the action. As I
walked out to get dinner the first night, two guys offered to sell me hash, and I had to Moses my way through the sea of
tourists. August is basically a Holiday month for Europe. Yes, Americans, Europeans get way more paid vacation than you do.

I flew into Lisbon, booking two nights with an AirBnB near downtown, and was happy to find that on top of free WiFi at the
airport, Uber is also alive and well in Portugal. I was at my apartment in no time and for a only a couple Euro. My first night in town was almost enough to send me running for the hills. Over crowded with families of tourists, North Africans trying to pass as locals attempting to sell me drugs in the street, along with the shock of returning to Euro pricing after a week of Hungarian Forints: I was overwhelmed. I am very glad that I stayed, though.

This wasn’t Portugal for me, yet. The language was Brazilian. The stairs were Roman. The tile on the buildings was Moroccan. It seemed a city with an identity crisis, while I was trying to find some unifying theme in a place I had never seen.

The following morning I got up early to investigate a place I had seen a picture of and become enamored with. I am a hopeful romantic at heart, which has led to some questionable decision making on my part. Sometimes it can be a simple photograph, or a cheesy Hollywood movie that is enough to make me want to travel somewhere. Today, a picture of a hole in the ground drove me to go to Sintra.

The Quinta da Regaleira is a huge acreage of land above Sintra which is now my new favorite place on Earth. It is acre after acre of winding paths through overgrown side trails, beautifully-maintained centuries-old castles, towers, caves,
subterranean passages, waterfalls, and more. I was lost for hours just following one route or another like a toddler escaping
the garden for the first time; fearless and ecstatic with wonder, propelled as much by my endless thirst for newness as much as by the lingering feeling that I shouldn’t be having this much fun… that somehow an overseer had forgotten to lock the gate and I was breaking all the rules.

As soon as I arrived, I noticed a castle where the clouds should have been over the city. When I learned you could hike to it as well, eschewing the tour bus, I sprung into action. The hike was purported to be an hour, but I was there in 25 minutes easily, bathed in sweat from the heat more than the climb; it was nearly 100 farenheit. The Castelo dos Mouros was every little boys dream come true. A castle running from mountain top to mountain top, flags, and spiral staircases to the ramparts… tower after tower to explore… no safety railings, no warnings, just adventure at your own risk. It was heaven.

Eventually, as I am no longer a Lost Boy, these things must come to a close. I began the tired, sweaty, and quite satisfied walk back to find a ride down the mountain; climbing up a mountain is fine… climbing down is a chore. In line for the bus, I met a fantastic Canadian family whos daughter is currently in Grad school in Germany and gave me a new avenue to explore for Grad School programs. As we spoke, a tuk-tuk pulled up yelling “€5 for a ride down to the train station!”

Tired of waiting for a bus full of people, I ran off to the near certain death of a downhill mountain tuk-tuk race and found a lovely pair of blonde Americans already in it. Off we went, caroming down the mountain to our doom or a good conversation.

My new friends, Rebecca and Hannah, had just come from Porto and were on their way to Regaleira, so we swapped tips on what to look forward to, and exchanged contact info, promising to meet up later for drinks or the beach, the way that travelers do; well-intentioned but rarely fruitful.

In Lisbon later, I open my windows and shutters, walking around in my boxers letting the breeze blow through the apartment. There is a huge Tango party happening two floors below me and I sit in the window staring out at the city, watching the lives of others through their lit windows. The music gives it all a strange H.S. Thompson or Tarantino feeling. Across the street on the floor above me, I witness the spastic rhythmic flailing of a head and the rise and fall of a hand; uncertain whether I am watching lovemaking or a murder set to music.

Given the heat of the past few days, neither would really surprise me.

Windows open, lights on, I wake up to a whispering city in the small hours of the morning when the only people awake have
reasons to be quiet; be they amorous or sinister. The heat of the day is gone, as is the wine dizzy sleep that caught me unawares. With a last breath of the night air, I get up off the bed to close the shutters, kill the lights, and nestle back into Portuguese dreams in my last night of Lisbon sleep.

Promises of sea water rouse me from my bed an hour after the sun has stopped trying. I’ve a message from the American Blondes from the night before detailing why they couldn’t meet up the night prior, and with promises to meet at the beach later. I’m on the street in minutes sporting a mutilated Tshirt and my american flag shorts; making sure to bring a bit of Texas class to this side of the Atlantic! On the train ride, I remember that Estoril, a city that used to host the MotoGP championship is on the same train line. As we pull into the station, I note that the train is about 30 meters from the ocean across a beach. Acting on impulse, I leave the train and bury myself in salt water for the first time in over a year.

Baptism isn’t the right word, but it’s all I have.

Salt water cures everything; be it sweat, tears, or the sea. An hour of immersion, and I am feeling new again. I realize that the Estoril beach also has free WiFi. I check my phone, and see the American Blondes have messaged that they are at another beach 3 minutes down the line; aptly name Beach of the Queen. Catching the train from Estoril to Cascais, I disembark and see large signs claiming to point the way to the beach. I know the truth… what we seek is never found by following others signs. Praia do Rainha is not far, and not necessarily hidden, but not advertised. Walking in the opposite direction of the signs, I wander down to the water; immediately jumping in and thoroughly enjoyed myself for another hour or so before the girls find me. It’s a good feeling to be recognized in a strange land.

Awash in sea water, strange music, and the ocean of uncovered breasts around us we lose ourselves in our stories of our travels, our homes and loved ones, our ridiculous jobs, and what truly matters to us. Hannah, by her own admission, could hold a conversation with a wall. In an hour of her queries, I tell them enough of my outrageous experiences that the American Blondes name me the Second Most Interesting Man in the World; only bested by the Dos Equis guy because of his beard. 🙂 I’m ok with that. Hopefully, they never see my Iceland beard… that might mean I have to give an acceptance speech or something.

The Sun loves us in it’s furious fashion. As we talk and laugh and run down to jump in the ocean we darken; maple, then brown, and finally red starts to creep in at the edges. The conversation turns to protection from the sun, and I realize that I have a bag to pack, and a train to catch. I spend so much of my life running away. Why can’t I ever just stay put? Tonight, in another city, I will feel the heat of the shower exquisitely on my browned skin and I will remember this moment.

The train to Porto is a simple thing. I don’t plan ahead; all the best stories happen that way. I just walk up like I belong on the train and the ticket counter gives me a First Class ride on their Alfa Pendular… the name being far more evocative that the train at first sight. I’m in First Class as all the coach seats were already sold by the time I made it to the counter; the late tax. This First Class action isn’t something I normally do. The hills of Portugal roll by; farms, hay bales, low slung baobab copies… maybe olive or orange trees?  It reminds me of my first train ride.

I arrived late; having spent an hour lost in the Madrid underground. First Class was all that remained. A strange girl with hair like chocolate asked to join me. We rolled through the Spanish countryside, those Gladiator hills… giggling, drunk on wine and the elation of one another, aware that we were somehow breaking the rules… in disguise here among the adults.

How long ago was that? How many tens of thousands of miles?  How many lifetimes?

This is not that life. I am no longer the fearlessly unfolding Lost Boy fueled by endless imagination. In the beginner’s mind, there are many possibilities… but I am no longer a beginner.  This is not that life, but it’s all I have.

Next stop: Porto

Lisbon wrap up:

• Stay away from the tourist streets. Try Caffe Tati. Try A Venda Lusitana.
• Better yet, get out of Lisbon as quickly as possible.
• Go to Sintra. Spend a day, two days, explore and play and hike.
• Catch the train to Cascais. Stop at any beach you find along the way. FOMO has no place here.
• Go to the stairs south of Alfama and dip your toes in the water and watch the sunset.
• For breakfast, try Ovo Royale at Tartine. You won’t be disappointed.
• Use Uber rather than the taxi mafia.