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--TRAVEL to and FROM LISBON TO PORTO BY TRAIN--
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Travel Log June 21-23
Aye! Stop two on this crazy adventure! I got into Porto after a slightly uncomfortable train ride- I had a neighbor for most of the trip after being bamboozled. I assumed not that many people would ride since not too many got on board at Santa Apolonia. Then We made a few more stops and then on came my neighbor.
He got off before Porto, so that was nice. I bought the seat beside mine for the ride back to avoid having to sit by some random human. I think that this experience was marred somewhat by that fact the I had such a pleasant train experience the last time- with so few people, I was able to spread out and be comfortable. The train wasn't packed. I guess that goes back to the easy availability of cars and planes tickets state side.
I explored a bit of the city via walking and bus the day I got here. Found some views! Wasn't hard to do either. The city is compact and the central area by the river is lovely. Friday I took an azulejos class and painted some tiles in the traditional Portuguese manner- of course that scratched my creative side just right. I have to get back into ceramics in Florida. Oh that was so fun! I felt so free and lovely creating those little works of art.
After that class, I wandered the city some more, as I do. FOUND MORE TARTE DE NATA YESSS. Also tried the Porto specialty francesinha, which is more or less a steak, bacon and sausage sandwich topped with cheese and this spicy gravy, served with fried and often topped with a fried egg. It was pretty good! The fries are off here, not the super crispy delights like in the US. I don't know how they fix em here but they remind me of a baked fry as opposed to a deep fried fry. The prices are so good at these local cafes! Like 4 euro for a full, filling meal. The service is much different though. You have to summon the server to order and pay. They do not dote over you.
Saturday I went on a guided tour of the Northeast of Portugal. I was the only person on the tour- it was so weird to be with a stranger driving through the backwoods lol. I listen to too many true crime podcasts to have gone on that adventure. The whole thing followed the 'foreigner getting murdered in a different country' playbook: young woman books a plane ticket and makes many plans including a nature trek with a local guide. She is the only one on the tour with an older guide who knows the area really well, since he has been visiting there since his youth. They drive to a couple of spots- a local fishing village, a little restaurant to try a local specialty called vihno verde (which the young lady quite enjoys) and then they venture out to a secluded spot in the woods. The road to that spot is a deeply rutted dirt path, wide enough for only one vehicle. Pitted with potholes, the way clearly plays host to a small waterway when it rains- the dried up stream bed is plain to see. As the SUV bumps along the dusty trail, the civilized world growing more distant with each moment, the girl grows wary of her silent companion. They pull off to the side of the road to a spot the driver calls, 'his parking spot'. He leads them down a very narrow, steep, rough path, hedged with thorn covered plants that scrape her exposed lower leg and arms. She seeks purchase on the shaded, root strewn path and uses the small trees lining the way as handholds. About half way down the path, she encounters a steep area, damp and slightly muddy. Careful as she is, the girl slips! Her guide watches her fall and deftly grabs her hand, preventing a full fledged slide down the hill and into the babbling creek below. The pair make it to the bottom of the path and take in the view.
At this point in the narrative, I have been telling a true tale. The following is a work of fiction.
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The girl takes out her action camera and changes the settings to take a brief video. She knows the splendor of this area will not be captured by this simple man made tool, but she'll try to get a semblance of the sights. Her head bowed in concentration, she doesn't notice her guide deftly slipping up behind her.
He has something shiny, sharp, in his hand. A practiced flick of the wrist moves the deadly tool into position, midway between the ribs and hips. He wants his prey to expire slowly, in pain and helpless to react. That is how he gets his pleasure.
The metallic sheen of the object glints in the partial shade provided by the small trees near the clear, swiftly running creek. The guide is swift as he accomplished his grisly task. The girl only catches a glimpse of the blade before it slices once, twice, three times into her back, rupturing her kidneys and liver and severing her spinal cord. She falls, a surprised look on her face, experiencing too much emotional and physical pain to produce more than a whimper, into the stream.
The water runs swiftly, no longer clear. The fish wonder what that iron like taste is. They marvel at this new type of flesh they nibble on. Sweet, succulent, fatty. They feast with no further questions, grateful for full bellies. The girl is never heard from again and the guide, his savage appetite sated, returns to his unsuspecting family. He checks his AirBnB page. another solo traveler is booked for next weekend.
He silently prays to his deranged god that no one else fills the spots., his eyes and heart filled with dark desire.
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Thanks for entertaining that dark rabbit trail. Here's what really happened!
We made it down the path and enjoyed the view. I did take a brief video, the guide smoked a hand rolled cigarette. Then we left! It was moderately easier going up than coming down the path, I had to crawl through one section (the area where I slipped) because it was really steep and slick. My active sandals weren't meant for this type of action, I guess. not enough tread.
After not getting killed in the woods, we went to a small restaurant in a tiny secluded village with a S TU N N I N G view over the edge of a mountain into a little valley that held a small farmstead on the left and a teeny village on the right. We had a couple of local specialties- a drink made of wine, beer, 7Up, cinnamon and sugar (very odd and quite refreshing!) and this spicy pork dish. The pork was roasted then cut into bite size pieces. After being fried, it was tossed in a spiced oil. Juicy and spicy with a mild sweet heat, just how I like my meat. There was an appetizer of brown corn bread, white crusty bread, smoked ham and a really great goat cheese too.
After that filling meal we went to the top of yet another mountain and looked out over a valley. On our side of the river were a few small towns and on the other side was Spain! Again.... the camera's finite lens cannot capture what I saw but I tried. That was the end of the adventure! We drove on back to Porto and my guide dropped me off at a beach. The water was really too cold so I didn't stay long. Then I headed to a grocery store that was nearby to buy some food (gotta watch this budget more closely) and headed to the house.
I took a bus most of the way to the AirBnB but that was interrupted by this huge street festival, Sao Joao. I ordered an Uber and then proceeded to leave my phone in the car. The driver got it back to me in the morning, though. I just sat here, trying to contact her and Uber to rectify the situation, feeling kind of sorry for myself, honestly! I'm not venturing forth without my phone... it's got my maps downloaded.
Alright. So tonight is when Sao Joao kicks off in proper fashion so I'm signing off. I'll add pics later. Toodles!
He got off before Porto, so that was nice. I bought the seat beside mine for the ride back to avoid having to sit by some random human. I think that this experience was marred somewhat by that fact the I had such a pleasant train experience the last time- with so few people, I was able to spread out and be comfortable. The train wasn't packed. I guess that goes back to the easy availability of cars and planes tickets state side.
I explored a bit of the city via walking and bus the day I got here. Found some views! Wasn't hard to do either. The city is compact and the central area by the river is lovely. Friday I took an azulejos class and painted some tiles in the traditional Portuguese manner- of course that scratched my creative side just right. I have to get back into ceramics in Florida. Oh that was so fun! I felt so free and lovely creating those little works of art.
After that class, I wandered the city some more, as I do. FOUND MORE TARTE DE NATA YESSS. Also tried the Porto specialty francesinha, which is more or less a steak, bacon and sausage sandwich topped with cheese and this spicy gravy, served with fried and often topped with a fried egg. It was pretty good! The fries are off here, not the super crispy delights like in the US. I don't know how they fix em here but they remind me of a baked fry as opposed to a deep fried fry. The prices are so good at these local cafes! Like 4 euro for a full, filling meal. The service is much different though. You have to summon the server to order and pay. They do not dote over you.
Saturday I went on a guided tour of the Northeast of Portugal. I was the only person on the tour- it was so weird to be with a stranger driving through the backwoods lol. I listen to too many true crime podcasts to have gone on that adventure. The whole thing followed the 'foreigner getting murdered in a different country' playbook: young woman books a plane ticket and makes many plans including a nature trek with a local guide. She is the only one on the tour with an older guide who knows the area really well, since he has been visiting there since his youth. They drive to a couple of spots- a local fishing village, a little restaurant to try a local specialty called vihno verde (which the young lady quite enjoys) and then they venture out to a secluded spot in the woods. The road to that spot is a deeply rutted dirt path, wide enough for only one vehicle. Pitted with potholes, the way clearly plays host to a small waterway when it rains- the dried up stream bed is plain to see. As the SUV bumps along the dusty trail, the civilized world growing more distant with each moment, the girl grows wary of her silent companion. They pull off to the side of the road to a spot the driver calls, 'his parking spot'. He leads them down a very narrow, steep, rough path, hedged with thorn covered plants that scrape her exposed lower leg and arms. She seeks purchase on the shaded, root strewn path and uses the small trees lining the way as handholds. About half way down the path, she encounters a steep area, damp and slightly muddy. Careful as she is, the girl slips! Her guide watches her fall and deftly grabs her hand, preventing a full fledged slide down the hill and into the babbling creek below. The pair make it to the bottom of the path and take in the view.
At this point in the narrative, I have been telling a true tale. The following is a work of fiction.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The girl takes out her action camera and changes the settings to take a brief video. She knows the splendor of this area will not be captured by this simple man made tool, but she'll try to get a semblance of the sights. Her head bowed in concentration, she doesn't notice her guide deftly slipping up behind her.
He has something shiny, sharp, in his hand. A practiced flick of the wrist moves the deadly tool into position, midway between the ribs and hips. He wants his prey to expire slowly, in pain and helpless to react. That is how he gets his pleasure.
The metallic sheen of the object glints in the partial shade provided by the small trees near the clear, swiftly running creek. The guide is swift as he accomplished his grisly task. The girl only catches a glimpse of the blade before it slices once, twice, three times into her back, rupturing her kidneys and liver and severing her spinal cord. She falls, a surprised look on her face, experiencing too much emotional and physical pain to produce more than a whimper, into the stream.
The water runs swiftly, no longer clear. The fish wonder what that iron like taste is. They marvel at this new type of flesh they nibble on. Sweet, succulent, fatty. They feast with no further questions, grateful for full bellies. The girl is never heard from again and the guide, his savage appetite sated, returns to his unsuspecting family. He checks his AirBnB page. another solo traveler is booked for next weekend.
He silently prays to his deranged god that no one else fills the spots., his eyes and heart filled with dark desire.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for entertaining that dark rabbit trail. Here's what really happened!
We made it down the path and enjoyed the view. I did take a brief video, the guide smoked a hand rolled cigarette. Then we left! It was moderately easier going up than coming down the path, I had to crawl through one section (the area where I slipped) because it was really steep and slick. My active sandals weren't meant for this type of action, I guess. not enough tread.
After not getting killed in the woods, we went to a small restaurant in a tiny secluded village with a S TU N N I N G view over the edge of a mountain into a little valley that held a small farmstead on the left and a teeny village on the right. We had a couple of local specialties- a drink made of wine, beer, 7Up, cinnamon and sugar (very odd and quite refreshing!) and this spicy pork dish. The pork was roasted then cut into bite size pieces. After being fried, it was tossed in a spiced oil. Juicy and spicy with a mild sweet heat, just how I like my meat. There was an appetizer of brown corn bread, white crusty bread, smoked ham and a really great goat cheese too.
After that filling meal we went to the top of yet another mountain and looked out over a valley. On our side of the river were a few small towns and on the other side was Spain! Again.... the camera's finite lens cannot capture what I saw but I tried. That was the end of the adventure! We drove on back to Porto and my guide dropped me off at a beach. The water was really too cold so I didn't stay long. Then I headed to a grocery store that was nearby to buy some food (gotta watch this budget more closely) and headed to the house.
I took a bus most of the way to the AirBnB but that was interrupted by this huge street festival, Sao Joao. I ordered an Uber and then proceeded to leave my phone in the car. The driver got it back to me in the morning, though. I just sat here, trying to contact her and Uber to rectify the situation, feeling kind of sorry for myself, honestly! I'm not venturing forth without my phone... it's got my maps downloaded.
Alright. So tonight is when Sao Joao kicks off in proper fashion so I'm signing off. I'll add pics later. Toodles!
Travel Log June 24-27-- Grab a snack, this is a long one.
Guhl. (exasperated form of girl). I have had a freaking wild 4 days.
Let us start where all good stories do, the beginning. Sao Joao, the festival in Porto celebrating the birth of St. John commenced on Sunday. In all of my travels I try to celebrate, live and experience things as the locals do- so I went out and partied in the street until well after midnight.
My host, Sofia, kindly invited me to go with her, her boyfriend KeeKay and friends Sara and Nuno. Sara and Nuno are also an item. My initial assumption: great. Fifth wheel status. The whole crew accepted me and made sure to make me feel welcome and included, however.
Sofia and I met Sara down the block from the flat and walked to Tasty District. Along the way, we saw the typical sights and heard the typical sounds of Sao Joao- citizens, young and old, wielding squeaking plastic hammers, ready to bop you on the head, usually softly but some aggressive, pent up people turned a pleasant little *sqwee* into a massive *SQUAAK* whilst malleting strangers. Vendors hawked their wares: the mallets, of course, tiaras, paper lanterns ranging in size from a basketball to a 100 euro fee on RyanAir- I mean a large piece of luggage. The drinks flow freely and the sardines are being grilled whole, guts included, on many a street corner. Sofia says they get soggy and lose their shape if you gut 'em first.
More on the fish predicament later.
I bought my hammer with a little trepidation, not too many people bopped their neighbors at that square. Not to worry, once I bought my weapon of choice and walked about three steps I received a resounding smack on the head by one little angel, then another sweet little child and some maniacal adult... the festivities now began in earnest! For some people, I think part of the fun entails bonking an unsuspecting person on the head and then watching them look around and try to figure out who dun it. After someone finds them out, they typically respond by offering a smile and bowed head to receive a smack in return.
We wandered down the festively decorated streets and made it to Tasty District. Keekay manned the grill, flippin' them fishes onto the plates of eagerly awaiting festival goers. Now, I have a pretty strong anti-waterfood (thanks Loyce) stance but I let my hair down and tasted of the fishy little fish. I mean... trying new things is what life's all about, amirite? And sometimes it works out for you.
This time it did not.
My review won't be scathing by any means, but honestly, those lil suckers probably top the 'Fishiest Fish List'. Nevertheless, I begin to see why people like 'em. Just too strong and vomit inducing for me.
2 out of 10, would not recommend.
Anyhoozle, the night carried on in grand fashion, with live music playing in my vicinity so of course I scooted on over and shook my groove thang to unknown, passionately sung lyrics. The finale, a firework display, played out over the river. I didn't get too close to the river, as that's where the bulk of the other humans crowded and I prefer not to be caught in a crush of people when possible, but I saw most of the show from my perch at Tasty.
So, it's getting to be around 0030 and my lids begin to get flippy (thanks Teacher's Lounge). I said my good byes and headed back to the flat on the metro. As I walked, I witnessed the grand old cathedrals, illuminated by the firefly like lanterns that so abundantly filled in the night sky. It was incredibly beautiful.
No pictures this time, I chose to keep that memory for myself.
The next day in Porto many businesses observed the holiday, so I had a lazy day. I reclined at the flat and eventually made my way out into the living area where the crew caroused. While they drank their breakfast and continued the previous night's gaiety I joined in with the singing and a raucous good time that was enjoyed by all. I sang and joked and, as I do, brought the mood down with very serious talk about assault, the problems with the penal system in American and the ever present racist past of the South.
Understandably, the viewpoints of the Portuguese are different surrounding race and the politics of being white or black since that dynamic doesn't exist in the same way that we experience here in the US. It seemed to me that the racial argument was seen as... I don't know, maybe a cop out? I agree that sometimes the 'race card' is used in egregious ways, however, racially charged history surrounds us today and will for a few generations yet, I bet.
The conversation shifted from fun and fulfilling and light to serious and heavy in turns, satisfying all tastes in the room.
Everyone else went to sleep and I took a nap as well. I woke up later to head out for a walk and find some dinner. I wandered (read: scoped out a couple of places and chose this one ahead of time) to a random restaurant a couple of blocks away and ordered some nosh. The meal progressed uneventfully until... an older Portuguese man approached me and started loudly speaking in his native tongue. I politely smiled and looked over at my waiter, who helped by saying to the man, "She is American". Now at this point, many older Portuguese are done with the conversation because they have limited English.
Well, unfortunately this fella knew enough to carry on a short, unwelcome conversation.
"Ah! America! Where you from?"
(trying to be polite, as most of the time the inquiry is innocent) "Florida"
"Florida! Where from? Miami? Orlando?"
"Jacksonville"
"Oh, Jacksonville. Are you alone?"
(Didn't have a ready deflection.... darn my honesty.....) "....Yes?"
"Will you come home with me? I love blacks, the best woman..."
At this point he proceeds to sing the praises of black women in a slightly indecipherable mix of English and Portuguese. He's getting louder.... I'm saying, "No, no", but he's being insistent.... I look over at the waiter who still happened to be nearby, hoping the "make this stop'' in my eyes would translate.
Thankfully it did.
He said something to the man and showed him out the door, all the time the fella was talking loudly. I have no idea what he was saying but others in the establishment were looking at me at this point. I put my headphones in and proceeded to ignore the stares. I kind of wonder what the guy said, but I think I heard a derivative or 'gorda' which is fat in Spanish... so maybe I don't want to know what he had to say.
After few minutes, the young waiter shyly came over and apologized to me for the behavior of the older man.
"I'm sorry that happened, miss."
"Honestly, I have no idea what just happened...." I wanted to let the kid off the hook and deflect by being coy. Hopefully it helped him not feel too awkward about having to say something to me about the guy.
He walked over to the table behind me and apologized to them for having to see that slice of my life.
This is the only bit of ugliness I've experienced in the country, and I'm grateful for it.
I headed home, feeling a little unsure of myself and hoping the guy had meandered on home. Made it to the flat and slept. Unbeknownst to me, the next day was to be my BEST experience so far in Portugal.
It's Tuesday! I'm pumped to the max because this is the day of my Douro Valley wine country tour. I watched a travel doc about this piece of heaven on earth, the first demarcated wine region in the world and immediately fell in love with the thought of the area.
I woke up early, dressed and got an Uber to the spot we were to meet at (or so I thought... I should have been on the other side of the tower.) So here I am talking to this random family from Marietta, GA (small world, huh?) and they said they will also tour Douro. 5 minutes turns into 10, 15 minutes.... no guide. From behind the tower emerges the GA man's wife who comes is joined by this guy and they tell us 1) we are in different Douro tours and 2) the meeting place is on the other side of the tower. So The GA fam heads over and the guy collects me.
This marks my first sighting of the man that would profoundly direct the course of the next 72 hours of my life.
We got into the van, which already carried Mary, Joe, Celia, Lynn and Dino, just waiting for me. The guide introduces himself as Jose (important note: pronounced /joe-SAYE/ in portuguese.) but he goes by Miguel (Last name? Middle name? IDK.) Apparently the tour company is manned by two Joses so they go by different monikers to prevent confusion.
ANYWAY.
This fella... he starts in on the engaging bit immediately. I sat up front and got the full benefit of riding near my guide. Honestly, initially, I just felt pleased to have a better guide than I did for the NW Portugal tour to Murder Mountain and Killya Creek. The first indication that I'm cradled in the right hands is Jose's candor and sense of humor. He starts in by loosening the group up and telling us about Amarente, an ancient Roman village with a very old church and bridge, a street filled with the most quaint little shops and, randomly, a one Michelin star rated restaurant. Apparently the patron saint of the village, Gonzalo, inspired the local women who would allegedly pray to the saint in a very intimate way- reaching under the robe of his effigy and grabbing the gonads of the statue to get luck in finding a good man. The people also celebrate the tradition by making and selling loads of 'dick breads' (thank you Jose) and pastries. "Some are big, some are small, usually they are hard..." says our guide, clearly understanding the implications of his words as he glances over at me, eyes twinkling and that ready smile lingering.
I'm endeared to this fellow already. Love happy, facetious people.
I think this was also the first time he proffered the suggestion that maybe I need a Portuguese man.
...ok. i hear ya...
We had 45 minutes to explore, I got a little breakfast and walked down the old, steep stairway to see the view from under the bridge. After the allotted time we piled back into the van, Jose visibly clearly a bit harried that were were behind schedule (thanks Brandi). We drove down the highway, through apparently the longest tunnel in Portugal which spans 5 km and goes through a mountain (Don't think about the trillions of tons of rocks falling. Don't think about a landslide entombing you and the rest of the cars and people FOREVER.....) and found a winding road that took us deep into the Douro Valley.
As usual, and exceedingly so, the views were just to die for.
This whole drive our guide is talking, checking in on the group with a side long, "Tell me if you need air or windows down". He would intermittently volunteer information about his marital status ('free') and his family (an eleven year old daughter) and asking me about how I like Porto ("I think I like Lisbon better" "You need to stay with me for a month here. I will show you" oh, okurrr). We drive, he talks and tells me things and asks me things.....
I love attention. I can certainly live without it and enjoy my own company, but man, I keep discovering that I like to be doted on, and this felt like doting. My top love languages are quality time and words of affirmation so..... this was hitting me just right *shrug*. It is what it is.
Anyhow. The winery we visited was Qunita de Tedo. Very nice, very cute- we got there just in time start the tour thanks to harrowing speeds and maneuvering expertly executed by the constantly-talking-with-his-hands-and-scaring-the-other-passengers Jose, who careened the Mercedes van within an inch of ours lives on the narrow, scarcely enough room for two cars to pass by unless they kiss, no guard rail having mountain roads we navigated.
This part of the adventure was fine, I found out some interesting notes about tasting the wines ("Tawnys are old and nutty, rubies are young and fruity," intimated the tour guide-- which I could totally taste with the samples. I like a 10 year old tawny, by the way) and how the 10 year, 20 year, etc label is attached to the port. Apparently there are tasting notes that must be matched to achieve a certain year mark. The average of the wines in the bottle are not considered, simply the notes that make up the drink. A bottle can average out to be 26 actual years old, but if it reaches the specific flavor profile of a 30 year old port than it can be labelled as a 30 year bottle. The vintages, on the other hand, like a 1965 tawny, are actually that age and can cost thousands of dollars for a single bottle. The guide advised that buying a bottle and trying to save it to make a killing later would not be too profitable, as a true wine connoisseur would look into the minutia of how you stored the bottles in order to access the quality of your offering. A no name seller who kept the hooch in a sock drawer for 50 years would not be taken seriously.
We next ventured to the hamlet of Tabuaco for lunch. I broke out of my comfort zone again and tried the bacalhau, or salt cod. This place soaked the fish enough to assure that it wasn't salty and overbearing, then they fried it in fish and chips style. It was ok, to my taste the meat was pretty mild. It was served with smattering of red peppers, onions and mushrooms in a sauce that I didn't think a fried dish should have sat in for the sake of the crust... overall palatable. I ate about half of it. There is a famous bacalhau house in Lisbon that I am considering visiting to get another taste of this Portuguese staple.
Next up was maybe the highlight of the day. I DROVE A BOAT. A video of the event will follow in which you will see my buddy old pal. Oh my gosh the cruise could not have been better. Only one hour but it was just perfect.
So many of my recent experiences break the point of long enough without cresting past tedious. The inundation of the adventures, like the frigid waves on that beach in Matosinhos, seize me, thrill me and let me go just in time to breathe.
While the others took advantage of our cruise for boat driving, drinking wine and unwinding, I enjoyed a little more one on one time with Jose. We talked about how planning can be futile since anything can happen at any moment, but moving without direction is just as dangerous and presents only an illusion of freedom, about retiring to a country estate and building something with your time and money, about how I look 27, about how he's a good 43, about the beauty of the weeping willow on the shore and how reclining under it would be a good idea. A healthy dose of diametrically opposed ideas were brought to the table, refuted, debated and cast aside like so many wine corks.
Ok. Lemme breathe. Can we see yet how I became endeared? Before me existed someone who is quick witted, knows four languages fluently (be. still. my. heart.), throws around wickedly funny prose and gives me pause with their thoughts... not to mention the deep olive skin, clear green eyes, laugh lines, well coiffed, grey streaked, luxuriously curly hair and close cropped bread... Perhaps most importantly, however, I remember now that I like meeting people, given a situation conducive for conversation.
The experience concluded with a drive through a different part of the mountains to an absolutely drop dead gorgeous miradouro. Can't describe it properly. Too many elements would escape my fleeting, rapidly fading memory. We all took pictures and relaxed in each other's company. At this point, I'd say the disparate portions of our party coalesced into a little mass of humanity, joined by a love of travel and beauty. I shared my heart with the people around me, as I do, since light conversation tends to bore me. Making impressions is one of my strong suits and the group requested my Instagram, which I gave freely.
The drive back allowed me another moment to soak up the presence of this interesting individual that I am glad to have met. Music was played, I sang to the mountains and to Jose in tandem the Aerosmith classic, "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing", interests aligned and once again I found myself thoroughly enjoying the presence of another human. The day gifted me with eleven of the longest in a good way, shortest in a bad way hours of my life. Maybe, as proposed by Jose, we will meet in another lifetime.
There's the beauty of the tale. Here's the beast.
Big sigh.... I tend to fixate. It can get really severe. I wander into the land of 'what if' and 'but why' and stay there longer than any human should, especially when I do not feel like I have resolution. This was one of those 'we need a resolution' (thanks Aaliyah) situations. So the day after this tour I am due back in Lisbon. I took the train to take in the countryside which slightly disappointed me after those insane views in the northern part of the country. Any how, I was just stuck in my own head for a few hours and all I could think about was.... was that 'chemistry' (callback to a lil convo....) I experienced with Jose? Or am I tripping? I can't stand the 'not knowing' feeling when it comes to.... literally anything. I just sit with the unknowing and tend to get really upset because of the lack of control that is inherent in to that place. So here I am, really concerned about whether or not I have left the city of one whom could be the great love of my life.... based on an exceptional tour in a most beautiful portion of the world.
[REAL TALK SIDE BAR--- Ya'll need to get over to Portugal, if only to experience the Douro Valley. Get thee a driving tour and thank me later. Your life will be changed.]
So, I'm trying to figure out how to get in contact with this being. I just have to know if I'm tripping..... but Jose doesn't use FB or Insta (good choice, really...) and I do not feel comfortable with contacting through AirBnB since his partner handles that portion of the business. What's a fatally flawed woman to do?
Pout. Nearly breakdown in tears. Ponder. Wonder. Wish. Google. Consider. Muse. RAGE. Mope. Try searching Tinder and then remember that it's geographically based and wail mentally. Things got quite melancholy.
I couldn't find it in me to do too much after realizing I couldn't satisfactorily fix my situation. I didn't really lose any time since I had planned to be lazy in Lisbon between Porto and Sao Miguel, which is a part of the Azores Islands (look it up and book a ticket), and the next stop on this crazy 35 day adventure. I just lost some peace of mind, confidence and nerve for a few hours.
Best believe I found them bitches, though. No man will steal my sense of self. I have been tried and worked and struggled and almost died to discover how much I love me; I refuse to give it up. Especially for a man.
The crazy part is I forgot to critically analyze the situation. Once I did, I concluded the following: I need contact cards so people can do what they will with my info and I can move on in peace. There is literally a print shop across the street from me here in Ponta Delgada. I will draft some contact cards and let them speak for me. It's that simple.
I considered asserting, "Hey, when someone has a job that is to make people feel special and welcome they do it," but I have seen otherwise too many times, and the interactions were too.... I don't know. Real? Genuine? Soul crushingly intoxicating? Also, pieces of convo that I will hold close to my heart lead me to believe that this is a mostly genuine fellow.
I could surmise, "I need to stop getting caught up," but can I be honest? (Yasss, queen) (Thaaanks, queen) I kind of like the inner turmoil. It doesn't involve anyone else unless I choose to involve others and it feels good to FEEL. I crave the joy, pain, sorrow and exultant bliss that comes with being human. I like to contemplate it. Roll around in it and get messy with my thoughts. I hate anti depressants/anxiety meds because they kill a lot of these sensations, but as it stands I need them to think in a straight line and stave off the anxiety which most often leads to deep wells of immobilizing, potentially suicidal depression. I especially need meds during the school year when little lives depend on my leadership-- I gotta be able to think straight and not spiral, fixate and freeze. (thanks Zoloft).
On Thursday I listened to sad music to help me plow through the despair of losing this brief friend. I deeply, genuinely, sorrowfully mourned, as I do so often do to process and find closure. I packed up my bags that evening and early on Friday I got on a plane headed to Ponta Delgada, where I wrote most of this manuscript.
I briefly thought I fell in love in along the Douro river with a green eyed, swarthy, salt and pepper haired Portuguese man whom possesses an intoxicating sense of humor, command of language and ability to make me feel and think. In reality, I found a soul that mine meshed with in a beautiful, if fleeting way.
The Lord is kind to give me these brushes with his creation that stir my spirit. I'm grateful.
Let us start where all good stories do, the beginning. Sao Joao, the festival in Porto celebrating the birth of St. John commenced on Sunday. In all of my travels I try to celebrate, live and experience things as the locals do- so I went out and partied in the street until well after midnight.
My host, Sofia, kindly invited me to go with her, her boyfriend KeeKay and friends Sara and Nuno. Sara and Nuno are also an item. My initial assumption: great. Fifth wheel status. The whole crew accepted me and made sure to make me feel welcome and included, however.
Sofia and I met Sara down the block from the flat and walked to Tasty District. Along the way, we saw the typical sights and heard the typical sounds of Sao Joao- citizens, young and old, wielding squeaking plastic hammers, ready to bop you on the head, usually softly but some aggressive, pent up people turned a pleasant little *sqwee* into a massive *SQUAAK* whilst malleting strangers. Vendors hawked their wares: the mallets, of course, tiaras, paper lanterns ranging in size from a basketball to a 100 euro fee on RyanAir- I mean a large piece of luggage. The drinks flow freely and the sardines are being grilled whole, guts included, on many a street corner. Sofia says they get soggy and lose their shape if you gut 'em first.
More on the fish predicament later.
I bought my hammer with a little trepidation, not too many people bopped their neighbors at that square. Not to worry, once I bought my weapon of choice and walked about three steps I received a resounding smack on the head by one little angel, then another sweet little child and some maniacal adult... the festivities now began in earnest! For some people, I think part of the fun entails bonking an unsuspecting person on the head and then watching them look around and try to figure out who dun it. After someone finds them out, they typically respond by offering a smile and bowed head to receive a smack in return.
We wandered down the festively decorated streets and made it to Tasty District. Keekay manned the grill, flippin' them fishes onto the plates of eagerly awaiting festival goers. Now, I have a pretty strong anti-waterfood (thanks Loyce) stance but I let my hair down and tasted of the fishy little fish. I mean... trying new things is what life's all about, amirite? And sometimes it works out for you.
This time it did not.
My review won't be scathing by any means, but honestly, those lil suckers probably top the 'Fishiest Fish List'. Nevertheless, I begin to see why people like 'em. Just too strong and vomit inducing for me.
2 out of 10, would not recommend.
Anyhoozle, the night carried on in grand fashion, with live music playing in my vicinity so of course I scooted on over and shook my groove thang to unknown, passionately sung lyrics. The finale, a firework display, played out over the river. I didn't get too close to the river, as that's where the bulk of the other humans crowded and I prefer not to be caught in a crush of people when possible, but I saw most of the show from my perch at Tasty.
So, it's getting to be around 0030 and my lids begin to get flippy (thanks Teacher's Lounge). I said my good byes and headed back to the flat on the metro. As I walked, I witnessed the grand old cathedrals, illuminated by the firefly like lanterns that so abundantly filled in the night sky. It was incredibly beautiful.
No pictures this time, I chose to keep that memory for myself.
The next day in Porto many businesses observed the holiday, so I had a lazy day. I reclined at the flat and eventually made my way out into the living area where the crew caroused. While they drank their breakfast and continued the previous night's gaiety I joined in with the singing and a raucous good time that was enjoyed by all. I sang and joked and, as I do, brought the mood down with very serious talk about assault, the problems with the penal system in American and the ever present racist past of the South.
Understandably, the viewpoints of the Portuguese are different surrounding race and the politics of being white or black since that dynamic doesn't exist in the same way that we experience here in the US. It seemed to me that the racial argument was seen as... I don't know, maybe a cop out? I agree that sometimes the 'race card' is used in egregious ways, however, racially charged history surrounds us today and will for a few generations yet, I bet.
The conversation shifted from fun and fulfilling and light to serious and heavy in turns, satisfying all tastes in the room.
Everyone else went to sleep and I took a nap as well. I woke up later to head out for a walk and find some dinner. I wandered (read: scoped out a couple of places and chose this one ahead of time) to a random restaurant a couple of blocks away and ordered some nosh. The meal progressed uneventfully until... an older Portuguese man approached me and started loudly speaking in his native tongue. I politely smiled and looked over at my waiter, who helped by saying to the man, "She is American". Now at this point, many older Portuguese are done with the conversation because they have limited English.
Well, unfortunately this fella knew enough to carry on a short, unwelcome conversation.
"Ah! America! Where you from?"
(trying to be polite, as most of the time the inquiry is innocent) "Florida"
"Florida! Where from? Miami? Orlando?"
"Jacksonville"
"Oh, Jacksonville. Are you alone?"
(Didn't have a ready deflection.... darn my honesty.....) "....Yes?"
"Will you come home with me? I love blacks, the best woman..."
At this point he proceeds to sing the praises of black women in a slightly indecipherable mix of English and Portuguese. He's getting louder.... I'm saying, "No, no", but he's being insistent.... I look over at the waiter who still happened to be nearby, hoping the "make this stop'' in my eyes would translate.
Thankfully it did.
He said something to the man and showed him out the door, all the time the fella was talking loudly. I have no idea what he was saying but others in the establishment were looking at me at this point. I put my headphones in and proceeded to ignore the stares. I kind of wonder what the guy said, but I think I heard a derivative or 'gorda' which is fat in Spanish... so maybe I don't want to know what he had to say.
After few minutes, the young waiter shyly came over and apologized to me for the behavior of the older man.
"I'm sorry that happened, miss."
"Honestly, I have no idea what just happened...." I wanted to let the kid off the hook and deflect by being coy. Hopefully it helped him not feel too awkward about having to say something to me about the guy.
He walked over to the table behind me and apologized to them for having to see that slice of my life.
This is the only bit of ugliness I've experienced in the country, and I'm grateful for it.
I headed home, feeling a little unsure of myself and hoping the guy had meandered on home. Made it to the flat and slept. Unbeknownst to me, the next day was to be my BEST experience so far in Portugal.
It's Tuesday! I'm pumped to the max because this is the day of my Douro Valley wine country tour. I watched a travel doc about this piece of heaven on earth, the first demarcated wine region in the world and immediately fell in love with the thought of the area.
I woke up early, dressed and got an Uber to the spot we were to meet at (or so I thought... I should have been on the other side of the tower.) So here I am talking to this random family from Marietta, GA (small world, huh?) and they said they will also tour Douro. 5 minutes turns into 10, 15 minutes.... no guide. From behind the tower emerges the GA man's wife who comes is joined by this guy and they tell us 1) we are in different Douro tours and 2) the meeting place is on the other side of the tower. So The GA fam heads over and the guy collects me.
This marks my first sighting of the man that would profoundly direct the course of the next 72 hours of my life.
We got into the van, which already carried Mary, Joe, Celia, Lynn and Dino, just waiting for me. The guide introduces himself as Jose (important note: pronounced /joe-SAYE/ in portuguese.) but he goes by Miguel (Last name? Middle name? IDK.) Apparently the tour company is manned by two Joses so they go by different monikers to prevent confusion.
ANYWAY.
This fella... he starts in on the engaging bit immediately. I sat up front and got the full benefit of riding near my guide. Honestly, initially, I just felt pleased to have a better guide than I did for the NW Portugal tour to Murder Mountain and Killya Creek. The first indication that I'm cradled in the right hands is Jose's candor and sense of humor. He starts in by loosening the group up and telling us about Amarente, an ancient Roman village with a very old church and bridge, a street filled with the most quaint little shops and, randomly, a one Michelin star rated restaurant. Apparently the patron saint of the village, Gonzalo, inspired the local women who would allegedly pray to the saint in a very intimate way- reaching under the robe of his effigy and grabbing the gonads of the statue to get luck in finding a good man. The people also celebrate the tradition by making and selling loads of 'dick breads' (thank you Jose) and pastries. "Some are big, some are small, usually they are hard..." says our guide, clearly understanding the implications of his words as he glances over at me, eyes twinkling and that ready smile lingering.
I'm endeared to this fellow already. Love happy, facetious people.
I think this was also the first time he proffered the suggestion that maybe I need a Portuguese man.
...ok. i hear ya...
We had 45 minutes to explore, I got a little breakfast and walked down the old, steep stairway to see the view from under the bridge. After the allotted time we piled back into the van, Jose visibly clearly a bit harried that were were behind schedule (thanks Brandi). We drove down the highway, through apparently the longest tunnel in Portugal which spans 5 km and goes through a mountain (Don't think about the trillions of tons of rocks falling. Don't think about a landslide entombing you and the rest of the cars and people FOREVER.....) and found a winding road that took us deep into the Douro Valley.
As usual, and exceedingly so, the views were just to die for.
This whole drive our guide is talking, checking in on the group with a side long, "Tell me if you need air or windows down". He would intermittently volunteer information about his marital status ('free') and his family (an eleven year old daughter) and asking me about how I like Porto ("I think I like Lisbon better" "You need to stay with me for a month here. I will show you" oh, okurrr). We drive, he talks and tells me things and asks me things.....
I love attention. I can certainly live without it and enjoy my own company, but man, I keep discovering that I like to be doted on, and this felt like doting. My top love languages are quality time and words of affirmation so..... this was hitting me just right *shrug*. It is what it is.
Anyhow. The winery we visited was Qunita de Tedo. Very nice, very cute- we got there just in time start the tour thanks to harrowing speeds and maneuvering expertly executed by the constantly-talking-with-his-hands-and-scaring-the-other-passengers Jose, who careened the Mercedes van within an inch of ours lives on the narrow, scarcely enough room for two cars to pass by unless they kiss, no guard rail having mountain roads we navigated.
This part of the adventure was fine, I found out some interesting notes about tasting the wines ("Tawnys are old and nutty, rubies are young and fruity," intimated the tour guide-- which I could totally taste with the samples. I like a 10 year old tawny, by the way) and how the 10 year, 20 year, etc label is attached to the port. Apparently there are tasting notes that must be matched to achieve a certain year mark. The average of the wines in the bottle are not considered, simply the notes that make up the drink. A bottle can average out to be 26 actual years old, but if it reaches the specific flavor profile of a 30 year old port than it can be labelled as a 30 year bottle. The vintages, on the other hand, like a 1965 tawny, are actually that age and can cost thousands of dollars for a single bottle. The guide advised that buying a bottle and trying to save it to make a killing later would not be too profitable, as a true wine connoisseur would look into the minutia of how you stored the bottles in order to access the quality of your offering. A no name seller who kept the hooch in a sock drawer for 50 years would not be taken seriously.
We next ventured to the hamlet of Tabuaco for lunch. I broke out of my comfort zone again and tried the bacalhau, or salt cod. This place soaked the fish enough to assure that it wasn't salty and overbearing, then they fried it in fish and chips style. It was ok, to my taste the meat was pretty mild. It was served with smattering of red peppers, onions and mushrooms in a sauce that I didn't think a fried dish should have sat in for the sake of the crust... overall palatable. I ate about half of it. There is a famous bacalhau house in Lisbon that I am considering visiting to get another taste of this Portuguese staple.
Next up was maybe the highlight of the day. I DROVE A BOAT. A video of the event will follow in which you will see my buddy old pal. Oh my gosh the cruise could not have been better. Only one hour but it was just perfect.
So many of my recent experiences break the point of long enough without cresting past tedious. The inundation of the adventures, like the frigid waves on that beach in Matosinhos, seize me, thrill me and let me go just in time to breathe.
While the others took advantage of our cruise for boat driving, drinking wine and unwinding, I enjoyed a little more one on one time with Jose. We talked about how planning can be futile since anything can happen at any moment, but moving without direction is just as dangerous and presents only an illusion of freedom, about retiring to a country estate and building something with your time and money, about how I look 27, about how he's a good 43, about the beauty of the weeping willow on the shore and how reclining under it would be a good idea. A healthy dose of diametrically opposed ideas were brought to the table, refuted, debated and cast aside like so many wine corks.
Ok. Lemme breathe. Can we see yet how I became endeared? Before me existed someone who is quick witted, knows four languages fluently (be. still. my. heart.), throws around wickedly funny prose and gives me pause with their thoughts... not to mention the deep olive skin, clear green eyes, laugh lines, well coiffed, grey streaked, luxuriously curly hair and close cropped bread... Perhaps most importantly, however, I remember now that I like meeting people, given a situation conducive for conversation.
The experience concluded with a drive through a different part of the mountains to an absolutely drop dead gorgeous miradouro. Can't describe it properly. Too many elements would escape my fleeting, rapidly fading memory. We all took pictures and relaxed in each other's company. At this point, I'd say the disparate portions of our party coalesced into a little mass of humanity, joined by a love of travel and beauty. I shared my heart with the people around me, as I do, since light conversation tends to bore me. Making impressions is one of my strong suits and the group requested my Instagram, which I gave freely.
The drive back allowed me another moment to soak up the presence of this interesting individual that I am glad to have met. Music was played, I sang to the mountains and to Jose in tandem the Aerosmith classic, "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing", interests aligned and once again I found myself thoroughly enjoying the presence of another human. The day gifted me with eleven of the longest in a good way, shortest in a bad way hours of my life. Maybe, as proposed by Jose, we will meet in another lifetime.
There's the beauty of the tale. Here's the beast.
Big sigh.... I tend to fixate. It can get really severe. I wander into the land of 'what if' and 'but why' and stay there longer than any human should, especially when I do not feel like I have resolution. This was one of those 'we need a resolution' (thanks Aaliyah) situations. So the day after this tour I am due back in Lisbon. I took the train to take in the countryside which slightly disappointed me after those insane views in the northern part of the country. Any how, I was just stuck in my own head for a few hours and all I could think about was.... was that 'chemistry' (callback to a lil convo....) I experienced with Jose? Or am I tripping? I can't stand the 'not knowing' feeling when it comes to.... literally anything. I just sit with the unknowing and tend to get really upset because of the lack of control that is inherent in to that place. So here I am, really concerned about whether or not I have left the city of one whom could be the great love of my life.... based on an exceptional tour in a most beautiful portion of the world.
[REAL TALK SIDE BAR--- Ya'll need to get over to Portugal, if only to experience the Douro Valley. Get thee a driving tour and thank me later. Your life will be changed.]
So, I'm trying to figure out how to get in contact with this being. I just have to know if I'm tripping..... but Jose doesn't use FB or Insta (good choice, really...) and I do not feel comfortable with contacting through AirBnB since his partner handles that portion of the business. What's a fatally flawed woman to do?
Pout. Nearly breakdown in tears. Ponder. Wonder. Wish. Google. Consider. Muse. RAGE. Mope. Try searching Tinder and then remember that it's geographically based and wail mentally. Things got quite melancholy.
I couldn't find it in me to do too much after realizing I couldn't satisfactorily fix my situation. I didn't really lose any time since I had planned to be lazy in Lisbon between Porto and Sao Miguel, which is a part of the Azores Islands (look it up and book a ticket), and the next stop on this crazy 35 day adventure. I just lost some peace of mind, confidence and nerve for a few hours.
Best believe I found them bitches, though. No man will steal my sense of self. I have been tried and worked and struggled and almost died to discover how much I love me; I refuse to give it up. Especially for a man.
The crazy part is I forgot to critically analyze the situation. Once I did, I concluded the following: I need contact cards so people can do what they will with my info and I can move on in peace. There is literally a print shop across the street from me here in Ponta Delgada. I will draft some contact cards and let them speak for me. It's that simple.
I considered asserting, "Hey, when someone has a job that is to make people feel special and welcome they do it," but I have seen otherwise too many times, and the interactions were too.... I don't know. Real? Genuine? Soul crushingly intoxicating? Also, pieces of convo that I will hold close to my heart lead me to believe that this is a mostly genuine fellow.
I could surmise, "I need to stop getting caught up," but can I be honest? (Yasss, queen) (Thaaanks, queen) I kind of like the inner turmoil. It doesn't involve anyone else unless I choose to involve others and it feels good to FEEL. I crave the joy, pain, sorrow and exultant bliss that comes with being human. I like to contemplate it. Roll around in it and get messy with my thoughts. I hate anti depressants/anxiety meds because they kill a lot of these sensations, but as it stands I need them to think in a straight line and stave off the anxiety which most often leads to deep wells of immobilizing, potentially suicidal depression. I especially need meds during the school year when little lives depend on my leadership-- I gotta be able to think straight and not spiral, fixate and freeze. (thanks Zoloft).
On Thursday I listened to sad music to help me plow through the despair of losing this brief friend. I deeply, genuinely, sorrowfully mourned, as I do so often do to process and find closure. I packed up my bags that evening and early on Friday I got on a plane headed to Ponta Delgada, where I wrote most of this manuscript.
I briefly thought I fell in love in along the Douro river with a green eyed, swarthy, salt and pepper haired Portuguese man whom possesses an intoxicating sense of humor, command of language and ability to make me feel and think. In reality, I found a soul that mine meshed with in a beautiful, if fleeting way.
The Lord is kind to give me these brushes with his creation that stir my spirit. I'm grateful.
If you wanna see Jose, skip to the I drove a boat video, ya filthy animals!
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