Even Black Olives Taste Good Here

Porto

Fortunately, my departure to Portugal was less eventful than that of mine to Mallorca. It was perhaps unfortunate, however, that my departure would have to begin at 02:45. Not realizing the hours of the first tube departures in the morning, and thinking only of the cheap airfare, I booked without consideration of the logistics at hand to actually get to the airport for a 6:30 flight to Porto. As it turns out, this may have been fortuitous, as had it been any later, I would have had to count on the tube, rather than having to figure out which bus to take; this would have left me in deep doo doo when the tube strike took effect as of 19:00 the evening before. And as it turns out, the station where I had to catch the bus of choice was the nearest one to my friend Ian's place where I was staying. So despite the horrendously early start time and my confusion about whether my sleep was officially a nap rather than a short night's sleep, I made it to the astoundingly busy Stanstead airport and onto Porto without any difficulty, and even managed to sleep, if briefly, on the 1.5 hour journey to the airport.

Upon arriving in Porto, I noticed that I seemed to have brought along an unexpected traveler, the London weather. Bruno was none too pleased about it, but I blamed it on some of the other passengers like a fart in a crowd. That's not really true - I let him blame me for it, knowing that the sun would come out the next day. This knowledge owing to google weather which is about as reliable as a roll of the die, but I was ready to gamble and did actually win.

After three days of less than four hours sleep on each of the corresponding nights, I was pretty damn tired and ready for a god long nap, but Bruno had already planned lunch with his very welcoming and truly sweet parents who treated me to a Portugese favourite, Baca Lhau, which is salted cod baked in traditional spices. The environementalist in me knows I should not eat cod, but when it comes to foods, I am weak. I had cod and chips in London, so it is not simply that it was a cultural experience in Portugal, although I will always eat what's offered to me, even when it's perhaps not in my best interest. Such as Francesinna which is, I've learned smothered in cheese. Fortunately, I was spared the usual suffering that comes with my consumption of dairy products. I have consumed more cheese than I would like, and may as yet pay the price. Today I ordered something randomly, not speaking Portugese even enough to understand what is in what I'm ordering. It's often a gamble in foreign countries, but I'm more than willing to pay the price. Besides, I haven't had a grilled ham and cheese sandwhich in ages.

I had forgotten what a contemplative and spiritual fellow Bruno is. It's one of the reasons I think we became fast friends. He has a good energy and our conversations are of the sort that it takes most people a long time to break into. It is refreshing having conversations that strike to the quick of the human condition and it is for Bruno a natural progression to move from hello to the wisdom of Taoism, Buddhism, and transcendental psychology. He is not the sort you would peg for an ex-marine and sailor. He is also lively company and loves food as much as I do. I was surprised to discover that Portugal has some of the most deserving sorts of flavours in all of Europe for prices that leave your eyes agog, not for the enormity, but for the slender price tag. The wine I purchased for less than 3€ was very fine indeed, and unlike two-buck (now three-buck) chuck, does not leave you with paines in your extremities for having consumed the night before. Even the black olives, which I dislike, were surprisingly tasty.

In Vino Veritas

My big delight was to sample Port wines here in Porto, from whence they come. I am jumping around a bit, as this is the last thing I have done, but I figure I will stick with the topic rather than the chronology. I came into town from Mindelo, where Bruno lives, to sight see and to sample port. I was delighted to find a tour that was relatively inexpensive, showed the sights of the city and included a tour of a port cellar. The tour was a bit shabby, as the cobblestone streets jostled the vehicle so badly so as to make the interpretive bit unintelligible, but it was a quick way to see some things. I also had a chance to talk with the good-looking tour vendor who told me about the difficulties. I asked her if she would mind talking to me about the history of the city (as she had recently finished her tourism certificate) in return for dinner. She was excited and said she could do so tomorrow because she had plans tonight...doh...I leave in the morning. C'est la Vie.

Anyway, the point of this was that it included a port tour of the Croft cellars, (or caves as they're called here) which makes the only rose port in the world. It was quite nice, but easily drown out by any flavour you might put with it. It is, however, a refreshing and unusual sort of drink that I'd be happy to drink in the shade on a hot summer's eve. Croft was inexpensive, but not particularly memorable. I wandered down the road only a couple of blocks to find the Offley Cave, which was considerably more expensive (10€) which is really still reasonable, when you consider that the tour had only four people in it, including a humourously effusive, but annoyingly so, Englishman who set upon me the evils of immigration to Britain. I'm sure he must have voted for the British National Party - read fascist party of Britain. Despite his proclamations, the tour was great, and I had paid for the top end sampling so I was removed from them to my own table to sample several of Offley's top ports.

I learned a great deal from Sofia, the guide, who instructed me on the proper dessert pairings with each of the ports. There was a white, two rubies (one a Late Bottled Vintage), and two tawnies. All were delicious, and very different from each other. I am no expert in wines of any kind, excepting the little I have learned from my dad, who is an excellent hobby vintner in his own right, but I enjoyed the experience enormously. Perhaps it is the time of year, but their was little rush and I was allowed to take all the time that I wanted to sniff and taste the generous samplings for as long as I wanted to, and the hostesses entertained my questions, inane though they probably were. I would highly recommend the experience and only wish that I had had my father to keep me company, because he above all people I know would have enjoyed the experience and added to the value of mine not just in company but in education.

The company has been excellent as well. Bruno, as I mentioned is always a delight to be around, but so to were his friends Carmina and Ivone who willingly helped me around and kept me company telling me what they knew about Portugese history and culture while we wandered around Villa du Conde after Bruno had left to work. They were also happy to give me some womanly advice, which led into long discussions about the troubles both men and women have in understanding each other, which is to say that even across cultures we have more in common than we may think.

Small Victories and Learnings

I have noticed that the Portugese people tend to be shorter and more squat than most of their European counterparts. This is not to say that their are not beautiful people here. When they are, they are of extraordinary beauty. On the whole I would say, however, that I feel they are adorable more than phsically beautiful in the conventional sense, as say are the people of Bavaria, or Estonia, or Slovenia. They have about them a singular beauty of being though. As I observe them, there is a greater sense of community that I note to be lacking in the life of North Americans to be sure, but also of many Europeans. I was pleasantly surprised to see a great many in Bruno's town converge upon the coffee shop after lunch, and everyone seemed to know one another. There was a great deal of hand shaking and cheek kissing, and a great many conversations from politics to sports, to the weather and economy. Portugal is quite depressed economically, and I do not wish to appear to be romanticising this fact, but there is a certain sense that it has allowed them to seek a more simple and communitarian existence that the more material one in more affluent countries seems to prohibit. It is as if as we collect material wealth we turn our backs upon our fellows like dragons or children protecting our horded goods. In this, Portugal may not have taught me anything I didn' already know, but it has shown me that western society is not beyond redemption in this regard.

The company has been excellent as well. Bruno, as I mentioned is always a delight to be around, but so to were his friends Carmina and Ivone who willingly helped me around and kept me company telling me what they knew about Portugese history and culture while we wandered around Villa du Conde after Bruno had left to work. They were also happy to give me some womanly advice, which led into long discussions about the troubles both men and women have in understanding each other, which is to say that even across cultures we have more in common than we may think.

My small victory was found in the form of a postage stamp. Speaking no Portugese when I arrived has presented me with the obvious difficulties, and speaking some little bits of Spanish is as much a hinderance as a help. I needed a postage stamp for the postcard I will send to my collector friend, Janet, and did not know how to ask for it, what's more, I did not have the postcard with me. Experience has taught me that stamps are strangely very difficult to ask for if you do not know how to ask for them, this is compounded by the need to get the proper postage, which differs not only from country to country but by the size of what you want to send. So I poked around the post office, not even knowing what to call a stamp. I found it with the help of several brochures, then I hit the gold mine - a Portugese to English dictionary. It took me a little time to find things backwards, but I did so well enough and when it came time to ask the fellow behind the counter he understood me perfectly (though he corrected my pronunciation) and I was able to answer his questions without hesitation. He seemed impressed, but he shouldn't be. I may not remember to do so tomorrow, and only ten minutes later, I asked the tour vendor if she spoke English, but I did so in French...That definitely erases part of the awesome.

I think that is the most interesting thing to me about languages. Many of the people ... the woman at the reception of Offley in particular who spoke four languages fluently and was learning German and about to start Russian ... were multilingual, and flip back and forth with ease. For me, as I think with many learners, I know just enough to travel in French, German, and Spanish to a more limited degree. But these all go into a box in my brain labeled miscellaneous: do not arrange sensibly so that when I begin to speak, it is something of a linguistic mad-libs. This improves as I practice and learn more, of course, but I am far from having boxes labeled: for French only for German only for Spanish only It is currently the equivalent of a toybox filled by a child who has been told that they cannot play outside until their room has been cleaned.

Unfortunately Bruno had to work much of the time, such is military life. But I very much enjoyed the trip and it was fantastic to see him. I am off, with an evening left...and hopefully an uneventful one at that, so that I have not end this blog prematurely.

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