Twistings in Porto, and twistings in plans

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After finally escaping the fiendish clutches of Lagos -- and our own demented devices -- we landed in Porto, Porgual's second-largest city. It lies in the north of the country, on the Douro River near the Atlantic Ocean. It's an ancient city set on a number of hills overlooking its river. Most famously, the city is home to a number of port wine cellars, notably Sandeman's. Not particularly a fan of port, but Sandeman's is cool because it's logo, which is over 200 years old, is a shady looking character in a cape and large-brimmed hat.

Our intentions on coming north were to hang here for a few days, catch a huge city festival in honor of São João (Saint John) Monday and head to Santiago de Compostela Tuesday. We arrived rather late, probably close to 10 pm, and took the long way (read a half hour walk) from the metro stop to Sky Hostel. Eventually we found it, checked in, and realized we could see the metro stop from the kitchen window. Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you. I've been the victim of worse bear attacks than that one, though.

On the patio, with a bottle of sweet green wine, Jay and I chatted for a while, then fell into a conversation with a Portuguese man named Jeorge. A small thin man, Jeorge is easy-going, interested in people and very lively. He bought us another bottle of wine, then we bought another and all shared it. Partway through the third bottle, the woman who checked us in, Nadia, came down for a smoke and we found out the two of them own Sky Hostel together. They turned out to be kindred spirits because their motto is: the money is not most important; to travel is to live.

While kayaking in Lagos the day before we left, I pulled a muscle in my right forearm, an injury I felt on the train ride. My wrist swelled up and the muscle, when I moved it, creaked. It was an odd feeling inside, and when you put a finger on the muscle you could actually feel the creak. Nadia, who had been a physical therapist, wrapped it in a gauze bandage to immobilize the wrist and let the muscle rest for a few days.

The next day, Saturday, we woke up and Jeorge -- who usually runs on four to five hours of sleep, a surprise considering how energetic he is -- ran into Jay and said, "My friend, you are coming with us." Jay, an Ottawa native named Margherita, and I piled into their Opal sedan and headed about 50 kilometers west to a tiny beach town. We got there at about 2 pm and were greeted by gray skies and a very misty and foggy beach. We sat at a café for an hour and when the fog didn't burn off, they took us to a small restaurant for one of the best meals I've had. We sat for almost two hours, talking and laughing over smoked and grilled Portuguese sausages, salads, potatoes and grilled sardines. These buggers aren't the tiny ones we get packed in tins at home, but a good 10 to 12 inches long. I was skeptical of them at first, but the first fillet I had was amazing. Because Nadia didn't want me to use my right arm, she filleted them for me, while Jeorge teased both of us.

Every time we ran out of wine Jeorge, a completely happy and unabashed person, would loudly tell the table with a toothy grin and a wink, "I'm fucking dry over here!" He teased the young waitress, who has family in Malden, Mass., and she took it in good fun. We were absolutely the loudest and most joyous table in the tiny place.

By 330, we paid, stopped for a few minutes near an ancient family house to stand on the beach, and headed back to Porto. On the way, Nadia stopped at the pharmacy to pick up a spray to put on my arm. Quality people running a quality hostel. They opened Sky Hostel in March and they both said the best part of it is the mix of people from all over the world. A large poster board map of the world had over 100 pins stuck into the homes of travelers. Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, is finally on someone's map somewhere. You're welcome, Huntingdon; you can repay me when I get home. Cash only, please.

We showered and stayed at the hostel until about 730, laying around the hostel reading and checking on the internet for our next stop. We planned to head north back into Spain to a coastal town called Santiago de Compostella, then terminus of an ancient pilgrimage road.

At 730, we went to the grocery store to pick up beer on our way to a large plaza where the city set up a huge TV screen for the Euro Cup. That night was Holland and Russia. Both Jay and I, and two Dutch people staying at our hostel, supported Holland, but they played badly and lost 3-1 in extra time. We watched the game with Margherita, who housed six beers and was outpacing both me and Jay. Back at the hostel, we hung out in the patio and in the kitchen, enjoying more wine and meeting more people. In the kitchen I met my first Estonian, Tuula. Margherita disappeared at about midnight, and at 1, George and Nadia wanted to take us out at show us a bar around the corner from the hostel. We stayed there until the place was ready to close down.

The strange thing about this bar is the bartender didn't take cash. You got a ticket when you walked in, then the barteneder would stamp in when you got a drink. You pay a man when you leave, and the man is supposed to walk out with you and hand the paid ticket to the large bouncer lurking at the door. Our problem was, Jay paid for both of us, but the man taking money at the register lost (or "lost") at ticket. He gave the ominous man one ticket. So he wouldn't let me out. Nadia and Jeorge helpec us out and we escape, afer Jeorge paid my "unpaid" tab.

Sunday we walked the river checking out port cellars, walking a massive hill in the old section of the city and taking a boat tour up the river. Stages were being set up in the plaza where we watched the football game, and along both sides of the river in preperation for São João. Some stages had modern music, some had traditional music and dance.

Sunday was also another soccer game, so after returning in the late afternoon, we grabbed some beer from the grociery store and walked down to the plaza with Liz, a tall Canadian we met in Lagos. Spain and Italy were playing, and there were a lot of Italians in the plaza rooting for their squad. The Portuguese are not very fond of the Spanish (if you don't know Portuguese, they would rather speak English or French with you than Spanish) and also supported Italy.

Italian football is characterized by constantly taking dives at any opportunity to try to draw a penalty, followed by what looks like whining (unless you ask an Italian, in which case it is "Pleading your case"). The Italian team is fairly unpopular in many places in Europe for this reason. The game was a 0-0 draw, but Spain won with penalty kicks, sending them to the finals. The Italians didn't approve.

As we walked back to the hostel, Jay, in a fit of joy near a cathedral, jumped over a shrub, but missed the curb on the other side. He rolled his ankle severely enough to tear a small hole in the side of his shoe close to the laces. He'd had a beer or two for the football match, so he didn't feel it then. We spent the rest of the night in the common room with a group of Aussies and Brits.

The next morning, the day of São João, Jay woke up with a swollen ankle he could barely walk on. Jeorge and Nadia planned a feast of sardines, soup, potatoes, olives and sangria for the early evening at the hostel, then would send everyone out for the festivities. We indulged in that, then gathered with the Aussies and Brits again in the common room for cards. Most everyone went out about 11 to see the party and the fireworks, but I stayed in with Jay until he went to bed at 1, and walked down to the plaza and the river with Margharita and Steph (another Canuck).

At night, the stages had live music, stands sold food, soda and beer, and tens of thousands of Porto citizens, young and old, wielded plastic hammers that squeeked when you hit someone on the head. I don't know where this tradition came from, but they spent all night (and I mean 6 am) banging each other with these things. Of course, I had to buy one and had the best night of childish fun I've had in years.

One instance, at the plaza where we watched football earlier, a man walked up to me and asked me something in Portuguese. I told him in Spanish that I didn't speak Portuguese, so he asked in English what my name was. I said Doug. He turned to a crowd of people behind him and shouted with both hands, one of which was equipped with a hammer, raised in the air, "Doug!" Twenty or so people behind him, and he himself, spent the next 60 seconds bashing me with hammers, all squeeking and chirping at 150 decibels. I tried to fight back, but there were too many. I managed to escape and went to the river for a while.

Jay, because of his ankle, couldn't make the fun. The one thing in Porto he was looking forward to, and he missed it for a sprained ankle. He was in terrible spirits. The injury also meant there was no way we could do a three- to four-day pilgrimage in northern Spain.

So Tuesday with my hammer in hand, we changed our route yet again and decided to get off the Iberian pennisula. We had been here for a month and had more to do. We decided on Nice, France as our next stop, but the train ride would be hellish. Three hours south to Lisbon, then a 10-hour overnight train to Madrid, then a three hour train east to Barcelona. Spend the night in Barcelona, then take an eight-hour ride to Nice. This one's gonna be rough.

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Photos

Sandeman
This suspicious looking fellow is the best logo I've ever seen.

An International Affair
Two Yankees, a Brazilian expatriot living in Portugal and an Estonian. Where else will you get that mix? Nadia, third from the left, owns Sky Hostel.