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October 1, 2016
Undeterred by what every person I asked in the town of Tavira (men in the tourism office and bus station, two reception staffers at my hostel) told me about it being “a LONG walk—two kilometers!” to get there, I hopped on a bus (15 minutes) and then walked the rest of the way (Less than 15 minutes—.66 miles according to my fitness tracker. Seriously, have any of them ever even tried this? Or walking a little more than 20 minutes, which is about what it should take to walk TWO WHOLE KILOMETERS?) to the lovely whitewashed village of Cacela Velha in Portugal’s southern Algarve region.
So, while I know I owe you any number of blog posts, at least there was a payoff to this little excursion—for both you and me. Not a bad way to spent the first part of my last full day in Portugal.
Oh, did I mention there was a beach, too? Right at the edge of the village?
September 26, 2016
Graffiti. Portugal is full of it. But while the travel websites and guide books don’t seem to distinguish graffiti (i.e., tagging or just scrawled words) from street art, I do.
Portugal is full of street art as well as graffiti. And the city of Porto in particular has an abundance of the former.
Below is a sampling. Enjoy!
I arrived at my hostel in the town of Leiria at 11:15 on a Friday night to find that the ground floor doubles as a clearly popular bar. “Reception” and the bar are one and the same, which left me competing with some drink-ordering young folk—not to mention waiting for two gin and tonics to be made—in order to check in. Once that was done and he’d shown me around (including the amazing rooftop view above), the bartender/hostel guy (who looks like he is straight outta Williamsburg, by the by—skinny jeans and all) showed me to my room and handed me my key. And a pair of earplugs.
Hey, you can’t say they didn’t warn you, right?
September 22, 2016
September 17, 2016
Spent a lovely afternoon and evening in the charming city of Porto (Don’t tell Lisbon, but I think I like it better.), taking waaaay too many photos. So in the interest of actually sleeping tonight, I chose ones from the latter portion of the evening, which are also, I think, the most dramatic.
OK, it’s only really “also known as” the Eiffel Bridge by me, who can’t help wondering why it wasn’t named that—you know, like the tower. Though I suppose everything the guy built couldn’t be named after him. He’s not Donald Trump, after all.
Anyway . . . point being, since I have been unable to remember which Luis’s bridge it is (V has been my default guess. So I was off by four. Or, I guess, IV.), I began thinking of it as the Eiffel Bridge. And this is my blog. So there you go.
Vila Nova de Gaia is, incidentally, where all the port is aged and stored, each in its respective vineyard’s port “cave”—which I thought was a word chosen by the port-wine-tourism conspiracy to lure us tourists in with something more exotic, mysterious and earthy-sounding than “cellar,” but turns out (Duh, Mia. Aren’t you glad you googled before posting?) to be Portuguese for, you guessed it, wine cellar.
Anyway . . . point being, this is where the port-wine industry pays its membership dues to the port-wine-tourism conspiracy. Which is to say you can visit the caves (which are emphatically not caves) for tours and tastings. Which I, as a lover of wine and victim of conspiracies, of course plan to do. Tomorrow. Before I get on an early-evening bus bound for my next destination. Should be interesting.
September 15, 2016
I spent the better part of the afternoon today exploring the somewhat surreal, somewhat magical grounds of the Quinta da Regaleiro mansion and gardens in Sintra, Portugal, the brainchild of Italian opera-set designer Luigi Manini, who appears to have been hired to bring his fantasy to life, no expense spared, no idea too over-the-top. The guy had clearly read a lot of fairy tales as a child. And then graduated to Knights of the Templar adventures. (Apparently the main house is full of Knights of the Templar symbols for those in the know. Which I am not. Sorry.)
Here you will find many a fountain and grotto, as well as several underground tunnels—not all of which are shown on the tourist map, including the one from which the Labyrinthine Grotto above gets its name. It somehow hadn’t occurred to me to wonder about the origin of this lovely grotto’s name—any more than it occurred to me to wonder who Leda was when I went to Leda’s Cave.
So perhaps it is fitting that, since I never bothered wondering, I found out the answer purely by accident, and not without a bit of luck. Which I needed, because a few minutes after I’d wandered into a dark cave tunnel armed with nothing but my camera to “light” the way, it was looking like I’d have to turn around, as it was so dark I didn’t even know if what was in front of me was more tunnel or I was about to walk head-on into a dead-end wall. But then rescue came in the form of an Aussie mom-and-daughter pair wielding a phone flashlight, which enabled us to continue walking—somewhat precariously at times, as the further we went, the wetter it got (which should have been our hint right there)—and find out where the tunnel ended, i.e., at the grotto at which I’d taken the above photo about fifteen minutes earlier.
So, yeah. The whole place is pretty crazy. But also pretty. But also, yeah, kind of a nutty dream movie-set of a place.
Unfortunately, it was also a pain in the ass that it rained most of the time I was there, and when it got heavy I had to sit on a carved stone bench under a carved stone overhang for an hour and wait it out. (I know. First World problems.) The silver lining, however (Hey, how many times does one get to use that in the context of actual rain?), was that when the rain lightened up enough for me brave leaving (with my sun hat turned rain hat and my linen shirt damp and useless against the cold), I again passed Waterfall Lake, which had been my first stop at the Quinta three hours earlier, when it had been so full of pain-in-the-ass tourists (I know. How dare they?) that it was impossible to get a photo without them marring it. With the rain falling, it was now blissfully empty. So, Mother Nature taketh away, but she also giveth, and the above photo is proof. Obrigado, mãe.
Below is the mansion, in which, presumably, the man who let Luigi Manini’s imagination run wild—Brazilian coffee magnate António Carvalho Monteiro, aka Monteiro dos Milhões (Moneybags Monteiro. Of course.)—and his family lived.
Lastly, I give you the view from the top of the admittedly pretty incredible “Initiation Well” (before the rain got heavy enough to scare away the majority of us tourists, unfortunately).
For all these sights, but especially the latter, the interweb’s photos are far superior to mine. So I suggest giving it a google if you want a better idea.
Tchau! (Yes, that is really how it’s spelled in Portuguese. Obrigado yet again, interwebz.)
September 13, 2016
Spent most of my second day in Lisbon wandering the winding streets of Alfama, which resulted in my getting lost, both figuratively and literally, among its narrow streets and old-world homes and charm.
As the city’s historically Jewish and Muslim neighborhood, that Alfama has retained all three is not a coincidence. It is at least partially due to the fact that after the massive 1755 earthquake devastated the city, chief minister and master rebuilder Marquês de Pombal—while apparently holding quite tolerant views for the day, such as “You can’t kill that person just because he’s a Jew.”—chose not to implement his new formal (and “earthquake-proof”) grid style here.*
Alfama is full of little lanes and alleyways, steep hills and (when you’re lucky) stone stairs to help you scale them. And there are places within the district where you can stand and all you hear are the birds and the voices, laughter and music coming from the residents’ homes (or the streets, where they do much of their socializing and sometimes even their cooking, apparently). It was truly amazing to be in the middle of a city unable to hear any traffic sounds.*
At one point I turned onto a street so narrow that one man was sitting in his doorway chatting with his friend “across the street” as if he were across a dinner table. (Actually, I’m fairly sure my family dinner table growing up was wider than this street.) Which led to the highlight of my afternoon: petting the homeowner’s big, happy, lumbering mutt of a dog named Di (“Because it’s Di everything,” said his weathered owner. “Di Rosa, Di Silva . . . De Nero,” he grinned winningly at me, flashing his charmingly awful teeth.), who almost immediately got up, leaned heavily into my legs, then proceeded to heave his massive girth (He was almost as wide as the street. No exaggeration.) onto the cobblestones, rolling over to gleefully demand his belly-rub. As was his right.
*Shout-out to my Lisbon Chill-Out Free Tour guide, Pedro, who taught me everything I know about Lisbon (which, granted, still isn’t much, but it’s a hell of a lot more than it was yesterday).
September 13, 2016
These are a few shots from my second day in Lisbon, which started with a 3.5-hour walking tour* and ended (with wine tasting . . . yay!) after I’d walked about 5 more hours.
*Shout out to Lisbon Chill-Out Free Tour and my excellent guide, Pedro, for all the interesting history and great present-day tips.
September 11, 2016
Oh, yes, my friends. Believe your eyes. Photos of the day are BACK. I’m in Lisbon (via Paris, as you can see in this photo) and finally decided to bite the bullet.
Why re-start my blog (or at least this part of it) now and not, despite having either contemplated or planned on doing so on one of the other trips (read: vacations) I’ve taken since returning to New York from my Southeast Asian travels more than six years ago, you ask?
Oh, hell, I don’t know.
Don’t ask me questions I can’t even answer myself, please. Just sit back and enjoy the return of some brand-spankin’-new miandering photos! (Or at least, I hope you will . . . )