Tierra de Tortugas

Transatlantic 2011: Salamanca

Our train pulls out of Porto's Campanha station heading south over the Rio Douro and beyond, to Coimbra. This will be our longest travel day so far.  We're on our way to Salamanca, Spain.

 Going all the way to Madrid would have made it a very long day. We've found that limiting our train or bus time to 4 to 6 hours makes the trip more relaxing and gives us plenty of time to enjoy the countryside. It also allows time to find our lodging and a good place for dinner, well before dark. After a quick look at our map, Salamanca was the obvious stopping place. We're glad we spent the money for a Michelin roadmap of Spain and Portugal.

At Coimbra, about halfway back to Lisbon, we change trains. We find our seats aboard the direct line from Lisbon and enjoy a passage through the forested mountains and small villages of Portugal. Throughout the entire country, each village seems to have an old solitary brick chimney, probably part of a former brick yard that supplied the materials to build the village itself. Most homes have a backyard garden. And these hills have long been 'farmed' for trees. We pass pine plantations, with the trees all in long rows. 

We also pass thousands of acres of eucalyptus trees. They've been farmed extensively in the highlands of Peru to reforest the Andes, denuded over centuries of land abuse. Reforestation with eucalyptus, a native of Australia, is controversial in many countries, as it crowds out native species. But it's a remarkable tree that can be harvested without killing its extensive root system, which stays to continue stabilizing the land against erosion. Multiple trees then sprout from the remaining stump to be harvested again in a few years. From our window we see train yards with stacks of pine and eucalyptus logs ready for shipping to lumber mills.

It's challenging to take pictures from a moving train, or bus. So many times I've had the perfect shot lined up when I press the shutter button. But there's a delay in digital cameras to allow for focus, etc. – except for really expensive ones. The shutter clicks as a tree, power pole, overpass abutment, truck, window reflection (choose one), obscures the view. I've tossed out dozens of bad shots along the way. That's life when you're cheap. If I were more savvy, I'd figure out a way to market the throw-outs as 'art.' I'll have to work on that angle.

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From the descriptions, Salamanca sounded like the perfect stop before pressing onward. The descriptions were correct. Our taxi driver drops us off at the end of a stone-paved pedestrianway and points to our hostel. It's a short distance down the alleyway past numerous outdoor cafes. We're back to those magical evenings in Spain, with good food and good wine, at an outside table on a quiet street. 

There's something beguiling about the 'Mediterranean lifestyle' that embraces the afternoon nap, and a late dinner under the stars. The fact is, it's usually just too hot in much of Spain during the summer to relax over dinner before the sun goes down. After a long morning and early afternoon exploring ancient and historic churches and museums, we're usually ready for a short nap. And sometimes, a long one.

There's plenty of opportunity to explore the sights in quiet Salamanca, where the towering stone walls of historic buildings create a sort of urban canyonlands. Throughout the day, we usually find a walkway in the shade, or a well-shaded table for a snack and a cold midday cerveza.

But one of the seminal experiences of Salamanca is to enjoy a relaxing dinner after sunset in the famous Plaza Mayor. The Plaza is enclosed by some of the best Renaissance architecture in Spain. It's a cultural treasure worth savoring along with a good wine. 

 

Shady colonnades line each side of the plaza. There are medallions of famous Spaniards mounted between the arches. One of them commemorates the Dictator Franco. It's made of durable plastic for easy cleaning. The remains of red paint stain the column below, leftovers from a previous protest.

Spain is famous for its "Jamón Iberico," and there are haunches of it hanging in shops and mercados throughout the country. But for us, it's time for some vegetables – a rarity in this land of carnivores. 

We find a table in the Plaza Mayor and order a bottle of the local Ribera del Douro, a bowl of gazpacho, and a paella de verduras. It's a fine night to relax with a good wine and watch the nightly paseo, the timeless ritual of wandering this historic Plaza. Other young people are sitting with groups of friends and fellow students on the ancient stones as the sun blazes its final orange rays against the upper reaches of carved stone parapets. It's 10 o'clock and the sunset still lingers on a long summer's day.

By 10:20 p.m., the sun has gone and the sky finally dims. Suddenly a blaze of floodlights illuminates the historic facades of the entire Plaza Mayor, and a cheer rises from the crowd. It's the same every night as the city enjoys another splendid evening out together.

It's 11:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are? 

If you're a family in Salamanca, your children are probably with you, on your nightly paseo through the Plaza Mayor. The young ones are playing with a small ball, or are fascinated by a street-puppet show. The teenagers are talking to others of their age. Everyone had an afternoon nap, and all is good. The family is spending the evening together in a time-honored tradition, enjoying what is probably Spain's most impressive plaza. 

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There are many things to see in Salamanca. It's a world-class city, hosting traveling exhibitions. We visit the Leonardo daVinci exhibit highlighting his skills as an inventor. Someone has built most of the stuff he dreamed up out of wood, the material he had available at the time. There are flying machines, catapults, rolling musical carts, a wooden bicycle, and even a wooden 'battle tank' or armored car filled with cannons. I can't imagine how it could negotiate rough terrain, but there's a model of it to study. The roof is cutaway, exposing the gears and other mechanisms.

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The Casa de las Conchas is just around the corner from our hostel. It was named for the conch shell emblems attached to the exterior and is now the Public Library. There's a beautiful courtyard inside with a classical colonnade. The corinthian capitals are wonderfully encrusted with acanthus leaves, a decoration that dates back to the Greeks.

 

I had never actually seen an acanthus plant before visiting the Alhambra in Granada, where they grow wild next to walls and walkways. It came as a revelation to me when I first realized what I was seeing. Now, I understand why the leaves were used so often in classical architecture. Just the experience of wandering in Europe can be an education in the Classics. 

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  In 2018, the University of Salamanca will celebrate its 800th anniversary! That makes it about 3 times older than the United States of America. We pause at an entry to study the old columns and stonework leading to cool walkways of cloistered courtyards. Groups of students pass by, talking in various languages. The University is a summer destination for students enrolled in intensive Spanish classes, or a variety of other languages and subjects. There may be no better place for cultural, historical, and language immersion than the streets of Salamanca.  

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A 'don't miss' event is climbing up the Catedral Nueva tower to a high vantage point overlooking the time-encrusted rooftop of the church and the city below. The growth of centuries of lichen has colored the tiles around the flying buttresses. It's a rare way to view one of Spain's colossal old cathedrals and well worth the climb. The walkway continues through a doorway to the inside, with views down into the core of the Catedral, and the adjacent Catedral Vieja. Huge and disconcerting cracks in certain areas – reminders of past earthquakes – add plenty of drama and highlight the 'dynamic' aspects of stone construction. 

   

On the Cathedral's intricate gothic facade, people look for the carved astronaut, added by stone carvers during a recent restoration.

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The nearby Museo de Art Nouveau y Art Deco is housed in the former home of a wealthy art patron whose new home, built in the cast-iron Art Deco style in a prominent spot overlooking the Río Tormes, outraged many Salamanca citizens at the time. Today it's a wonderful curiosity filled with important artworks of the era.

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After 'museuming' for most of the day, a walk by the river is a nice way to ease our way toward an afternoon nap. A low dam pools the water and creates rapids to aerate the river. 

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We pass through a cloistered garden on our walk back to the hostel. A chain of locks bearing messages of love hangs from an arbor. We remember that we saw a bridge with 'love locks' back in Tenerife. Do these young lovers throw away the key and hope they never break up? It's just another of the philosophical mysteries of life. But now it's time for a nap before enjoying another fine dinner in the Plaza or some other of Salamanca's fine sidewalk cafes.

And soon enough, it's time to move onward again. This time we'll be heading to Madrid and all it has to offer. As our train leaves the station I notice the land is flat around Salamanca and maybe it's The Plain we've heard so much about. We can report that, on the day we left, in late June, there was no rain. On the Plain. In Spain.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Porto & the Douro Valley in Portugal

PORTO

Our train sweeps northward from Lisbon through cities, small towns and green countryside. In three hours we're on a very high bridge, crossing the Rio Douro and arrive at the Campanha station in Porto. A short ride on the Metro puts us at the unassuming Atum Guest-House. It's not in a prime neighborhood, but it's clean and comfortable, with kitchen facilities. It's near a Metro Station, and it's a reasonable walk to many interesting areas around town. Pedro, the owner, is very accommodating – he's already sent us numerous emails about upcoming events in Porto and we're barely in the door when he even invites us to a party that's happening in two days time. As we found in Lisbon, the Portuguese are generally a warm and welcoming people without lots of 'attitude.' It's a nice place to be.

 

We spend the next few days exploring Porto. Several blocks away from our hostel is the odd, modernist Casa da Música, designed by Rem Koolhaas and opened in 2005. It looks like a giant metallic 'crystal' dropped into an older decaying neighborhood with little attempt at integrating the two. Maybe it was hoped the investment would generate nearby private efforts, but the overall impression is that the money ran out before the project was properly finished. 

 

It's surrounded by a vast and empty plaza that's well-enjoyed by the city's skate-boarding youth, who go hurtling by the rest of us at high speed. But it's not a welcoming space. And that is a common problem with much Modern Architecture. The end product often looks as if it were intended as a stand-alone sculpture in a park. Something unapproachable and not to be bothered by humans. It might have looked good in a presentation or as a model, but we wonder if the architect ever knelt down and really looked at the first floor, as pedestrians might see it.

The Casa da Música is also not aging well on the exterior, and that calls to mind a common problem faced by much of the world's 'modern' architecture. So much of what began life shiny, gleaming, and full of promise is soon shabby and dull, with rusting screws and rivets drooling brown stains down the surface. There's hardly anything sadder-looking than a Modernist structure that's aging poorly. 

Modernism broke the rules of the past, but there were good reasons for some of the rules. Like proper overhangs, for one, to drip water away from the building so it doesn't discolor the surface. And a certain amount of complexity – anathema to many modernists – can give a structure a bit of charm that off-putting modernism often lacks. 

Mies Van de Rohe's dictum that "Less is more" was quickly adopted by developers as "Less is cheaper!" and the public accepted it as 'progress.' In later life, Mies himself once said (I'm paraphrasing), "Sometimes when I wake up, I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder, 'Where did we go wrong?'"

I'm a fan of good Modern Architecture, but it's a difficult thing to accomplish and important details often seem to be overlooked. Most cities are studded with an abundance of bad examples of the genre. Good advice for architects: if you're not a true master of modernism, it may be best to stick with the classics. Classical architecture is more forgiving.

We step inside to explore the challenging interior spaces and buy two tickets for a recital by three talented young pianists. It's a well attended event in a simple, elegant, recital hall with very good acoustics. Afterward, the piano is caressed by daylight streaming through tall curtains. It begs to be photographed. We emerge into the hallway to find large numbers of suited dignitaries sipping bubbly in an adjacent lobby. We quickly make our exit, as we're not wearing anything appropriately uncomfortable to blend in with that crowd. 

Pedro has invited us to his artist friend Isabel's house for a São João (Saint John) party. São João is the most important holiday of the year in Porto, and we just happened to be there! We'd never even heard of it before. We've been pretty lucky to just stumble into good things during this trip and others. Planning ahead is definitely overrated.  

Pedro tells us the party will go on all night and few places will be open the next day. That's okay. We have tickets tomorrow for the train through wine country up the famous Douro Valley. We don't want to be up all night and hung-over the next day, but we're looking forward to the party. 

As we walk through the streets to the flat we pass people setting up wood-fired grills on sidewalks. It's a São João tradition. At the party, we step into a warren-like back courtyard. In one nook there's a grill with sausages roasting, and in another,  a fireplace where they're roasting 'sardinhas.' This will be a feast of fish, potatoes, sausages, bread, salad, and whatever anyone else brings in the door. 

A female guest arrives in a costume with, …, well…, a knitted 'dong' she has sewn onto the front. It's a very large one. I ask if this is a Portuguese custom, and am assured that it is not. The guest is an artist and, well, you know how they are. She's in her seventies and is still an overtly free spirit. She blends in well with the crowd at this particular party.

Isabel's upstairs apartment is a tasteful, comfortable flat, decorated with excellent art by the owner and her many friends. One of the guys on the outside stairway peers into the dark sky and says, "Oh look. There goes one of the fire balloons."

"The what?" I ask. I see a glowing object drifting high across the sky.

"The fire balloons they light for São João every year." he says. "There goes another one. And another one."

We count about a dozen 'fire balloons,' all drifting southerly at various altitudes. I still have little idea what he's talking about. He assures me there will be fire balloons lighted at this party. Someone always brings them.

A little later, three guys stand on the roof of a small shed and delicately unfold a paper balloon, careful to avoid tearing it. It looks like an orange Chinese paper lantern. The trick is to light a flammable substance that's suspended below the paper balloon. Without lighting the balloon. 

The first balloon is a spectacular flameout, as a breeze wafts the lighter flame into the paper. They release it to float upward and burn out – somewhere else in the neighborhood, I guess. The next one is a success. The flammable substance ignites, the balloon warms, and soon it's released to join the dozens that are already high overhead, drifting southward on the prevailing breeze. I hope it's rained recently and there's no great fire hazard. I can't imagine many US cities where you can release hundreds of floating flaming paper balloons into the night sky, but here it's an annual tradition.

  Except for us and a German guy who works in a European Standards lab in England, all the other guests are Portuguese. Lucky for us, most of them speak some English. A young woman named Antonita tells us that European Portuguese is a very difficult language. They even have to speak slowly for Brazilians to understand them! We don't feel so bad about our linguistic failures.  

We tell another guest we've had trouble finding a place to stay when we get to Madrid, in about a week. He says it's because we'll be there during the largest Gay Pride event in Europe and everything is already booked. We learn that Madrid is the most gay-friendly city on the continent; people will be there from all over in the world!

Oh.

After dinner the entire party heads down to the center of town, where the night's events are getting into full swing. Bands are playing and beer is being sold in large cups. People of all ages are 'bonking' each other on the head with noise-making plastic mallets and stuffing garlic blossoms under noses of the unsuspecting. It's another Sao Joao tradition. I get plenty of garlic stuffed up my nose, and people I don't know keep bonking me on the head with plastic mallets. It's a very weird tradition.

It's a massive crowd scene in the center city and it's difficult to stay in sight of our friends from the party, so Carolyn and I soon 'tack for clean air,' as we sailors call it. It's around midnight when we leave the happy revelers and head back to the flat. Tomorrow we have a train to catch.

The DOURO RIVER VALLEY

  Grapes are the game in the Douro River Valley. Grapes and wine. It's one of the world's premier wine growing regions. 

The train leaves from Porto's beautiful old São Bento station (most European train stations are beautiful) about mid-morning. 

We roll eastward through small towns and past lush backyard gardens filled with ripening vegetables. Porto's huge old Mercado do Bolhão is filled with such produce, but it's rare on menus. Vegetables just aren't a big part of local restaurant fare. We sure miss getting our daily ration of veggies.

 

The hills along the valley are devoted to grapevines, as we pass numerous vineyards and wineries. The industry here dates back hundreds of years, the cultivation of grapes may even date from Roman times. The train stops at various towns along the way. We especially like the looks of a small town named Pinhão. But we've bought tickets to the end of the line, in Pocinho. We want to see what things look like at the remote end of the tracks. And why there's little mention of it in guidebooks. Often we find that guidebooks overlook simple and attractive places that just don't exude that 'touristic vibe.' Sometimes these places are real gems. 

Pocinho is not. It's a nice enough little place in the dry hill country that segues over into Spain. But it looks a bit more industrial than we'd hoped. We hike uphill from the station to a little restaurant and get a snack. We ponder our next move. The train will be leaving in about 45 minutes. We decide to jump back on the train and check out Pinhão instead.

Back aboard, we tell the Conductor we'll get off at Pinhão instead. He tells us the tickets don't allow that. There's no 'hop-on, hop-off' provision. Then he looks away for a brief moment, and decides not to punch our tickets. It's Friday, after a big holiday; there's no large crowd on the train. He winks and says OK.

The beautiful Pinhão station is decorated with large and historic tile murals. We spend the next several hours wandering the quiet streets and riverfront. It was a very good decision. 

It's a hot and lazy afternoon and we're soon enjoying a tasty lunch with a fine bottle of Ogiva, bottled by the inn-owner's family. The best wine country seems to be in dry areas with good water sources nearby. That way the vintners can control exactly how much water the plants receive. Pinhão qualifies, along with most of the Douro Valley.

  Many local families bottle their own wine. We enjoy another glassful as an occasional car or pedestrian passes by outside the window. But it's a sleepy day in the countryside. We're entranced.

We walk down to the waterfront and pass a luxurious-looking place, called the Vintage House Hotel. I'm getting photos when Carolyn says, "Watch out! There's a car behind you!"

I say, "That's no 'car.' That's a classic Jaguar." But if that's the kind of money we'd need to stay at the Vintage House Hotel, there's no need to look at the prices.

Several tourist boats are tied to the dock, replicas of the ones that used to ferry wine and grapes down the river to Porto. We soak our feet in the cooling water and speculate on the possibilities for a swim.

     

One of the tourist-boat guys says it would be better to swim above town. If you know what I mean. Behind him, kids are jumping into the river and having a great time on a hot summer's day. But the afternoon is wearing on and it's time to catch the train back to Porto.

 

    We enjoy our last few days in Porto wandering its colorful back streets and art museums for a few last impressions. The Serralves Museum hosts an exhibit called "Off the Wall." It truly is. There are massive installations to explore, electronic displays, and huge paintings to consider.

    A lady tells us we need to see the McDonald's just around the corner. She says it's probably "the most beautiful McDonald's in Europe." We are skeptical but decide to have a look. They've remodeled an old palace or something and it's certainly a step up from the usual, although I don't intend to survey the others for comparison.

 

As in Lisbon, there are plenty of Smart Cars on the street. The Portuguese are some of the more energy-efficient people in Europe. 

Portuguese architecture has unique qualities. Tilework facades are a common sight, but especially in Porto, the city for which the country itself is named. On townhouses, train stations, churches, and many other public buildings, tilework facades and tile details have long been a popular style and the variety of patterns seems endless. Intricate and curvaceous balconies are seen everywhere. And the rounded classical "Manueline" style, named for a former king, is classically Portuguese.

My friend Peter Pacheco has told me that, according to his grandmother, "Portuguese is the only language in which one can properly address God." It's little wonder that churches in Portugal come in for special attention.

While some areas of the old city are camouflaged by intense graffiti and the lovely old tiled facades cry out for care and restoration, the central area is well preserved and stunningly beautiful. We stroll the streets on our last morning and stop for breakfast at the elegant and famous Café Majestic.

It' a bit sad to see cigarette butts thickly littering the ground and filling nearly every crevice in the old cobblestone streets. Many Europeans are smokers, but the Portuguese seem to be among the most addicted. There's always someone smoking in a doorway, or outside a metro station. As a non-smoker, I've never understood the attraction. And the butts are everywhere. It's not a pretty sight.

 

Portugal has been good to us, and the people were very welcoming. We spend our last day doing laundry and hanging around the guesthouse. 

Our time was well invested exploring the streets of Lisbon and Porto, and the rich wine country of the Douro Valley. I can well imagine we'll return some day. But we have  a long passage ahead of us. We decided not to travel all the way to Madrid in one day, but to stop for a visit to the historic city of Salamanca, Spain. We'll share that great experience with you in our next blog.

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Technical note:  We assume you know that when you are looking at this blog, if you want to see any of the photos larger scale, you can simply "click" on it and it will pop up full scale in another window that won't interrupt your reading.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Into Portugal

FARO

After the big city of Sevilla we head for Portugal, to a small coastal town named Faro. The southern coast of Portugal, the Algarve, is a popular destination for northern Europeans. Since we live on a nice beach in Mexico we don't need to frolic in the surf, but we wanted a break from big-city-life. Faro seemed like a good choice.

Along the way we pass even more olive groves, vineyards, sunflowers, all that wonderful mediterranean stuff. Road signs tick off the kilometers to the border. We cross an impressive bridge over the river and wetlands that divide the two countries, and we're in Portugal.

At our first dinner in Faro we share a long table with two Brits from Devon named Bill and Terry. They're on a golfing trip to sunny southern Portugal, and leaving their grateful wives at home. We're having dinner at Adega Nova, which is known for it's 'homestyle' atmosphere. Everybody sits at long tables, and you can talk to each other or not, as you wish. We take notice of Bill when he's grilling meat on a blistering hot stone. It's a pyrotechnic event with a lot of crackling noise and smoke rising into the air. It's not a subtle dish. 

Soon Terry notices our wine glasses are low, and he fills them from the pitcher he ordered. The pitcher is now empty, so he orders another one and keeps filling our glasses. In the process we get plenty of information regarding the best places around London to find a reasonable hotel when we get there in a month. After several more pitchers of 'vino de casa' we take our leave, thankful we're only a block from the hostal. It was indeed a merry evening.  

 

We're in wine country, which is pretty much anyplace in Portugal, Spain, France, or Italy. And there's lots of good wine to be had. We order the 'vino de casa' – whatever the house wine is – on the theory that it's already been open for awhile and it's had time to breathe off the impurities. They also pour lots of it and it probably hasn't killed too many people yet. Then there's the other theory, an important theory when you're trying to budget your money, that it's usually cheaper. You can order a carafe of the local stuff at many places in Portugal for 6 to 7 Euros, and so far we've had some very good wine, with no hangovers. But we're not really the most discerning drinkers. If it tastes good to us, it's a good wine.

Faro is much like Tarifa, if a bit smaller. It's another nice town where you're not burdened with Things To Do. There are some nice older buildings to explore (Hey, it's Europe. They're everywhere.), and there are plenty of nesting storks to look at, if you need a 'nature fix.' But overall it's a good place to kick back a little and do that relaxing we hoped to find time for. So far, there's plenty of English spoken in the area so we haven't had to deal much with Portuguese. From what little we've heard, the language sounds more than a bit formidable. 

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After a couple of days to recharge, we're on the fast train to Lisbon. We zip along at 200 kph (about 120 mph) and watch the countryside go by, passing through more broad and fertile fields like we've seen in Spain. Yet the landscape appears somewhat greener in Portugal. A mountain range separates the two countries and probably causes a 'rain shadow' effect on the Spanish side, just as coastal California mountains create inland deserts in the southwestern US. The Portuguese side may get most of the rain. 

 

In a couple of hours we cross the very broad Rio Tejo and find ourselves in Lisbon.

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LISBON

My first impression of Lisbon: 'Wow, there sure are lots of people around here who speak Portuguese!' After difficulties dealing with French and Arabic in Morocco, and the comfort of returning to Spain where we could manage the language, we find ourselves back in another very 'foreign' culture. During our two weeks in Portugal, the language will remain mostly a mystery to us. We can read it, somewhat, but cannot decipher the pronunciation, which sounds like a mix of French and Russian. 

It becomes sort of an issue when we emerge from a Metro station onto a very busy street somewhere in Lisbon, and can't figure out which direction to head for the hotel. We also can't ask anybody any questions. Well we can ask, but we can't understand the answer! Even their Spanish has a heavy Portuguese accent. After a while we figure it out, drag our heavy bags about 6 long blocks to the hotel, and things are good. But the language thing will be tough. 

A yoghurt carton at breakfast the next morning gives us another translation challenge. It says the yoghurt "Ajuda a poupar!" It helps you to….what, exactly? Does that mean what I think it means?

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Our first day 'on the street,' we find we're only a few blocks from the Centro de Arte Moderna, with daring kinetic works by Miguel Palma, and an extensive permanent collection of the best Portuguese artists. Across the street is an 'auto dealership' with a few vintage Fiats in the window. It's kind of an artsy neighborhood. 

 

Sharing a large park on the same block is the Museu Calouste Gulbekian, one of the most renowned in Portugal. Like many museums in Latin America and Spain, cameras are permitted as long as you turn off the flash. I wander through the exhibits getting shots of fabulous porcelain pieces, paintings by the world's most famous artists, and the bust of a gentleman who gives me a whimsical smile. I get only an indignant glare from another bust.

The grounds outside are heavily wooded, with sculptural pieces set into wooded glens. There are water features that distract the mind so the feeling is of being far from city life. It's easy to ignore the nearby traffic that somehow sounds so distant.

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 After a long 'museum day,' we're hungry. And we're thirsty. Lisbon is a good place for that. There are lots of restaurants in the nearby neighborhood that serve a variety of fare. And again, the wine is plentiful, cheap, and delicious.

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You can't visit Lisbon without taking Tram 28, the oldest tram in the city, as it winds, rattles and screeches through the oldest neighborhoods. There are skinny spots between stone-walled buildings where you'd best keep heads, hands, and cameras inside the tram. Along the way we pass the distinctive and colorful tile-covered facades of Lisbon. Laundry of every hue, pattern, and shade flutters from ancient and intricate wrought-iron balconies. We see plazas and harbor overlooks that beckon to be explored at a later time. 

We notice a tremendous number of Smart Cars in the Lisbon area. They take up about half the space of a regular car (and probably get twice the mileage), so it's no wonder they're popular in crowded cities. But there are so many more here, we wonder if there's some program in Portugal to subsidize their purchase.  

After struggling its way uphill, the tram goes downhill. Brakes scream as we shudder and shiver to each stop. We find ourselves grateful to whoever invented brakes, however ancient the ones on the tram may be. The juddering of old horsehide on steel wheels is a reminder of how far the technology has advanced. At the end of the ride we find ourselves in some distant part of the city, at the gates of a famous cemetery. A visit to grassy graves seems less interesting than what we passed along the way. We decide to pay another tram fare and hop off at one of the little plazas we passed along the way. We step off at a little plaza, and watch two buffed young guys hitch a free ride, hanging onto the outside. Everybody just shrugs.  

 

The plaza is a good overlook with some decent fast food and a view over red tile roofs to a cruise ship dock, with a SilverSea ship gracing the view. We'll probably never be on one of those exclusive ships (have you seen the prices!?!), but they're nice to look at. 

After lunch, we wander slowly downhill through skinny streets filled with shops, and more colorful laundry hanging in the breeze. You could make a case for balcony-hung, flapping laundry as 'the Portuguese national flag.' We make our way back to the Martim Moniz Metro station for a return trip to the hotel, with time left over for a short nap. We're due later at a little place called "O Mamma Mia," just a few blocks from the hotel, for dinner and jazz.

We'd passed this charming small restaurant the night before and noticed a flyer in the window offering an evening of jazz. We stopped in and put our names on the list. The owner, a jazz lover, had decided to try it once and see how it worked out. The duet he picked, a pianist and a singer, did an excellent job and it was worth the modest cover charge. Fine food and good wine, with good jazz in an intimate cafe setting, the owner was very pleased with the result and plans to try it again.

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On Sunday we catch a different tram along the riverfront to the famous Mosteiro Dos Jeronimos. It's a "Don't miss" in guidebooks, but there was a long line for tickets to enter this huge and fabulous gothic structure. But we were distracted by so many other nearby 'Sunday in the park' activities that we wandered off to see what else was going on.

There was a colorful book fair to explore, and we're suckers for books – even in languages we can't read! There were excellent street artists, trees that looked like Van Gogh designed them, and an old lady in black who would read your palm for a few Euros. She looked like she'd just stepped out of the Middle Ages.

Then there was the adjacent Museu Colecçao Bernardo. We spent much of the afternoon there viewing and photographing works by most of the 20th century's finest artists. I got a little fascinated by the winding stairway with the Calder Mobile hanging over it and lingered for a few more photos.

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 After an afternoon coffee and pastry we walk another kilometer or two toward the 'nearby' Torre de Belém (it didn't look that far on the map!). It's a fantastic gothic confection that functioned as a fort to protect the city from sea-borne invaders. It's full of cannons that probably saw little use. 

Most potential invaders were probably intimidated by the very sight of it, and decided to go elsewhere. Water swirling around the base gave off a menacing sound that encouraged us to pay close attention while crossing the catwalk. A sailing regatta in the broad river provided a nice background for photos, although the sailors of old surely never envisioned anything like fiberglass boats and dacron sails.

We take the tram back to the Cais Do Sodré station in the heart of the waterfront, but it's a hot afternoon and a cold beer sounds like a good idea. We happen to pass "O'Gílín's Irish Pub," and can't resist taking in a bit of its odd ambiance. The Portuguese have actually had a long series of treaties with the British, and the Pub is a Lisbon landmark. The relationship with the Brits goes back several centuries, mostly as a way to keep the Spanish off their backs.

 
But we have to make it a fast beer because we're actually on a long uphill ramble (again!) into the Bairro Alto to find "Sr. Vinho," a 'Fado' club we read about. We struggle upward through narrow streets lined with houses that are a few centuries old. Everywhere we go, the tile details and iron balconies reflect the city's characteristic flair for design. We arrive, exhausted and hungry, and ready to experience the soulful singing of Fado.

It's an art form that recalls the sadness of loss. Loss of a lover, a loved one, a righteous cause, anything will work. Fado, and loss, is a deep part of the Portuguese soul, much like the mournful gypsy-flamenco heritage of Spain. In true Fado tradition, each performer sings three very sad songs – which we don't understand. But we get the overall feeling of it. A bottle of good wine also helps. Afterward, it's too late for the Metro, so we catch a taxi back to the hotel, and get another glimpse of nighttime Lisbon. Do they ever sleep?

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Metros are a wonderful way to get around in a large city. You rocket from one point to another, avoiding all that above ground traffic. It's especially handy when you arrive in a new city, catch the Metro near the train or bus station, or airport, and emerge right near your hotel. The problem is, you don't see or experience much of the life of a city that way. As a remedy, we'll take the Metro to some area we want to explore, and take the bus back. That way we can usually recognize where we need to get off the bus!

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One of the things we miss mostly in Portugal is the abundance of hand-dipped ice cream shops, that are so common in Spain. On a hot evening, after a good dinner, it's hard to beat an ice cream cone as you wander by shop windows, mingling with the crowds. But a cooling ocean breeze seems to moderate temperatures in Lisbon and the evenings are very pleasant. Maybe they just don't feel the need for some 'ice cream relief' the way Spaniards do, living in the hot interior of the Iberian Penninsula.

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Daily life goes on apace in Lisbon although the headline story in the June 25 issue of Lisbon's Diario De Noticias says "Government Advances Privatizations More Quickly and Cuts State Jobs." Pressure from the European Union mandates these cuts to balance the Portuguese budget and reduce their debt burden to 3% by 2014. 

Even so, by early July the Greek crisis will cause the country's bonds to be downgraded to "junk" status, on a par with El Salvador. Moody's provides 'risk numbers' for countries worldwide based on their overall debt burden. "El Pais," the Spanish newspaper carries a graphic showing the numbers assigned to four Euro countries. Greece is in the stratosphere, and after the Greek default, the numbers for Ireland and Portugal spiked strongly upward. Spain's numbers were far lower, but still above the comfort level of their main European partners. This will result in cash flow problems which will likely lead to higher unemployment and social instability, already a problem in all 4 countries. 

There's a lot of construction going on in Lisbon, but these countries all rely heavily on tourism, which has fallen due to the worldwide economic slowdown. The overall effect on the European Union is yet to be seen.

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Interestingly for those of us from New Mexico, and apropos of nothing else in particular, Portugal's Treasurer is named Maria Luís Albuquerque. She's not responsible for the country's current economic policies.

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Alas, there's so much more to see and do in Lisbon, but we have a schedule of sorts. We pack our bags and head to the Gare Do Oriente train station. It's another sweeping modernist structure by Santiago Calatrava, the famous Spanish Architect and I'm glad we arrived early enough to get some photos. Soon we're on another modern, fast, roomy, and very comfortable train through the Portuguese countryside. We're on our way north to Porto and the Douro Valley, the very charming heart of Portugal's wine country.

 

Transatlantic 2011: Back into Spain

In Tarifa Again

 

It's easy to hang out in the old section of Tarifa, to wander the twisting alleyways in search of new shops and restaurants, without being the center of attraction, as we were in Morocco. It's really nice to return to Europe, a place where we can enjoy relative anonymity – and back to Spain where we feel comfortable with the language. There's also not much pressure to visit this or that Important Historic Site. There are only a few minor sites in the whole place. 

After a good wander we return to the Hostal Africa to relax on the rooftop terrace, read a good book, or write the next blog entry (and hope somebody reads it!). Tarifa is a beguiling place to relax, the kind of laid back town where you could get stuck for a while. But after two days it's time to continue our pilgrimage around the Iberian Penninsula. 

 

There are no trains serving Tarifa so we catch a bus to Sevilla. The very modern highway follows the coast for awhile, then passes inland through open pastureland and some massive wind farms. In one area, towering windmills stretch as far as the eye can see. There are at least hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. We also pass a large array of solar panels. 

The USEIA (Energy Information Agency) notes that the average European country uses less than half the energy per capita of the US. The average Spaniard uses slightly less.

Spain, like most other oil-poor countries, realizes the current 'energy fantasyland' can't continue. In this race to the bottom, do the dependent nations use up all the 'cheap' oil before the producing countries drain the wealth out of us? Which comes first? 

 

We pass hillsides of vineyards, river basins of rice paddies, rolling plains of wheat fields, large tracts of smiling sunflowers, and many thousands of acres of olive groves. When you're in southern Spain, you are truly in The Olive Garden.

There are platforms installed atop power poles crossing the countryside, and each contains a large nest with a resident stork family. We stop in towns along the way, and stork nests abound on more power poles and atop abandoned buildings. In Chiclana, women dressed in colorful skirts are standing on strategic corners. Maybe there's a fiesta in town. 

The bus makes a brief stop in Cádiz before heading inland for the final stretch. Next stop: Sevilla.

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SEVILLA

At the Sevilla bus station, we roll our bags outside the front door and catch the new, modern, light rail train to Plaza Nueva. It's late afternoon, and we watch classic old buildings and historic sites pass by the window. At various stops there are free bikes available to borrow, and numerous recycling bins where people drop bottles, plastics, paper, cardboard, organic waste, etc.

In many cases, the recycling falls to collection areas below the sidewalks. The train crosses urban bike trails that are well-marked and well-used. The population looks healthy and fit – overweight people seem to be a rarity in central Sevilla. I already want to take pictures, but I'm too busy holding on to the train. I think we're going to enjoy our stay in 'Green Sevilla.'

We arrive at Plaza Nueva and roll our bags down pedestrian-only streets to the Hostal Nuevo Suizo. It's on a side street, right in the heart of things, so we can walk to just about anything we want to see. We look forward to exploring the rest of the inner city, but it's getting late, we're hungry, and we're low on cash.

We head to an ATM (a 'caixa') for a cash infusion. The screen gives me a choice of 8 different languages. Four of them (Euskara, Galego, Catalá, and Castellano) are native to Spain, and there are three others I don't speak. I stand there for a moment to absorb this information before reaching for my camera – and hope nobody gets suspicious that I'm taking a picture of the ATM. Then I meekly press the button for English.

With pockets recharged we're off in search of a late-night dinner like proper Spaniards – at a sidewalk cafe. In Spain, it's a family affair, parents pushing baby buggies, grandparents hand in hand with toddlers, enjoying the coolness of evening until late into the night. After dinner and and several glasses of good 'vino de casa,' we pass a nearby shop specializing in deserts that look amazingly delicious. We split a chocolate something-or-other that assures we'll return for more. Then it's back to the hostal for a good night's rest. We pass a street musician playing an excellent piece of classical music on a cello. I drop a Euro into his basket and we enjoy the music as it echoes through the narrow streets.

In the morning, a simple breakfast awaits in the lobby. We join the other guests with a cheery, "Buenos días. Bon matin. Guten morgen. Whatever." Now and then we even encounter English-speaking guests. We gather a few bites (plus coffee!) to start the day, and we're off to visit Sevilla.

Any guidebook will tell you the Cathedral in Sevilla is a must-see. It was built when Spain was at the economic and cultural epicenter of the western world, and little expense was spared in its construction. As Spanish galleons returned to the mother country loaded with gold looted from the New World, piracy became a problem. It was felt that the port of Cádiz was too exposed to attack, so Sevilla – located 100 kilometers up the Río Guadalquivir – was designated as the port of entry. The result is visible in Sevilla today. All around us stands the ancient wealth made possible when Columbus returned with fantastical (and scarcely believable) stories of vast new lands across the sea. 

We arrive early at the Cathedral and wander through nearby shops, where we buy tickets for a flamenco show later in the week. A father walks by leading his young white-clad daughters to church. Then we go stand in a long line for tickets to the Cathedral. It's already getting hot and we're glad the line moves quickly.

Soon we're inside the immense, cool caverns of one of the world's largest gothic cathedrals. The soft sounds of muted voices and shuffling feet echo from tons of towering stonework. Light filters down from stained glass windows and refracts through the massive spaces to illuminate the work of thousands of craftspeople. Whether a person is religious or considers it all bunko, there's no denying the architectural and artistic wonder of such a place. 

Just a few regrets: the Giralda tower was closed for repairs while we were there and we did not see the magnificent views of the city from the top. Also, our timing was off to hear a concert played on the very impressive organ. Many years ago we were lucky to be in Paris and attended the regular Sunday afternoon concert at Notre Dame. The incomparable acoustics of a huge gothic cathedral make it an experience not to be missed.

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After the Cathedral, we're in serious need of a late lunch. We stop in a narrow alley at a street cafe for tapas, and relax in the welcome shade as the world walks by. There's a very ornate steeple, bathed in sunlight, that's visible over rooftops down the street. I consult my pocket map and try to determine which church it is. Among dozens of other important sites, the map lists 29 historic churches (and 8 convents!). The steeple lines up with the narrow street where we're sitting, so I figure it must be the bell tower of San Salvador. I ask the waiter and he says, "Oh no, señor. That's San Felipe de Neri."

San Felipe de Neri? That one's not even on our map! How many more ornate churches are around here that would be historic monuments in many other cities, but don't even deserve mention in Sevilla? 

On our way to the old theater where the Flamenco show is held, we pass an enormous modernist structure that dwarfs the surrounding older buildings. We're not sure what it is, or why, but we'll return for another look later.

 The flamenco show is held in a large older theater that could use some attention. But we didn't come for the architecture; we came for the show. And it was a good one. We'd seen two shows in Granada, but thought we should soak up a bit more of this essential Spanish art form in Sevilla. The swirl of colors and passionate sounds evokes Spain as little else is able to.

The dark-eyed Gypsy passion, anguished song, and flying skirts always make for a memorable event. We shared it with a crowd of Japanese tourists who were clearly excited to be there.

    Later, in the waning afternoon, we stop at that 'structure' we passed earlier and discover it's now the meeting ground for Sevilla's recently united, disaffected youth – "Los Indignados." There are signs everywhere about injustice, political crimes, and the austerity measures that are being pushed by the European Union. Posters proclaim solidarity with Greek workers, and denounce "La Merkel," the current leader of Germany. Banners support gender equality. There's a large shanty-structure erected as part of the encampment. The ongoing protests that have been sweeping Europe continue to crop up along our path as the youth realize they'll be paying for the massive fraud perpetrated by bankers and stock swindlers. The swindlers of Europe seem not to have mounted an effective, Tea Party/Fox News-type, propaganda campaign yet. Or at least the youth aren't buying it. 

The structure itself soars high over a street and occupies a plaza, creating an elevated plaza with underground parking and some shops. The effect at this time is somewhat overwhelming and appears to have a deadening effect on its surroundings. It's an impressive engineering accomplishment, but as an urban investment I'm not sure it hit the mark, and it may have been better conceived as a much smaller sculptural piece. 

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 Each day we wander through the cobblestone streets of Sevilla, the same streets where Murillo, Velasquez, and other great artists have walked. Under an archway in the Plaza Nueva there's a plaque stating that Cervantes described this particular corner in Don Quijote. Sevilla was once among the world's wealthiest cities and its patronage of the arts was legendary. This kind of simple plaque will become commonplace before we leave this city where they revere their artists and writers. 

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It's Sunday, a good warm day for a wander toward the river and the Museum of Contemporary Art that our map shows somewhere on the other side. But just a few blocks away from our hotel we happen upon an open air arts fair in a shady square in front of the Museo de Bellas Artes. Banners hanging from the museum announce the opening of a major new exhibit. We are so easily distracted.

And there's more very good art sitting around the square than we would have expected. It's easy to imagine it's the product of centuries of local emphasis on training in the classics. As we wander through the square, we see numerous works that we'd happily have on a wall at home – if we had any more wall space, some money, and some way to cart it back home. I take a few pictures of the square with the gracious entryway of the museum in the background, being careful not to focus on any works in the arts fair. Nobody glares at me. 

Inside the museum, there's a comprehensive exhibit showing the influence of British artists in the early 19th century who flocked to Spain to paint scenes of picturesque local costumes and pastoral country scenes. This theme was later adopted and refined by Spanish artists who recognized the unique character of their own culture, and were slowly leaving the dominating influence of Catholicism behind. 

After the heavy and painful religiosity of the past, humor was now possible. A Spanish man standing next to me helped his young son understand one of the paintings. He pointed to the old friar seated behind the table, slumped in his chair, and explained that he was dozing after a heavy meal. Then he pointed to the young friar whose hand was sneaking over the edge of the table toward the half-empty wine bottle. He asked his son, "What do you think the young friar is doing there?" His son stared at the painting for a moment, and slowly smiled as he realized all art isn't painful. 

In another room, I noticed a painting of a small boy leading a blind man, and I recalled a similar one I'd seen a day earlier in the Cathedral, depicting a guardian angel leading the Christ Child. Both paintings were about the same size, the poses were almost alike, but now the child was leading the way. Do we have a continuing metaphor here?

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We manage to cross the river on another day but we were late getting started and the Contemporary Art Museum is about to close. We explore the grounds instead, enjoy a light lunch, and take notice of an 'artistic expression' in graffiti. 

The afternoon turns into a long wander, through the grounds of the Sevilla Expo 92, which is now a leafy center of office buildings and institutes. We wander along down streets named Calle Johan Gutenberg, and Calle Albert Einstein passing the Three Cultures Center.

The afternoon turns into a very long walk as we head toward one of the daring and sculptural bridges designed by Santiago Calatrava for the Expo. We finally reach a point where we confront a barrier and it appears we may have to turn back the way we came. We are very tired by this point, and maybe a bit grumpy. Lucky for us, some local person had 'modified' the barrier, enabling us to slip through. We breath a sigh of relief, and follow 'local custom.' 

Soon we're crossing the bridge, a sweeping, dynamic structure. Farther up the river stands another Calatrava bridge that resembles ones we've seen in the waterfront redevelopment in Buenos Aires and at a nature preserve in Redding, California. What better way to recognize such talent than with bridges that sweep across the sky? A few more blocks of walking and we're ready for some shade, a cold beer, and the inevitable tray of delicious olives that accompanies every drink, and precedes every meal. Life is good.

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There is so much to see in Sevilla, and so little time. We devote a morning to a tour of the bull ring. This is the one where Bizet set the opera Carmen. This is the famous one where the toreadors marched through the gate. This is the 'mother lode.' Nearby is the old Tobacco Factory where Carmen worked and started all the trouble – to a memorable soundtrack. It didn't work out too well for Carmen or Don José, but in proper tragic opera fashion, that's how things go. Things also didn't work out too well for the composer. Georges Bizet died at the age of 36, three months after the opera opened on March 3, 1875.

There are bullfights in the Sevilla bullring every Sunday afternoon all summer. Except when we're there. The Sunday when we're in Sevilla there's an important 'romeria,' or pilgrimage being held, and the bullfight is always cancelled on that day. This actually comes as a relief and avoids the necessity for us to make a decision whether to participate in this essential, and bloody, Spanish rite. During our tour of the famous bullring, I ask our guide what happens to the bull after the fight. "Off to the restaurant!" she says. The entire 'fight' is simply an entertaining way for the public to enjoy a vicarious visit to the slaughter house, to watch the bull be taunted and abused with much pageantry and flair. As for the bull, he has a very short, and annoying, career in the ring.

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On our map we notice something called Plaza de España. It's a large thing of some sort and it's in a very large park. We decide to take a nice long walk in that direction and enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park. What we find is another astounding structure that merits little mention in guidebooks. It's a huge semi-circular confection of brick and tile, built for the 1929 Exposición Iberoamericano. 

 

We spent considerable time wandering through it and the large adjoining park. Sevilla seems to have so many of these hidden gems they just can't mention them all. This is a city that requires time to explore. 

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On this trip I realize that I've become the person I used to envy – with enough time and resources to enjoy life and travel to the fullest, as long as we stay within budget. 

There's a very humorous aspect to the accommodations we can afford. At least, that way of seeing things makes it easier to accept. Most of them – well, pretty much all of them – resemble scenes from that New York City apartment in "The Honeymooners."

  I have memories of Jackie Gleason listening to various plumbing sounds coming from the upstairs neighbors, and then yelling out the window at them. We don't yell at the neighbors, but that has become a part of our traveling life. It's either that or spend about twice as much for lodging. We'd rather spend more time in-country, and not obsess over the plumbing noises.

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Dusk slowly falls over the city. It's 10:00 p.m., and the sun is just setting (!), still washing the steeples and parapets of Sevilla's classical skyline in a rich bath of liquid gold. Swallows dive through the evening sky filling the air with song, a proper serenade to enjoy a sidewalk table of tapas and a glass of good Spanish vino tinto. A guitarist ambles by and plays "Besame mucho." It's a 'tourist song' that I've grown tired of, and I wish he'd play something more 'sevillano.' He wanders off. Maybe I'll mention it when I see him again. 

After a good dinner, there's always room for good ice cream. Fortunately, there are plenty of ice cream stands in Sevilla. In fact, we've found excellent hand-dipped ice cream in every Spanish city we've visited. It's a wonderful way to enjoy our last evening in magical Sevilla.

In the morning we'll head out again on the next leg of our journey – this time to Portugal.