<![CDATA[

Porto, Portugal

Just a few days ago I bragged about the fact that I do not get hangovers. That was before my liver collided with two Dutchmen at a street cafe selling delicious tapas. It started all innocent with “may we sit down here?” Now for days I have been avoiding conversations that go anything beyond “bon dia” or obbrigado. In fact, since Ron and Blanca left I have not spoken to another human being. Except for myself, and with the hangover I had this morning I did not qualify for being human. We shared tapas, and I drank red wine. In fact, I was on my way to an organ recital as there is an international organ festival happening in Porto, and I love organ music. (I was in one of the churches yesterday where they were busy tuning an organ. Well, I think the angels and Jesus and Mary and all the disciples, rats, mice and bats left the church for the day. I have NEVER heard such a noise!) But back to the Dutchmen – they design shoes under the brand “Wednesday Whiskey”. These shoes are made in Portugal, renowned for their shoe-making (and cheap labour I find out later).

I am not sure if I was catching up on lost conversation (I have been accused of loving the sound of my own voice) or if it was just particularly good conversation (they were really nice guys), but before I knew it I had kuiered myself right through an organ recital. And into my bed, dead to the world. I did notice a group of students outside, singing and looking even worse for wear than me. The next thing, those world famous hangover jackhammers woke me up, accompanied by the taste in the mouth like a sewer rat had nested there six months ago. Of course I smoked two cigarettes for the first time in months, of course of course. No amount of water or disgusting “fruit” juice at breakfast could quench the thirst. My head was pounding so badly that I could not dare put my hat on, it was just too painful. And I had a day of walking ahead of me. And no Myprodol. Pharmacy, medication, feeling sorry for myself, little snooze on the train to Espinho did not help. (Judging by the huge mess outside the hotel this morning, there were a number of students that felt worse than me I am sure this morning. It seems to be that there is a new intake of students at present. I also met them in Coimbra).

Espinho is about half an hour south of Porto by train. It is a really interesting little town, with a beautiful seafront promenade where life happens in an interesting cascade from north to south. In the north there is a huge casino, olympic swimming pool, very fancy Sea Point like apartments. As one goes south (as things do inevitably) it gets more like Strand, then the old part of Muizenberg, until the village spills over into a fishermen’s little hamlet, complete with fishwives and stray dogs, boats that seem to not be seaworthy, old men with self inflicted tattoos and the odd prostitue. (Really odd in that her skin looks like leather, hair peroxide, tight jeans and that “come to mama” look on her face). Toothless men stare, trying to avoid their wives seeing their interest. Wives here are selling the sardines of the day – sandy, dirty, scaly little fish that smell like fish that haven been out of the ocean for too long. There is a buzz, people shouting, dogs barking, and the women selling the fish had long ago given up washing their hands. They are simply wiped on the terralene aprons that seem to be the national dress of working class women in Portugal. I don’t dare to take photographs here, the men just look to scary. Whilst I walk, what looks like a practiced drug deal takes place. The cars are low, the mood lower. Men sit on the sidewalk waiting for – well all I can think of is waiting for God(ot). The houses are minute, huddled together in a very tightly knit community. On the beach a tractor pulls in a sardine net, all the women waddle down across the beach to see what the sea has delivered. Judging by the loud conversation it was a good pull. The tractor almost gets stuck in the sand to the loud protestations of the men. There are no children in sight.

I resist the temptation to go back to my favourite bakery for a pastel nata. (To be honest, the thought of coffee makes me feel green). So I start my walk. It is a chilly, crisp clear morning, and everyone is out on their morning walk. Interesting to see how many people are out exercising – it could have been Sea Point promenade. Even with the odd Bergie who slept out last night trying to thaw in the morning sun. The boardwalk starts at the end of the Espinho promenade and continues for 15 kilometers. Today it feels as if I am walking the big wall of China! I am so ecstatic that the dunes are being preserved in such a sensible way. There are wooden cages built all along the boardwalk to preserve the dunes. I eventually figure out how this works – these cages catch the sand without blocking it, and eventually a solid new dune is formed, with plants and all. The beaches are clean, soft sand, curling waves being blown in the morning breeze. Cyclists and joggers and walkers make use of the boardwalk in a clattering of wood under feet and bicycle tyres. The landscape of building change from village to village, from real seaside resort type houses to again the tiniest of little fishermen cottages, huddled together, built for purpose and not for the enjoyment of the ocean judging by the way they face inland. Dogs are playing on the beach, obviously they have owners who keep them for pets and not for guards. The boardwalk is pristinely maintained. At one point where the sand blew over the slats, a group of men are diligently clearing away the sand. This is an obvious pride int his boardwalk for the locals.

By now my headache is just about gone, and just as well because I really need my hat against the sun. It is a perfect day, soft breeze gently blowing puffs of water off the waves. At Vila Nova de Gaia I stop at one of the many seaside cafes, no longer being able to resist my pastel nata obsession. And it does not disappoint. Paperthin layers of puff pastry holding together the creamiest of baked custard, not stodgy, not runny, just perfect. The other attraction here is the little chapel built out on the beach, right on the rocks. I am constantly amazed at the diligence of the Catholics in building shrines and temples and chapels to their saints. Even though it makes absolutely no sense to me why they would do this, the shere beauty of the architecture cannot be denied. Porto lies in the distance, a haze of smog covering the city. And when I say in the distance, I mean in the distance. Seeing one’s destination is not always a good thing – it somehow just does not seem to be getting closer. Even though I am walking without my backpack, it is a long trek. And even though the boardwalk is soft under foot, it is eating away at my shins, a good excuse to stop for the first beer of the day.

Walking into Porto, a very disconcerting thing happened. The entire city had turned around. What was on the east bank is now on the south and vice versa. The cloister I visited yesterday had literally jumped to the other side of the river. I am totally mesmerized. A miracle. Porto will be the new Fatima where the miracle of the switch happened while I was away. Oh hell. All it means is that my sense of direction really truly sucks. (But Brierly is still a terrible guide!). The walk along the estuary of the Douro is so soothing to the soul, this massive river with her rich history gently flowing to the sea, taking with her all the debris of a restless city that will end up on distant shores. Maybe even Cape Town. And the South of Porto is as fascinating as that of Esphino. Fishermen mending nets, catching fish off the bridge. At a distance I watch one of them sewing his net with such grace and fluency that I am completely trapped, I cannot move. And he does not look up, as focused as I am transported by his skill. A little meditation, right there. And then there is the public washhouse. I have seen these in every little village. Here, about 2km outside of Porto, the village life is taking place undisturbed by the big world ci
ty right next door. I stop and look into the washhouse, to the great amusement of the women scrubbing and beating their heavy carpets drenched in soap against the ********crete surface. Outside, on make-shift washing lines, the clothes like flags of navy ships are blustering in the wind. Just another day in downtown Porto.

By the time I actually get into Porto, 24 kms later, I am beyond exhausted. Maybe not so much from the walk as from all the images and sounds and smells and thoughts and precious moments that filled the day. A beer and a snooze will suffice, as tonight I am not missing the organ recital.

]]>