Porto was my favorite stop in Portugal. It was filled with colorful houses stacked on top of each other along the Duoro Riverfront (all with orange rooves, of course). One side was "the stroll," and the other was devoted to port 
wine. The mornings and evenings were chilly, but the days warmed up into the 60s. We spent our time strolling, feasting our eyes on elaborate painted tiles and pottery, climbing hills and towers, lingering over the most delicious coffees (cafe com leite), exploring gardens, exclaiming over flowers, and deciphering menus to mostly end up with a piece of meat and some boiled potatoes or french fries on our plates.. and PLENTY of it!
The tiles were truly remarkable. Some were geometric pattern with the same pattern repeating over and over to create a facade for a building, and others that were more like murals depicting the history of Portugal or the lessons of the Catholic church. We learned that in 1755
the entire country of Portugal suffered a terrible earthquake and much of the art and architecture was destroyed. I also discovered that port wine can be red or white, and it ages better if classical music is played to the barrels.
Our two most trying moments in Porto involved
transit. The first was getting from the airport to our hotel. We were told that we needed to get the metro to the Casa da Musica station. We purchased our tickets loaded ourselves on and got off at the right place feeling quite capable and successful. Then we surfaced from the underground 
and realized that our hotel was not in sight and we didn't have any more directions. We stood huddled over the map (fruitlessly, I might add) until I got up the courage to try out my Portuguese on a trucker taking a smoke break. I walked over with the address prepared to speak, but when I finally got there I think I just grunted, pointed to the address, and affected a look of befuddlement. H
e got the picture and wrote down a bus number for us. We hopped on the bus and promptly watched our hotel float past. I was unconcerned, figuring it couldn't possibly be the same hotel we were looking for, but Laura took action, stopped the bus (nearly knocking her suitcase, me, and another passenger over in the process), and herded us all off. We backtracked up the hill, on the cobblestone sidewalk, lugging our 
suitcases, on 2 hours of sleep. We were moving slowly. And indeed, it was our hotel.
wine. The mornings and evenings were chilly, but the days warmed up into the 60s. We spent our time strolling, feasting our eyes on elaborate painted tiles and pottery, climbing hills and towers, lingering over the most delicious coffees (cafe com leite), exploring gardens, exclaiming over flowers, and deciphering menus to mostly end up with a piece of meat and some boiled potatoes or french fries on our plates.. and PLENTY of it!
The tiles were truly remarkable. Some were geometric pattern with the same pattern repeating over and over to create a facade for a building, and others that were more like murals depicting the history of Portugal or the lessons of the Catholic church. We learned that in 1755
the entire country of Portugal suffered a terrible earthquake and much of the art and architecture was destroyed. I also discovered that port wine can be red or white, and it ages better if classical music is played to the barrels.Our two most trying moments in Porto involved
transit. The first was getting from the airport to our hotel. We were told that we needed to get the metro to the Casa da Musica station. We purchased our tickets loaded ourselves on and got off at the right place feeling quite capable and successful. Then we surfaced from the underground 
and realized that our hotel was not in sight and we didn't have any more directions. We stood huddled over the map (fruitlessly, I might add) until I got up the courage to try out my Portuguese on a trucker taking a smoke break. I walked over with the address prepared to speak, but when I finally got there I think I just grunted, pointed to the address, and affected a look of befuddlement. H
e got the picture and wrote down a bus number for us. We hopped on the bus and promptly watched our hotel float past. I was unconcerned, figuring it couldn't possibly be the same hotel we were looking for, but Laura took action, stopped the bus (nearly knocking her suitcase, me, and another passenger over in the process), and herded us all off. We backtracked up the hill, on the cobblestone sidewalk, lugging our 
suitcases, on 2 hours of sleep. We were moving slowly. And indeed, it was our hotel.The other was a few days later when we picked up the rental car, backed out of the parking spot into the busy one way street on a hill, located the carpark for our hotel, and then creeped down the ramp and around into the tiniest parking spot you've probably ever seen.
It was all for the sake of team building.
It was all for the sake of team building.
1 comment:
I want to drink that cup of coffee!
Classical music for the barrels, huh? That's hilarious.
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