Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Shitfaced
What was I thinking? Last night with dinner I drank a bottle of wine and finished off the night with three martinis. I was absolutely hammered. This morning I got up at 11:00, too late for the hotel breakfast (of slices of ham and cheese with bread), and felt awful. The smell of car exhaust and cigarette smoke, already my two least favourite flavours of air, made me sick. I had reached Porto a day early to fit in more sightseeing, but I can't say today was terribly productive.
Mmm... pig stomach.
That'll teach me to consult my Portuguese phrasebook before ordering dinner. "Buchos," I learned after it arrived at my table, is pig stomach.
The Portuguese love meat (as pretty much all Europeans seem to). Pork features a lot on the menu. And just about everything is served with deep-fried potatoes. You won't go broke in Portugal as a cardiothoracic surgeon.
In Monsanto I had a nice steak of black pig, and in Coimbra I had a delicious goat boiled in red wine called chanfana. A full dose (portion) of anything on the dinner menu typically serves two, so unless you're very hungry a half portion will usually do. Breakfast is almost always slices of ham and cheese with bread, which gets a bit boring, but apparently the Portuguese don't go in much for breakfast.
The Portuguese love meat (as pretty much all Europeans seem to). Pork features a lot on the menu. And just about everything is served with deep-fried potatoes. You won't go broke in Portugal as a cardiothoracic surgeon.
In Monsanto I had a nice steak of black pig, and in Coimbra I had a delicious goat boiled in red wine called chanfana. A full dose (portion) of anything on the dinner menu typically serves two, so unless you're very hungry a half portion will usually do. Breakfast is almost always slices of ham and cheese with bread, which gets a bit boring, but apparently the Portuguese don't go in much for breakfast.
Bloody Italians
American tourists have a reputation for being loud, but they are not the worst. That dubious honour goes to throngs of Italian tourists, always in large and vocal groups, yelling at each other like they're all on the other end of a mobile phone.
The quietest? Japanese. I watched one tour group led by a woman speaking seemingly to herself, followed by a silent train of tourists with wireless receivers stuck in their ears.
The quietest? Japanese. I watched one tour group led by a woman speaking seemingly to herself, followed by a silent train of tourists with wireless receivers stuck in their ears.
Another good idea which the RTA will never have
In Portugal, they don't use speed cameras to generate revenue. They use them to trigger stop lights. They're called velocidade controladas, "speed controllers." People might not obey speed limits, but they obey red lights.
Another method is sheep. I was stopped on the road to Monsanto by a shepherd moving his flock between paddocks. The road was shoulder-to-shoulder with sheep. The ebb of the flock flowing around the car, surrounding it like water, was very peaceful. I bleated at them like an idiot out the window.
Then I got back to speeding.
Another method is sheep. I was stopped on the road to Monsanto by a shepherd moving his flock between paddocks. The road was shoulder-to-shoulder with sheep. The ebb of the flock flowing around the car, surrounding it like water, was very peaceful. I bleated at them like an idiot out the window.
Then I got back to speeding.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Coimbra
Coimbra’s Sé Velha—the old cathedral (the “new,” 17th-century one is further up the hill)—is considered a masterpiece of Romanesque architecture in Portugal. It is a stunning example, largely unaltered since it’s construction, with a double-arched clerestory over each tall, single-arched arcade. The narrow window slits and crenellated 12th-century walls are reminders of the hostile relations with the Moors.
Inside, I overheard a young boy looking up at the elaborate Renaissance retable of Christ on the cross ask his parents, “why was Jesus crucified?” I pulled him aside and said, “because he was stupid.” Let’s face it: when Pontius Pilate asked him, “Are you the Son of God?” he only needed to whisper, “Nah, not really. Don’t tell anybody,” and voilà! He would have lived to a ripe old age and history would have been spared centuries of Catholic guilt. You know all these lunatics who swear, “I’m Jesus Christ”? He’s the one who got away with it. The joke’s on you, Christianity.
But it is still a nice cathedral.
Inside, I overheard a young boy looking up at the elaborate Renaissance retable of Christ on the cross ask his parents, “why was Jesus crucified?” I pulled him aside and said, “because he was stupid.” Let’s face it: when Pontius Pilate asked him, “Are you the Son of God?” he only needed to whisper, “Nah, not really. Don’t tell anybody,” and voilà! He would have lived to a ripe old age and history would have been spared centuries of Catholic guilt. You know all these lunatics who swear, “I’m Jesus Christ”? He’s the one who got away with it. The joke’s on you, Christianity.
But it is still a nice cathedral.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Lisbon
The Ponte de Vasco da Gama, one of two bridges spanning the Rio Tejo, is an inspiring entry to Lisbon. A stunning thin white 17km-long line over blue water, it is a spectacular and beautiful piece of modern engineering. The other bridge, the Ponte de 25 de Abril, is a dead ringer for San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge (it was built in 1966 by the same company).
Lisbon is a fantastic place—a laid back, tranquil, completely unpretentious world-class city where local residents mix unselfconsciously with tourists. Trams race improbably up steep cobbled hills and down narrow twisting streets with inches of clearance between the buildings. If the buildings are are not pastel blue, pink or orange, they are covered in hand-painted azulejos (tiles), many very old, and the laundry hanging out the windows testifies to the city’s realism. It is not a tourist pantomime. People live on the streets, grocery shopping, smoking on the corner, meeting friends in the plaça, eating at the corner cervezeria, and at night the streets are full, much like Seville. There is also a very big African influence in Lisbon, stemming from the influx of refugees from the abandoned Portuguese colonies after the 1974 Revolution of the Carnations.
After returning the car and catching the bus from the airport into the centre, the first thing I was offered in Lisbon was hash. Peddlers carry it on the street. I lost count of how many times I was approached by a hash peddler that first day alone—five? And when you say no, they ask, “marijuana? Cocaine?” And they all are persistent, as if I might change my mind and say, “Actually, you know what? I do feel like some cocaine.” One time a guy approached me and there were two police officers three metres away. Unbelievable! It’s annoying, but not dangerous. Lisbon is reasonably safe. These people want to sell you drugs, not mug you, and there are police on the beat.
I was tempted to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in 97 Minutes at the Teatro Municipal de São Luís. It’s supposed to be very funny. The title was in Portuguese, though, making me wonder if it is translated, which would be very strange. Many Portuguese do speak English, though, a legacy of the 600-year old friendship with England. Also being performed was Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, worth seeing just for the brilliant title.
As I write this, I’m supposed to be out shooting things, but instead I have been seized by Lisbon’s chilled out sunny Sunday vibe and am emptying mojitos to funky Motown on the terrace of the Noobai Café overlooking the Rio Tejo.
Lisbon is a fantastic place—a laid back, tranquil, completely unpretentious world-class city where local residents mix unselfconsciously with tourists. Trams race improbably up steep cobbled hills and down narrow twisting streets with inches of clearance between the buildings. If the buildings are are not pastel blue, pink or orange, they are covered in hand-painted azulejos (tiles), many very old, and the laundry hanging out the windows testifies to the city’s realism. It is not a tourist pantomime. People live on the streets, grocery shopping, smoking on the corner, meeting friends in the plaça, eating at the corner cervezeria, and at night the streets are full, much like Seville. There is also a very big African influence in Lisbon, stemming from the influx of refugees from the abandoned Portuguese colonies after the 1974 Revolution of the Carnations.
After returning the car and catching the bus from the airport into the centre, the first thing I was offered in Lisbon was hash. Peddlers carry it on the street. I lost count of how many times I was approached by a hash peddler that first day alone—five? And when you say no, they ask, “marijuana? Cocaine?” And they all are persistent, as if I might change my mind and say, “Actually, you know what? I do feel like some cocaine.” One time a guy approached me and there were two police officers three metres away. Unbelievable! It’s annoying, but not dangerous. Lisbon is reasonably safe. These people want to sell you drugs, not mug you, and there are police on the beat.
I was tempted to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in 97 Minutes at the Teatro Municipal de São Luís. It’s supposed to be very funny. The title was in Portuguese, though, making me wonder if it is translated, which would be very strange. Many Portuguese do speak English, though, a legacy of the 600-year old friendship with England. Also being performed was Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, worth seeing just for the brilliant title.
As I write this, I’m supposed to be out shooting things, but instead I have been seized by Lisbon’s chilled out sunny Sunday vibe and am emptying mojitos to funky Motown on the terrace of the Noobai Café overlooking the Rio Tejo.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Driving
For those interested (I am not one of them), the two vehicles I rented so far were a Volkswagen Golf 5-door sedan in Spain (really nice car), and a Fiat Dobló in Portugal. The Fiat was a 5-door minivan with a huge decal of a golf bag over the rear and side windows – very strange for a rental car. I was a bit annoyed since it was like a giant advertisement, and I don’t even like golf. I would rather have had a sedan than this poxy minivan, but I requested a diesel if one was available, which this was. And Fiat notwithstanding, I actually loved it. The extra height was nice, almost like a truck, and the diesel was brilliant over the hilly and winding roads through the national park from Faro to Mértola (a great road for motorcyclists, of which there were many). It was fun to practise driving a diesel for the first time in many years on those roads.
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