A Invicta Cidade do Porto

While I was struggling with Spanish, made harder by the fact that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, we went to Portugal. Catalan feels like a dialect of Spanish, but I'm told it branched out of Latin, independent of Spanish. In writing, Catalan looks similar to French, but the pronunciation sounds slightly more Italian. Not that it ever really mattered. Everyone I met spoke Spanish. If you grew up in Catalunya, you learned Spanish in school. Older people were even forbidden to learn Catalan when they were younger. And a lot of people in Barcelona speak English. Except at Tim Hortons, for some reason. No one who works there spoke English. Fortunately, I know how to say, “Diez timbits para llevar, por favor.” What flavors? That is why pointing was invented. Even if everyone in the donut shop speaks the same language, you point at what you want. Except at Krispy Kreme. Then you only have to tell them how many boxes of glazed donuts you want.

Portuguese is a horse of a different color (un caballo de un color diferente, probably something diferente em portugues). In writing, it looks similar to Spanish, but nothing sounds the same. Read something aloud in Portugal the way you would read it in Spain and the person you are speaking to will have no idea what you are talking about. Let them read the paper and they will understand it completely. It reminded me of Chinese, except that Portuguese and Spanish are entirely different languages while Chinese and Chinese are region specific.

We spent a week in Portugal, in the small coastal city of Porto. By Portuguese standards, Porto is considered a large city. It has about as many people as Richmond, Virginia, so I consider it a small city. When you live in China, anything with fewer than 5 million people is a small city. Under 500,000 is a tiny village. Porto is one of those little European villages that likes to think it is an old city. As an American, I'm supposed to be impressed by how old it is. Porto was founded almost one thousand years before my home state. But again, living in China changes your perspective. By the time Porto got its own flag, China had already had a hundred civil wars, rebellions, insurrections, uprisings, insurgencies and revolutions. One hundred might sound like embellishment or hyperbole, but I'm probably low balling it.

We flew to Porto even though there are plenty of trains to and from Barcelona. The idea was that planes are faster. But with a train, you buy your ticket and get on the train. You can arrive at the station five minutes before your train leaves. There are probably restrictions on what you can bring in your luggage. Bombs and rocket launchers might not be allowed. But no one ever checks. Bring whatever you want on the train. Airports are a little more strict. Water, of all things, is forbidden. You can bring water on the plane, but you have to buy the $10 bottle from the airport. A two hour flight takes seven hours, at least. Then you have to get from the airport to wherever you are going. Airports are rarely anywhere near the city center. Train stations are mostly downtown.

Downtown Porto was a nice looking city. I can't say it was the best looking city in Europe. There is too much competition for that title. But it was nice to look at, especially at night. The lights along the river and across Ponte de Dom Luis I were far more subtle than anything I see every day in Hong Kong. When you are in Porto, you have to walk across the bridge. It's like going up the Eiffel Tower. You never see the locals doing it, but it is always packed full of people.

We rarely used the metro, but it looked like your typically efficient European public transportation. And it has to be. Porto is a hilly city. It's like San Francisco on steroids, with cobblestones instead of smooth pavement. And more hills. San Francisco has the Embarcadero and Golden Gate Park. I never saw any flat areas in Porto. Even the riverbanks went from water to hills. Walking around the city counts as a daily workout. There are a couple of streetcars, so you can get around and still see the city, but they are overpriced and don't really go anywhere. I think they are strictly for the tourists.

When I walked around, I saw construction. Everywhere. I don't know if it is always like this because of all the old buildings or I came at the wrong time, but it felt like every corner I turned led to more scaffolding and large machines making heavy noises. Mercado do Bolhao, easily the most famous market in the city, was completely closed for renovation. There was a temporary market a block away, but it was much smaller and had absolutely no charm.

It was also impossible to walk anywhere without a busker around the corner. I only saw one or two in Barcelona, but they were out in force in Porto. I can only imagine what it is like at the height of tourist season. Most of them were not especially good, but they all played songs I recognized. One busker at the Ribeira stood with his back to the river and sang “Tiny Dancer”, “Imagine” and REM's “Nightswimming”. He only had an acoustic guitar and a weak voice, but he obviously loved what he sang. Hearing familiar songs in public is becoming increasingly rare the further I grow out of touch with today's music. The buskers of Porto, at least, were as stuck in the past as I am.

Just outside the city, at the mouth of the Douro River, is the Atlantic Ocean. As oceans go, it was a nice change of pace. There were long beaches along the Foz do Douro, but it was still not good beach weather. It was a sunnier day than when I went to the Barcelona beach, but it was still October. I'm sure the Atlantic Ocean is colder than the Mediterranean. I have nothing to back that up. It's just an assumption.

In Porto, we stayed in a hotel that called itself an apartment. The Barcelona apartment was an actual apartment. It looked and felt like an apartment, and had obviously been around a while. The Porto “apartment” was shiny and new. It had a tiny kitchen and separate living room/bedrooms, but it felt nothing like an apartment. Since we were only there for a week, it never really mattered. A week in a hotel can be a nice break. For a month or two, a genuine apartment is always better. Hotels can get old pretty fast, and you always feel like a visitor. In an apartment, you can pretend you actually live there. The funny thing is, I spent twice as much time in Barcelona as I did in Paris a few years ago, but I felt more like I was living in Paris. Maybe it was a greater familiarity with the language and culture. Or maybe I just like Paris better. Barcelona seems like a good place, but I never felt any real connection. Maybe I have to go back some day.