Phil and Andy in Portugal

I'm not a hunter, but I bet there's an expression to describe a situation in which one sits in a duck-blind waiting for a shot, and when five or six excellent targets suddenly present themselves you're so stunned that you never pull the trigger.

Whatever that is, I've got it vis-a-vis writing about the five days Phil Crean and I spent in Portugal. We had an absolute blast; lots of funny, stupid adventures, and I'll be darned if I can put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and write about them.

So here... Here's an account of our week, with lots of pictures to fill up the space. Maybe my mojo will come as I go!

Day 0: Lisbon. Since all the cheap flights from Paris to Lisbon arrive late at night, I flew in a day ahead of Phil. I stayed in a very inexpensive hotel featuring rubberized sheets and a bathroom separated from the bedroom by a sliding patio door. Ate dinner at a friendly restaurant, with friendly waiters, friendly wine, and friendly grilled sardines. Yum...

Day 1: Still Lisbon. Phil's flight landed at 2pm, so I spent the morning wandering around town. Not speaking a lick of Portuguese, I was reduced to ordering what I could point to.

After an eclectic breakfast, I boarded the OpenTour double-decker bus, sending a silent prayer for Ceil's forgiveness. I dismissed these bus-tours as hopelessly toursity and un-cool many months ago. Now, they're my first stop in a new town. And maybe they are uncool, because I had the whole bus to myself...

Got to the airport in plenty of time to meet Phil: a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one.

We taxied back into town, checked into a much nicer hotel and set out for a spot of lunch. Being an old-hand at Portuguese dining, I took Phil to the place where I ate breakfast, and impressed him with my knowledgeable pointing. Then we walked all over town, climbing to the top of several steep hills -- a past-time which we'd enjoy throughout the rest of our trip.

Before our trip, I had told Phil that I wanted to hear live music while in Portugal. So, when we set out for dinner we headed to a neighborhood renowned for it's fado bars. We were dismayed by the "greeters" standing on the sidewalk in front of each restaurant, brandishing menus in seven languages and urging tourists to come inside.

We selected a place that seemed a bit more authentic, not having a pusher stationed out front. Alas, no sooner had my hand touched the door, than the "greeter" appeared from around the corner, having finished his smoke-break. "Excellent choice, sirs!", he said, a hand on my back as we walked in. The greeter hailed the maitre-d (boasting of his sales prowess, no doubt) and we were shown to a table.

The place turned out to be every bit as touristy as we had hoped it wouldn't be, but we had fun.

Waiters in Portugal place delicious-looking appetizers on your table soon after handing you the menu, but before taking your order -- cheeses, grilled sardines, mussels, smoked meats. They also put out a basket of bread and small plate of various spreads. It's a lovely, un-requested tableau, but the deal is, as soon as you touch one of the plates, it goes right onto your bill!

The guide-book describes fado as 'Portuguese blues', but since it tends to be performed by sultry women in expensive evening gowns, backed by effeminate, dour young men playing undersized guitars, I hesitate to call it "blues". The woman performing at this particular restaurant may have been quite famous at one point, but she seemed to be on the back-side of her career. She sang four numbers, each quite passionate and sincere, while strolling around the six or so tables of the restaurant. The party of five (Germans? Czechs?) next to our table continued their conversation throughout her performance. Her strategy for coping with this distraction was to walk over close to the table, and sing directly to them. They were undaunted, simply raising their voices to make themselves heard.

After the lady finished her set, the maitre-de performed a few of numbers, losing his voice during the second and finishing in a fit of coughing, waving his hand about, as if carrying the tune manually. While the poor man sang / choked his tunes, the 'headliner' lady worked the room, going from table to table with a sample of her CD which happened to be on sale that night for a low, low price. When she reached our table, I demurred, complimenting her singing, but declining to make a purchase. She left the disc on our table, promising to return later -- seemingly confident that the picture of her staring up at me from the jewel case would tug at my heart- / purse-strings. No sale, sweetie.

After pushing her wares, she got back up and sang a few more songs. They may have been different songs, but your correspondent isn't sure. After finishing her second set, she introduced an older woman who had been sitting at a table right in front -- the one person in the room giving the singers her undivided attention. This lady, perhaps a sister, or cousin, or friend (given her age, I didn't cast her as a protege) sang a few songs of her own. She out-did the maitre-de in so much as she kept her voice through the whole set. Alas, she forgot the words during one song and stumbled around for a while, despite the best efforts of the 'headliner' lady and the guitar player to cue her -- I was even muttering hints to her by the end.

Through all these antics, dinner was served and it was utterly terrible-- the only bad meal I ate all week. I had read that dried cod is a staple in Portugal, and that a Portuguese cook can prepare it every day for a year and not repeat the same recipe. I think, unfortunately, the day I ordered it the recipe involved wrapping the fish in a brown paper bag before frying it in recycled motor oil for forty or fifty minutes. The portions being huge, and my arms being long, I was able to poach plenty of food off Phil's plate, and thus did not go hungry (thanks be to God).

Day 2: Lisbon to Sintra and back. We got an early start on Wednesday and took a train out to a village which was once the summer-home of the Portuguese royals. The big attraction in town, a former monastery was, naturally, closed on Wednesdays, so we set off in search of the second attraction -- the ruins of a Moorish castle, constructed in "the year dot" as my friend Jeremy used to say.

The Moors, being defensively minded, situated their fort atop a steep hill (read: small mountain), so Phil and I had quite a climb. I felt pretty good despite the exertions, but when we reached the top and the guard asked us for the tickets we should have purchased about half-way up the climb, I must've gotten a look about me. Phil volunteered to go back down for the tickets, and I volunteered to hold his back-pack for him, and conduct research into which park bench offered the most shade. Phil's a good friend.

The view from the ruins was spectacular, worth the walk.

Day 3: Coimbra or bust. We rented a car on Thursday and set out North. Seven of the top ten sights of Portugal (according to our Lonely Planet guidebook) were convenient to our route, so we decided to make a leisurely trip, spending a night along the way before finishing with a couple of days in Porto.

Our first stop was in a small town, with a big church and a bigger monastery.
Our second stop was in a different small town with a slightly bigger church, but smaller monastery.
At the third town, we didn't even get out of the car, rolling past the church, snapping pictures through the window and eschewing the monastery all-together.
We arrived in Coimbra much earlier than expected.

For Phil, I think the highlight of the trip came while we were checking in to Hotel Tivoli in Coimbra: while Phil was engaged with the hotel clerk arranging for our rooms, I sidled up to a young, doe-eyed, Iberian beauty sitting under a sign saying "Concierge".

"Fala ingles?," I asked. ("Do you speak English?") Her eyes grew wide and she went pale, then beet red -- perhaps she may have been embarrassed by my feeble attempt at Portuguese, or maybe intimidated by my size and bright blue ski-coat; perhaps she was drawn to me on a very base, physical level and she felt a mixture of shame and lust; and then again, maybe she didn't speak much English... anyway, I've seen the same look from my computer before, and I usually have to re-boot it before I can get much further.

"A leetle..", she squeaked.

"Great!", I fairly shouted, confident that she was digging me. "What do you recommend my friend and I do while we're in town?"

Years from now historians will debate the line of thinking which led to this young woman's response:

"Do you like dancing?", she asked.

Hmmm... This is a very attractive 22-year old woman. I, on the other hand am forty pushing fifty and the only reason I'm not self conscious about the frayed collar of my shirt is that I know it's hidden from view by my jowls. And she's asking me if I like dancing. Hmmm... Being quick, I had a ready reply.

"Oh yes, I am an excellent dancer" I said. (At that moment, nine thousand miles away, my wife did a spit-take for reasons unbeknownst to her.)

I don't really remember much of the conversation after that. I think Phil fell to the floor giggling. The girl may have turned to her colleague for support, or perhaps he intervened, fearful of where the discussion was headed. Either way, we never ascertained the location, or even existence of, dance clubs in Coimbra.

I asked about restaurants or bars we should go to. "There will be a blues festival in town next week" she said. "Cool. Where should we eat tonight?", I asked. She turned to her colleague again, or perhaps he intervened, doubting whether she was up to the task. Again, we never actually ascertained the location of any restaurant in the metropolitan area.

In the end, Phil and I found our rooms, dropped off our bags and headed out for a walk about town, all the while repeating to each other, "Yes, I am an excellent dancer."

Day 4: The long way to Porto. Having had our fill of smallish towns with oversized churches, we turned east the next morning, and drove across the breadth of Portugal to the border with Spain. We passed through a beautiful national park, breathtaking despite having been clear-cut during the not too distant past.

We stopped in a very small town and ordered lunch at a wonderful little restaurant. We studied the menu carefully and selected two items based largely on their placement on the menu ("The third item is always safe," I intoned) and imagined similarities to words we knew in French, English and New Zealandish. The food arrived quickly and the first dish was lovely. It was goat, but it was lovely. (Seriously, we looked it up. I nibbled on the little goat-ribbies. Terrific.)

The second dish arrived and I immediately had a flash-back to my experience with andouillette -- a French sausage made from pig innards. The aroma was... distinct. But this wasn't a sausage -- it looked more like a stuffed pepper or scooped out squash, though it was too tough to be a vegetable.

I picked at the stuffing, nibbling a bit. It wasn't too bad. I thought to tell Phil the andouillette story, but he had a greenish hue about him, so I held my tongue.

"Not too bad", I said, picking a bit of meat-ish looking stuff out of the middle of the stuffed... orb. I made another attempt to dissect... I mean cut the casing. My knife slipped and a hunk of meat rolled down my shirt leaving an oily and indelible trail. A souvenir of our meal.

"Listen," Phil said, "I'm going to the bathroom. Would you please figure out a way to get rid of this by the time I come back?"

Right.

He rushed from the table, a napkin pressed to his face. I hailed the waitress and explained that we were quite full. I explained this in French and English mind you. Lord knows what she made of my words, but she took the plates away.

Phil was much refreshed when he returned. We ate a wonderful desert, sipped an espresso, and made our way out of town.

Days Four and Five. Oh, boy, Oporto. Porto is Portugal's second-city, and the world-capital or Port wine. Port wine is good. We like Port wine.

Our goals for the two-days in Porto were, 1) to drink Port wine (mission accomplished), 2) To avoid excessively long walks up steep hills (mixed success), and 3) to see a professional soccer match.

We had read that FC Porto would be playing Sporting Lisboa, "a classic match" according to our barman and port-pusher at the hotel. "Sold out, though. No chance for tickets." What if we go out to the stadium -- would there be guys scalping tickets? "Yeah, but you'll have to pay money." Okay with us, as we didn't have any goats or other currency at hand.

We took a taxi to the stadium. "Game's sold out" said the taxi driver. Can we buy tickets on the street, we asked. "Yeah, but they want money." Weird system. Too bad we ate the goat.

Sure enough, no sooner did we climb out of the taxi, than we were approached by a seedy guy with a handful of tickets. Phil is a shrewed business man, and experienced at negotiating multi-million dollar sales with seedy guys around the world. So naturally, I did all the talking.

"How much?", I asked.

"Forty euros or fifty euros" he said, pointing to a map of the stadium printed on the back of the ticket. "Forty behind the goals, fifty for mid-field."

"Mid-field for forty," I proposed.

"No way. Fifty," he replied.

"No thanks, then." I said. "C'mon, Phil."

We turned and walked away, listening for the guy to come chasing after us... any second now, he'll call out... any minute...

We walked quite a ways before I acknowledged that my tactics had not paid off. Phil suggested he take charge of future negotiations.

"How much?" Phil asked the next guy.

"Fifty," he said. "Good seats!", pointing to the upper deck on the map on the reverse of the tickets.

"Forty," Phil said.

"No. Fifty."

"Ok," said Phil, reaching for his wallet.

A master at work.

Turns out the seats were in the upper deck but in the corner of the field. Surely an honest pointing mistake on the part of our salesman. Being a pointer myself, I understand the challenge.

Flush with accomplishment ("We're going to the game!") and relatively certain the tickets weren't forgeries, we returned to town and for another long walk and a few gratuitous hill climbs.

This being Saturday and the final day of the Six Nations rugby tournament, we set out towards Ryan's Bar, listed as the only Irish pub in town. It was closed. Egad, what kind of Irish pub closes on rugby Saturday, we wondered. Then Phil realized it was St. Patrick's day to boot. We considered calling the police... surely the proprietors were being held hostage somewhere... why wasn't the place open.

We resigned ourselves to watching the game in the hotel bar, and proudly waving our tickets at the barman. ("You paid money?" he asked, incredulously.) The matches were good, but so too was it very sunny and before too long we decided our time would be better spent out-of-doors. We went for another walk, this time touring the port wineries along the south shore of the river.


We retired to our rooms for a pre-match nap, awoke refreshed, and boarded the metro for a twenty minute ride to the stadium.

The match was terrific. We arrived alongside with the fans of the visiting club who were ushered into the stadium under the watchful eye of about two-hundred fully armored riot police. Our seats, in the corner of the upper deck, afforded a great view of the field, and better still, the visiting fans section.

The match was a nerve-wracking, low-scoring affair. The guy sitting next to me nearly put my eye out, as he waved his arms in disgust at some miscue by an FC Porto mid-fielder. Maybe I was cramping his style, because during the second half, me moved and sat in the aisle.

In the end, the home-team lost 1-0. The home-fans, fed up with the un-ending taunting they had endured from the three hundred or so visiting fans, leaned over the railing separating the two groups, gesturing, shouting and presumably casting aspersions on their parentage. A good time was had by all.

Phil and I ate dinner after the match, finally mastering the Portueguese habit of dining after 10pm. We ate omlettes in a smokey cafe and listen to a younger, more energetic woman sing what I assume was fado, albeit a more upbeat and perky version... pop-fado perhaps.

Day Six: Home again, home again, jiggidy-jig: We rose early and Sunday and set a land-speed record, mini-van classification- for the Porto to Lisbon run. I had just enough time to turn in the rental car, my cel phone still therein, and dash off to my plane. It was tough saying good-bye to Phil. His visit was a much needed respite and reminder of home.

Phil caught a later flight to Paris, and by all accounts had an uneventful trip home.

My journey was also uneventful, but the kicker came on Monday morning when, after six days in the sunny climes of Portugal, I awoke to snow and freezing rain in central France.

I miss Porto.

And Phil.

And home.

Hope you're all well.