A Trip to Portugal (page 8 of 11)
Day Seven – Porto
The primary reason for going to Coimbra was to see the Roman ruins at nearby Conimbriga. We woke up, showered, ate breakfast at the hotel, checked out, asked them to hold our bags, and started the journy to
Conimbriga. We’d received a bit of conflicting advice about how exactly to get to the ruins. Lonely Planet mentions a bus run by Rodo Norte that goes directly to the ruins, and another that goes to a nearby town. The clerk at the hotel told us to go catch a bus to the town and that we could easily catch a cab to the ruins. The bus to the ruins left Coimbra at 9:30, according to Lonely Planet. At 9:00 we were ready to leave the hotel.
We decided to trust Lonely Planet, which had not yet led us astray. We went to the place that Lonely Planet’s map called “Rodo Norte terminal”. It wasn’t a terminal at all. It was an office with a friendly lady who didn’t speak English. We asked her where to catch the bus, and she gesticulated towards the bus station and, we think, said the words “bus station”. We went to the bus station.
The first person we spoke to at the bus station said that we could catch a
bus to the nearby town. She pointed to a bus, but it was not headed where we wanted to be. The second person we asked told us that the bus we wanted did not leave from that station. That was all we could gather. With 9:30 rapidly approaching, we left the station and continued in the same direction along the same road. Eagle-Eyed Edie spotted what appeard to be a bunch of buses a few blocks up the road. Sure enough, they were Rodo Norte buses, and there was a little office there as well. We asked about the bus to Conimbriga. My watch said 9:29. The man looked at the schedule, went outside, looked at the buses, and shook his head. We just missed it.
We were, however, in the right place to get a bus to the nearby town. Thirty minutes later, we were on our way. True to the hotel clerk’s word,
there was a taxi stand by the bus stop. An aside about Portugese taxis. Unlike in the US, every town in Portugal had the same taxis. They were all small cream colored sedans, usually Mercedes, with leather seats. They had a little sticker on the outside with the name of the town they were based in. We hopped in a cab and went to the ruins.
The ruins at Conimbriga are the best-preserved Roman ruins in Portugal. I am continually amazed at how far west the Romans conquered. I certainly
felt nowhere near Rome, and was in awe at the thought that the road leading to the ruins used to lead there. That said, the ruins were not as spectacular as the Moorish castle in Sintra. Despite being the best preserved, there’s not a lot there for people who aren’t archeological experts. The setting was also less than ideal. While the castle felt integrated with its natural surroundings, the ruins felt more like a museum exhibit and less like a living part of history. That said, if you’re the kind of person who gets a lot out of Roman ruins (and you know who you are), these won’t dissapoint.
Edie and I did have fun in the adjacent cafe playing a game that’s a combination of tic-tac-toe and go. Not sure if they really played it in
ancient Rome, but it’s nice to think so. Lonely Planet did not let us down on the return trip; the bus pulled right up to the ruins and took us back to Coimbra. We got our bags from the hotel, went to the train station, and caught a train to Porto.
I was worried about our acommodations in Porto; we picked a place called Pensao Astoria which also came from the “budget” section. Lonely Planet described its rooms as “elegant”. Fortuantely, Lonely Planet proved to be accurate. We arrived at one of the most beautiful train stations I’ve ever been in. The lobby was very small, but the three walls that weren’t filled by train information had huge murals made of azulejos. It’s worth stopping by even if you don’t have a train to catch. The station was in the commercial center of the town, but our hotel was closer to the Ribeira, the neighborhood by the river that’s the oldest part of the city. The hotel was actually on a “street” that turned out to be a gigantic staircase. The train station was near the top (topographically speaking) of the city, so we walked to the top of the road. The hotel was a few short steps down.
We were greeted by the proprieter, an intense woman who spoke very good English. She showed us the room she had held for us, but told us there was a better one that didn’t have a shower. We told her thanks, but we’d stick with the shower. She seemed disapointed, but let us have the room anyway. She told us that the war had started and looked at us
expectantly. We said that we knew, and that we were sad. “I’m not!” she replied. She told us Saddam’s crazy and she’s glad we were finally going to get rid of him. She then gave us the key and left us to our room. The room was beautifully furnished, but extremely small. Edie called it “hobbit-sized”. The shower wasn’t in a separate room, but was behind a curtain on a raised tile floor. The toilet was outside the room, off of the walled-in balcony. The sink and the bidet were behind a curtain by the shower. (Every room we stayed in had a bidet. I don’t even know how to use a bidet. But I like saying bidet. Bidet bidet bidet.) We had some wet clothes that we’d washed in the sink at Coimbra, so we got them out of our luggage and put them around the room to dry. We then went out to take a look at Porto. On the way out, the woman (who I will refer to as Ms. Bates from here on out) asked for our key (the outside door can only be opened from the inside, so we had to buzz to get in anyway) and asked if we wanted her to hold our passports. I said no, I like to keep them on me. She said, “Okay, but you will lose them.” I let it slide, and we were out the door.
We realized how high up we were on the walk down. I silently vowed never to take the steps in the other direction to get back to the hotel. I also silently vowed to complain less about the four flights I have to climb to get to my apartment in New York. The Porto riverside was amazing. Accross the river is Vila Nova de Gala, which is where (until 1985 or so) all Port wine had to be aged before it could be sold or exported. The hillside is crammed with port lodges. The river was surprisingly free of large commercial boats. We saw some traditional port-bearing boats moored to one side, but I don’t know if they’re still in use. We sat drinking (what else!) coffee watching traffic on and accross the river.
We then walked up the hill towards the part of the city around the university. We figured that the excellence and price of last night’s meal had to be due to its proximity to a university, and I’m a big fan of early scouting for food. The city of Porto has many of the same features that
make the other Portugese cities beautiful: churches, wide streets, and azulejos. We walked through a square where a student group was singing. It was a group of a dozen guys, all wearing the same outfit: white shirt, black pants, black neck tie, and a long black jacket. When we arrived they were playing what sounded like a traditional Portugese song. About half had guitars, a few had drums and tambourines. For the next song they brought out a traditional Portugese guitar. They then proceeded to sing “The Girl From Ipanema”. In Portugese. It was then that we realized that this was the Portugese equivalent of American a capella groups. We stayed anyway. The finale was Europe’s “The Final Countdown”. No verses, just the chorus, sung in English.
One thing we found in our wanderings was an amazing bookstore. I do not know the name, but it was on Rua das Carmelitas, on the right-hand side of the street as you head uphill. (Update! An alert Portuguese reader tells me that it’s called Livraria Lello. Thanks!) The bookstore was on two levels. The staircase connecting them looked, from above, like a figure eight. There were two staircases that started going in opposite directions but curved around and met each other halfway to the ground. The walls were extremely ornate; they looked look like the interior of a cathedral. The bookstore felt magical, even though (as a plaque outside informed us) it was all a facade; the walls were painted, not sculpted. It was still a beuatiful bookstore. I bought an English language Portugese cookbook, which was one of the only English books they had.
After witnessing such a triumphant finale we moved on. We ended up eating dinner in a nice-looking place in the university district. Once again, my limited French came in handy. The proprieter’s English was non-existant, and I’m pleased to report that his French was on par with mine. (I asked
the whereabouts of ”le WC”, and had to repeat the request in Portugese.) Edie and I both had a different kind of bacalhau. Bacalhau, usually just translated as “cod”, is actually dried, salted cod. It can supposedly be prepared hundreds of ways; we only tried two. Mine was simply dredged in breadcrumbs and sauteed, searved with boiled or roasted new potatoes. It was pretty good, but not really distinctive. It tasted like salty fish. Edie’s, on the other hand, was something that could’ve been Bacalhau au gratin. It looked like macaroni and cheese but with shredded bacalhau replacing the noodles. It was very rich, but very good. Perhaps the most interesting part of the meal was dessert. I ordered something which, on the menu, was listed as the “surprise of the house”. It turned out to be a pudding that tasted of butterscotch, bread, and rum. I asked what it was; the proprieter replied, (pronounce this the French way) “Surprise!”
The walk back to the hotel was punctuated by honking cars and screaming pedestrians throughout the city. I gathered from their dress and mood that F.C. Porto had won a match that night. I regret not having seen a soccer match while I was in Portugal, but you always have to save something for next time.
When we returned to the hotel, we buzzed at the front door. Ms. Bates greeted us with our key. She then told us that if we wanted to wash clothes while we were there we should hang them out on the line in the garden. You know. Water on the floor. Small clothes were okay, but for big clothes we should hang them out in the garden. We said okay and went into our room. The clothes that had been placed around the room were on hangers and hung on the balcony to dry. Nothing else appeared to have been disturbed, but I was a little creeped out. It was a beautiful room, though.