Autumn in Porto

 

(Courtesy of Kyero.com)

Barely returned from my first trip to the UK post-2019, I’m off again down South for a few days of sun. Blame it on the generous amount of public holidays in this corner of Europe. You can really clean up in May and November.

The commemoration of the World War Armistice falls in the middle of the week this year. I take some time off either side of the holiday. 

Way back in the deepest darkest moments of the second lockdown, Brussels’ Internations Travel Group posted plans for an autumnal break in Portugal’s second city. I’ve heard only good things about Porto. Maybe too much. I don’t realise how high my expectations have been set until I arrive.

As is my practice when I have a flight that leaves before the early afternoon, I camp out at the airport all night to avoid any last minute hitches. I pay the price in a good night’s sleep but make up for it in peace of mind. Ironically, in the end, my flight is delayed by half an hour. 

On the plane, sleep catches up with me. The arm of the male passenger to my left brushes past me too often for comfort but it’s hard to prove malintent.

Flying into Porto, it’s sunny and the air is clear. It doesn’t take long to collect my small check-in luggage. I should be making up for lost time by rushing to my lodgings. Instead, I get caught up in a long conversation by text with my friend Izzi about ethnic nomenclature.

At the airport metro station, a peremptory older South African male curses and grumbles at the seemingly indecipherable ticket machine. Standing by, his timid significant other mutters banal suggestions. He then turns to me with the same sense of entitlement. I remind him that a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ goes a long way. He dismisses me with a wave and a hollow ‘thanks very much’. He probably misses the good old days of Apartheid.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time I reach the stop closest to my accommodation, Casa da Música; named for the concert hall in the vicinity. Next to one of the exits is a homeless man under a mountain of layers, despite the clement – if a little fresh weather. The level of accommodation insecurity in major cities across Europe is depressing. Even in a country like Portugal, with a socialist government, they haven’t yet managed to stamp out this socio-economic blight.

(courtesy of localporto.com)

Despite my printed instructions, it still takes me a while to find my bearings. Asking for directions does provide me with an opportunity to start practising my Portuguese. My spoken level is, at best, lower-intermediate but having some of the language allows for a degree of autonomy. I eventually find my way to the digs. My guesthouse is situated in what the French would call a quartier populaire not far from the city centre.

The shops and restaurants aren't as glamorous as those in the touristic areas and it’s less clean. The guesthouse, on the other hand, is flawless. I couldn’t ask for a more pleasant accommodation. The house-proud property manager, Christina, runs a tight ship. There are special coverings for outdoor shoes and all remote controls – be it for the AC or TV – are embossed with clingfilm. As a host, however, she is not at all anal. Quite the opposite. Warm and welcoming, she patiently encourages my attempts to speak Portuguese. After she shows me to my splendid room and gives me some tourist tips, it remains for me to shower and change for an afternoon of exploring my immediate surroundings. I try and stay fed with various, unexciting pastry-based snacks I grab on the way. At least Portugal remains as inexpensive as I recall from my late 2000s visit to Lisbon with mum and sis.

Using some of the information Christina has shared, I take a twilight stroll near to the Casa da Música itself. I’m drawn to the tall cylinder edifice in the centre of the closest park. From a distance, I struggle to identify the sinister looking structure at the top of the plinth. On closer inspection, I make out an eagle subdued under the claws of a menacingly triumphant lion. It’s some kind of war memorial, judging by the other imagery at the base, but there's no inscription explaining that particular interspecies depiction. I later learn that this Rotunda da Boavista is a paean to colonialism (which the tourist website celebrates without irony) and that the crushed eagle supposedly represents the French during the Peninsula War with the Portuguese and British allies.

Although Christina reassures me the neighbourhood is safe, I don’t plan to stay out late. Not seeing any viable options for eateries, I stop off at a huge, well-stocked Lidl (next best to the UK) for a makeshift dinner. It'll be consumed in the cosy guesthouse lounge, watching The Late Show with Jimmy Fallon and Portuguese-dubbed cartoons. Before then, I do some short metro hopping, to see if I can get a feel for the city.

The next morning, I take advantage of Christina's sturdy Continental breakfast with the intention that it keeps me going until evening. During the meal, I have another opportunity to practise Portuguese with a couple of amiable Brazilians about to check out.

I’ve booked myself on a donations-based ‘free’ walking tour through central Porto. The guide is a typically-talented, multilingual Lusophone with an archaeological background called Adriano. He’s fiercely proud of his Porto roots, taking every opportunity to remind us. He frequently refers to the ongoing feud with Lisboans, only partly in jest. Porto natives are open and friendly, insists Adriano. They’d welcome anyone into the clan. Just don't p**s them off, or you’ve made an enemy for life, he warns.

The leisurely pace and breaks distract from the two and half hour running time. The tour takes in the centuries-long Portuguese/UK alliance, the (in)famous Livraria Lello said to be the ‘most beautiful bookshop in the world’ and connected to the Harry Potter novels (as if I care), ecclesiastical history and architecture and much more besides. The country itself is said to derive its name from Portus Cale, the Roman appellation for an ancient town once based in the region of modern Porto.

The weather is propitious. We stop off at various vantage points to have a good view of the City. And yet I’m still awaiting the ‘wow’ factor. Porto is attractive enough, like any number of European cities but I haven’t yet been as captivated as expected. I doubt it took me this long to fall in love with Lisbon.

The tour ends not far from where I am due to meet Internations’ host, Nathan and whomever else made good on signing up for the excursion.

En route I pass by another Porto landmark, the São Bento train station; somewhere Adriano refused to show us because it’s being renovated; like much of the City during my visit. 

I’m accompanied by a Filipino-American whom I’ve befriended on the tour. Whilst admiring the customary Azul-tile based frescas in the station, we somehow lose each other. 

Before heading to meet Nathan and others, I pass by a mobile confectioners to buy some treats for acquaintances. If I suspect the vendor of trying to flirt, he dispenses of any ambiguity by informing me, apropos of nothing, that he likes black women. That’s typical of Portuguese men I say, with some exasperation (not that I get much love from Porto compared to the Capital). I could do without being fetishised by an old geezer.

After the vendor makes a meal of handing me my change, I disappear to the Ladies. 

Meanwhile, I am determined to practise my Portuguese, mistakes and all, whilst still struggling to understand the European variation of the accent. Sometimes, I pleasantly surprise myself with how much I know, can make myself understood and -more or less- understand. Lusophones are on balance far more accepting of my tentative efforts than Francophones.  They’re willing to overlook imperfections and acknowledge the good intent. This helps build my confidence. To those less familiar with Portuguese, my level might sound more impressive than it is. I can attribute my decent pronunciation to years of singing with a Brazilian group.

The Internations posse are a baker’s dozen-strong. Most of only just arrived that afternoon. Nathan is the closest to my age and I hardly know anyone else. We stop off for some mid-afternoon refreshments, giving us a chance to become better acquainted. I am my usually moody self but relax as the hours roll by. I strike a particular affinity with an Hungarian called Donna. She’s generous with her time and resources, treating me to local Porto fish and cheese delicacy Bacalhau.

São Bento train station

Nathan has a full itinerary that might not be realistic. The main aim that afternoon is to catch the sunset at some of the best-known spots, starting with the Igreja e Torre da Irmandade dos Clérigos (The Church and Tower of the Clergy Brotherhood). All visitors benefit from a half-price reduction because, you guessed it, part of the tower is under (re)construction. For a bargain, we can wander around the church, museum and indeed see the sunset from as close to the top of the tower as the works will allow.

The rest of twilight is spent crossing the landmark Dom Luis I bridge. Way down at the bottom, I can hear someone murdering Bob Marley’s Is this Love? 

This musical mishap doesn’t detract from my enjoyment of the crepuscule vista. The flame-coloured sky complements the autumnal leaves just about hanging on to the trees marking the skyline. I’m finally beginning to appreciate the charms of Porto. At the other side of the bridge a woman sells local accessories for a steal. University students wander around in the distinctive white shirt, black tie and flowing black capes that are supposed to have inspired the Hogwarts’ uniform.

I part company with the group, having the intention of re-joining them later for dinner. The evening runs away with me. I end up eating a satisfying fish supper solo near the Trindade district.

For my penultimate day, I have arranged to see Porto from a different angle, via a Boat tour of the city’s six most significant bridges. My attempts to research the route to the departure point are in vain. In spite of my instructions, directions from locals and a couple of Brit tourists (themselves none the wiser), I end up on the wrong side of the Port and miss the departure. All's well that ends well. The view of the Riviera is gorgeous under the noon sun and the boat company are very flexible.

 A multilingual pre-recorded guide gives brief overviews of the record-breaking bridges and their surroundings. Dom Luis I was built by Belgian Téophile Seyrig, student of Gustav Eiffel, whilst the Maria Pia bridge was constructed by the civil engineering maestro himself, with all the hallmarks of his intricate wrought-iron designs. Other idiosyncrasies of Porto’s delightful bay area come alive. The perfect place to sit and write after the tour.

As I put my thoughts to paper, I catch sight of Donna with a few other members of the Bakers’ Dozen. They’re temporarily separated from the rest.

Meanwhile, a shirtless tanned fellow in flowing green and gold satin trousers spends an hour plus setting up his busking spot. Judging from his accent, he’s from Portugal’s largest former colony. I check just to be sure. Carioca? No, he says, Recife.

Mr Eccentric resembles an orange-hued Nik Kershaw and has a distinctive hollowed-out guitar that reminds me of Prince. He runs to and fro, grabbing a cigarette here; a bottle of whisky there. Donna claims to have noticed him in, ahem, an aroused state earlier whilst pacing the bay.

If the spirits are there to give him Dutch courage, it eventually does the trick (although the tremoring of his hands suggest that sadly, he might be over-reliant). He cocks his hip to one side like a seasoned rock star and plays guitar covers of Chico Barque and Caetano Veloso like a dream. A good thing too, since he has to compete with the numerous buskers in the vicinity, including Mr Butchering-Bob-Marley-Songs. With his snazzy guitar, the topless guitarist mimics shooting a machine gun in his rival’s direction. He otherwise has his passers-by in thrall. Donna shushes me whilst she films him, which I don’t appreciate. During the final strains of one performance, a drowning dog – no, I’m not joking- momentarily steals his thunder.

Nathan and the rest of the Internations crew eventually join us. I’ve spent more time at the bay than planned. I want to take a stroll at sunset around the Foz do Douro; an idea that coincided with Nathan’s itinerary until he changed his mind. I agree to meet up with them again for dinner.

Hopes for a siesta disappear as the day wears on and I still have one more sight on my checklist. The walk back to town is scenic, if longer than I anticipate. On the way, I pick up some more locally-produced accessories for future gifts.

After a quick, ill-advised stop off at the guesthouse, I make it to the beach at Foz do Douro just in time for sunset. Cleo Sol’s late summer release, Mother is suitably gorgeous and melancholy whilst I watch the pink and gold streaks fade into the horizon. The sea is choppy. I am conscious of keeping my balance as I venture in for a paddle. 

I have an early afternoon flight to catch in the morrow. With only three days in town, rest is a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to become merely a little acquainted with the City. I’ve barely had a moment to catch my breath. I still prefer the ambiance and aesthetic of Portugal’s Capital; at least, the Lisbon of my memory. I nevertheless can understand why Porto enchants so many of its visitors.

After a short stroll around Douro, I auspiciously catch a direct bus to my accommodation, only to be delayed by traffic jams for half an hour. I have enough time to meet the Internations crew for dinner, albeit later than hoped and getting lost along the way. Only about half of the Bakers’ Dozen are in attendance, others already feeling the fatigue. The food is oversold, overpriced and underwhelming but it gives me a chance to say goodbye to the group. I sneak in a crepe and red velvet ice cream on the way back to the guesthouse.

The morning of my flight back to Brussels, I'm exhausted and deeply regretting the absence of rest over the past few days.

Christina has prepared another generous Continental breakfast. Her kindness and hospitality has made this one of my best Airbnb experiences. Thus, the farewell at the end of our fleeting interaction is tinged with a particular sadness.

Soundtrack: Mother by Cleo Sol.

Summer Vibrance

After Lyon, it’s straight back to work. I normally take a 'buffer' day of leave but there’s no need on this occasion. The work load is less intense now that most colleagues are away. Plus the countdown to my next, longer summer getaway is already on. No time to waste.

I do indulge in an afternoon off on Friday (technically I’m only at work one and half days that week). It comes in handy. Pete, my good friend and writing-accountability partner, will be visiting that weekend. Fresh from celebrating his 50^th in the UK, he’ll be passing by Strasbourg via Basel, where he’s spending time with an old acquaintance, Gregory.

That Saturday I’ll be entertaining them both. The plan is to do one of the great free city tours and come back to mine for dinner.

I use Friday afternoon to stock up on supplies in Kehl. Pete’s diet is restricted to fish and veg. Greg is less of a challenge. I prepare my signature mixed-meat tagine for Greg and I, baked salmon for Pete and well-preserved remnants of my mum’s jolloff rice and akara bean cakes for all.

The morning of their arrival, I’m still running around like a loon in pursuit of groceries that I haven’t been able to get my hands on. It’s making me grumpy. Jesus’ admonition to Martha comes to mind; albeit a very different context.

Just before 1pm, Pete and Gregory rock up in their rental; a metallic burnt-orange coloured vehicle. Hard to miss. They’ve been taking it in turns on the road. Seasoned driver Pete is still adjusting to manoeuvring on the left. After parking the car, they pop to mine for tea. There’s not much time for anything else before we have to leave for the tour.

I suggest they get a feel for public transport. The car stays in my residential parking lot all afternoon.

En route to the tour’s starting point at the Cathedral, Pete catches me up on the latest news about his charity walk. He’s raising funds for the school he intends to set up in South London. He intends to cover 1000 km over the summer. To chart his progress, he takes pictures in various locations holding up flash cards with the date, the distance covered that day and a map of the relevant country. He and Greg have already done a fair bit in Switzerland and have plans to continue. Pete concludes that we’ll cover a good distance on the tour and strolling around town. I’m happy to offer moral and financial support but have never been keen on the idea of being sponsored. As a compromise, I agree to the photo opp.

The weather is kind to our itinerary.  The tour is guided by yet another charismatic young Alsatian, Leo. I’m impressed by his powers of concentration. He has to contend with more interruptions than usual. A Gilet Jaune protest over the police-related death of Steve Maia Caniço, a covers band performing in Place St. Etienne… Leo takes it all in his stride, literally. Although I’ve done the tour on a previous occasion with mum and sis, it’s a good refresher. Each guide has their own style and different points of emphasis. No two outings will be the same.

Tour over, plans for a cool drink at Oh My Goodness! café come to nought. They’re closed for summer.

In any case, we’re all a bit hot and tired. It’s back to mine for supper. To my relief, the two men are very satisfied with all the grub on offer. During dinner, Pete poses searching eschatological questions. Yours truly segues to uncomfortable passages in the Torah. Christian engagement in the fight for social justice is also a recurring theme of the day. We share accounts of having survived cult-like churches. It's not all heavy or theological though. We compare living standards in the UK and Europe, different approaches to tax and the Swiss' intolerance for jay-walking. After the main meal, Pete and I read each of our latest flash fiction pieces to Gregory and exchange feedback.

Pete is one of my favourite people; one of the few with whom I can truly be myself. I’m grateful we have been able to socialise in the Strasbourg context, no matter how brief.

Early evening. Basel awaits. It’s time for the two friends to be making tracks. Gregory finishes off his (store-bought) raspberry tart. Paul sticks to a mini choc ice whilst I wrap his lemon dessert for the road. I accompany them as far as L’Orangerie before bidding a fond farewell.

The next day after church, I meet up with Serafine at Gare Centrale. Her daughter is at a summer camp and she’s just dropped off some guests. 

Half-Austrian, Half-Gabonese and based in Kehl, she’s invited me to an African Music Festival in a charming small German town. Serafine is especially looking forward to the headline act; Gambian singer/songwriter and kora virtuoso, Sona Jobarteh. The three hour drive there and back will give us plenty of time for conversation. Serafine puts me through my linguistic paces. We always broach thought-provoking topics. Yet she is encouraging and patient and my confidence grows in her presence.

On arriving at the festival, it’s a rude awakening to find that entry is not free. Neither is it cheap. I’m used to community festivals and/or those that have a tier system. But there’s no turning back now. As I’m bringing out my wallet, Serafine offers to pay and won’t take no for an answer. Fortunately for us, one of her generous male acquaintances pays for both our tickets.

To my delight we’ll soon be joined later by my Strasbourg bestie, Gael and his childhood chum, Agnès. Unimpressed by the beer festival they have just attended in a Strasbourg suburb, they hit the motorway to the Afro-Fest. 

Despite their similar Afropean backgrounds and moving in the same circles, it's the first time Serafine and Gael are meeting. They get on like a house on fire. Gael has that effect on folk.

It’s the third and final day of the festival. It’s ‘African’ in the loosest sense of the word; at least as far as music policy is concerned. A female impersonator of advanced years (whom I suspect of skin-bleaching) does an hilarious, heavily-accented cover of Tina Turner’s Simply The Best; signature dance moves et al. Some adorable youngsters -ranging from tots to teens -perform a traditional dance before bizarrely switching to The Black Eyed Peas’ Where is the Love?. Not speaking any German, I haven’t a clue what instigates the change in tone. I don’t want to keep asking Serafine to translate. 

Sona’s headline set is preceded by a German ska-band. We eat mediocre crèpes and over-priced traditional West African dishes whilst we wait for the main act.

I observe the festival’s demographic as the audience slowly but surely drips in. Despite the German reputation for being cold and reserved, this is a far less inhibited crowd than what I'm used to in Strasbourg. It's also quite diverse. Your 'average' German rubs shoulders with hippies and the Afrocentric. 

Other clichés abound, however. You have your dread-locked, white bo-ho types. One woman walks around in what I assume is a very loose halterneck underneath the baby-carrier strapped to her chest. I soon realise she's topless. Only her infant comes between her breasts and the elements (this doesn’t wholly prevent some spillage, mind you). 

There are plenty of proud African men with their European wives/girlfriends in tow; sporting blonde braids and wearing matching wax or kente.

Sona Jobarteh @ The Emmendingen African Festival, August 2019
(c) Gilles Dolatabadi

There are comparatively few women of African descent in the vicinity. A few are selling their wares or mingling in the crowd. 

You could count them all though, jokes Serafine. 

Even at an African culture festival we’re all but invisible.

Some consolation can be found in the fact that the festival is being closed by a strong, talented and resourceful African woman. Sona graces the stage with a regal presence, resplendent in a native red and gold ensemble; her heavy-looking kora strapped to her front (occasionally swapped for the guitar). She has the sharp, figure-eight curves I see on few other women. A little bit of representation goes a long way.

Gael is smitten. He claims her as his wife. Agnès and I threaten to tell his boyfriend, Patric.

T'inquiètes. I’ll just tell him I found better!

I watch with a mix of admiration and unease as Sona pushes past the pain barrier to pluck intricate melodies on her chosen instrument. She does call-and-response stand-off instrumentals with her effervescent percussionist, who habitually challenges his fellow musicians and the audience to keep up. Sona welcomes her son on stage to play the balafon; an African xylophone. The bashful but focused young gent holds his own. He is a pupil at a school Jobarteh has established in Gambia, where local children are immersed in their culture and history alongside standard academic subjects. It’s a superb initiative which she hopes will spread across the continent.

During a rendition of the ode she wrote to celebrate the country's 50th anniversary of independence, Sona calls out to her compatriots. They have shown up in full force to support. There are probably more Gambians present that evening than I’ve come across cumulatively. So elated are they to be represented by their countrywoman, a number of them leap on stage before being ushered away by sluggish security.

Gael is not amused to see other suitors vying for his would-be spouse’s affections.

Is this how they carry on in the Gambia? He says, with mock-indignation. I’m going to write a strongly-worded letter to the embassy!

The feverish atmosphere is contagious. I dance to the very end despite my aching legs. Our group hangs around to chat, take pics (Gael) and stalk Sona (Gael again). 

Unlike me, Serafine has work in the morning.  She nonetheless kindly offers to drop me off home.

At last, we head to her car. A parking ticket has appeared on her windshield. She shrugs it off.

An hour-and-a-half later of deep discussion on the road, and it’s after midnight by the time I step through the door.

Soundtrack: Tabansi Records Sampler– Various Artists (BBE Records)

* LVS will be on a summer break until September. Bel été ! *