Previously…
Claudia, a friend from home in London, messages me a day or so before I have to leave for Portugal, that they will be arriving in Braga on the same day, so I swiftly book a hostel there. It’s a relatively early morning, and when I say “relatively”, it’s always relative to “holiday time” - and that time itself is variable; when staying at a hostel, you have to be considerate of when it is appropriate to turn the lights on, and this morning, at this particular time, I do not turn them on.
With my iPhone is hand, I navigate towards the bus station, and it’s a game of choose-your-own-adventure; either walk up steeply at the start, or continue on a gradual incline. I choose the latter - given the literal weight on my shoulders.
In Braga
I check into the hostel, and the room is empty. I have an 8-bed dorm to myself, but the mattress is still covered in plastic. Everything in this hostel looks new, shiny and clean, but look a little closer; there are a lot of flaws in the worksmanship. It’s only for one night, so I am not too bother with it.
It’s definitely Christmas time in Braga, the music system seems to be connected across the whole city centre playing Christmas-themed songs including a couple of hits from Canadian crooner Michael Bublé among other traditional favourites. Some of the buildings are striking, with their outer walls covered in coloured or patterned tiles, and there also seems to be a few buildings that have been abandoned and are now in a rather run-down state, even though they are located right in the city centre. Even more than usual, there are many churches and cathedrals, seemingly at every corner, as if it’s Pret-a-Manger in London.
Before the evening hits, Claudia and Pedro drive me to a couple of spots that my legs would not have been able to take me to. First destination is Bom Jesus do Monte (my educated guess is that it means Mountain of Good Jesus). The sun is rapidly descending, so Pedro insists that we catch the furnicular up to the top. It’s a special type of furnicular, Pedro tells me. There are 2 trams, with one at the top or the bottom, and for them to go up and down, the vehicle at the top has a tank filled with water and through the magic of physics, its extra weight will make it go down while lifting the other one up. Also, don’t you love the word “furnicular”? It’s such a fun word to say.
At the top is of the hill is, obviously, a church, and the hill that it stands on overlooks the town, but I don’t think I can see the city centre from there. Honestly though, I don’t try very hard. The sun has basically set, and we descend down the stairs this time.
Second stop is a football stadium that is carved out from a defunct quarry, it is an award-winning design that costs the city more than €80 million to construct. However, when we get there, it’s dark and not really accessible. I can just make out a rough silhouette of the building, but nothing else.
Back at the city centre now, I am introduced to a Braga Christmas tradition - drink Portuguese Moscatel wine and then…eat a banana. It’s very odd custom, indeed. Since they are tasty individually, they are tasty together; maybe there are some complementary flavours that elevate each other, but other than that, it’s just something they do now - and as they say, when in Braga. I note to my friends that this can’t be a very old tradition, because bananas aren’t really grown in Portugal. Claudia attempts to take a photo of me in a compromising pose with the banana, but the shop owner stops her just before she presses the button and points at the “no photos” signs. Maybe it helps with creating the mystique and allure of it all, who knows?
It’s time for a proper meal, we arrive at a small Portuguese restaurant called Dona Pestica and order a cold meat and cheese board, and a hot meat board. On the hot meats board is alheira, which is a sausage created by Jews in Portugal, who were at one stage were given the “choice” of being expelled from the country or convert to Christianity, it is made from anything but pork to stay true to their religion, while also being able to fool their neighbours thinking that they have pork sausages hanging in their smokehouses. We also couple our meal with a green wine; it is light and only a little bubbly, which tastes great against the rich, heavy cheeses and meats in front of us.
Despite having quite a filling dinner, we go to Café A Brasileira for a nightcap. Coffee is such a staple drink that I have to remind my friends every time that I don’t drink the beverage, so I order a “hot chocolate” instead. The waiter says that it’s thicker than a normal hot chocolate - so thick, that you actually eat it, and mentions that it’s Portuguese. Even better, I respond. It is served in a mug like a normal hot chocolate, but the spoon sits still in the cup - the consistency of the “drink” is of a thick custard, and the spoon is not for stirring, but scooping. It’s not something I will want to eat every day, or even once a month, but as a holiday or Christmas treat, it goes down well.
Port, you go. Porto, I go.
It’s a sunny day when I arrive in the afternoon at Porto, but I know this is only temporary. Rain is expected, well, for at least as long as I plan to be there. I also discover that after a short break in Braga, I am back in a city of hills. The train station, Sao Bento, I arrive to has spectacular murals on its walls, but I have no time to deal with it all - I have two bags and a literal uphill battle to fight with.
Here’s the section where I summarise my next couple of days, because nothing of import happens. I have lunch, walk around the city, rest a little bit back at the hostel, and have duck rice with codfish croquettes and €4 house wine that I thought would come in a single glass, but turns out to be around half-a-litre; end of day 1. On day 2, it’s raining all day, so I alternate between YouTube videos and writing the Spanish leg of the blog, when I got hungry around lunch time, I run to a nearby burger joint. Then after finishing the post, and wanting to eat something fresh and healthy, when dinner time rolls around, I buy a salad from the supermarket.
Before the Londoners, there are pastries
While in Braga, Claudia had told me she wanted to enrol us in a pastel de nata-making class, but was unable to due to limited class size. Since the Londoners (well, there’s also Gemma and Joachim coming from Barcelona) don’t arrive until around midday, I sign up to the AirBnB “experience”. The session is held in English, and find out that there is a diverse group of participants today as we summarise ourselves in turn. We are first taught of how the Portuguese custard tart came to be, when a monastery closed and the monks started to sell these pastries to make some much needed revenue.
Then it’s finally time to get started with making the tarts, and with 12 people in the class, we are all very polite as we share our duties. We start off with making the custard, which is predominantly sugar, and even though, most of the time goes to making the puff pastry, it turns out that it isn’t actually that hard to make, nor is it too time-consuming. We make 26 tarts, enough for each to have 2. Eagerness means that I burn the roof of my mouth on the initial bite, so I use a spoon to separate the custard to allow it to cool faster. The pastry is crispy and makes satisfying crunchy sounds, but the tea that was brewed is weak - a single teabag for a litre of water, and I stupidly dilute it further with milk.
As I consume our creations, I start getting WhatsApp messages from my friends of their whereabouts. I am first to leave the class at quarter pass midday that was due to finish fifteen minutes ago; I hurry back to my hostel where I had left my bags and walk to my new accommodation for the next 2 days.
I am now reunited once again with Claudia and Pedro, Gemma and Joachim from my earlier journeys, and now with two other London-based couples Emma and Ben, and Tina and Simon. That makes 9 of us. They have joined me at an unfortunate time weather-wise, but this had been planned months ago. Regardless, it’s the company we have that will make the trip memorable.
Friends are important, but let’s talk about food first
But let’s first get the most important thing out of the way; over the next two and half days, we hit these food highlights:
Taberninha do Manel. We were rejected from another restaurant because of our party size, but later settle down in this one. Although I don’t know how the other one would have fared, this one is superb. When we settle down, we decide that the waiter choose our menu for the night. We have wine, we have seafood, we have meat, and although I do not order dessert, I try others. All are delicious.
Burmester Winery. Porto. Port wine. Although not technically produced in Porto, but at the region across the river from it. We take a tour at one of the wineries where the English-speaking guide explains the wine-making process of the different types available. It ends with a glass of the three types, two of which come with chocolates for accompaniment.
Conga. This place serves deliciously juicy bifanas, which is a roll filled with sauteed pork and the juice that the meat had been cooked in, is poured in it as well.
Mercado Bom Sucesso. This food market has a lot of options, and Ben and I decide to go to O Forno do Leitao do Ze, which serves something similar to a bifana, but the pork is a suckling pig; the meal also comes with a drink (we chose sparkling wine), and a packet of crisps. Claudia also orders a box of pastel de nata for all of us, and I tell them about the pastry treat as if I’m an expert now. If you want to try francesinha, a traditional dish local to Porto, Lado B is apparently pretty good for it, and they also offer a vegetarian version if you’re so inclined..
It rains, and clears a little, and rains some more
Apart from the port wine tour at the Burmester Winery, not much is really planned, so on our first full day, we catch an Uber to the seaside where we walk along the coast until we start to get hungry again. This is when we catch a tram, and then walk uphill again, to Mercado Bom Sucesso for lunch. After lunch, Gemma and Joachim parts with us to go back to the flat for a siesta, while we continue on exploring the city. We turn up at Porto’s own Crystal Palace, where there are at least a dozen peacocks in the garden. Even weirder still, is that when we walk around the venue, we inexplicably find a flock of roosters roaming around.
Just before dinner, I meet up with Gemma and Joachim for drinks when the others go inside Livraria Lello, a beautiful bookstore that is packed with people (many, I assume, are there for the Instagram photos), but it has a €5 entry fee that can go towards any purchases. If I buy anything, I have to carry it for the next 6 months. No, thanks.
On the “last” day (last for the others, just another day for me), the weather is unforgiving, so we stay indoors by visiting the old Stock Exchange and then a restaurant nearby before people have to leave for their flights.
It has been great to see some familiar faces and not having to do all the small introductory talks that I have to do at hostels. It’s nice just to chat about, when it comes down to it, nothing - and that’s great.
Illness strikes
On my way to the capital of Portugal, Lisbon, I start to feel weird in my stomach, like it’s cramping, or someone slightly squeezing it. It hurts enough that my body is telling me I should throw whatever it might be making me sick out of my system as soon as possible. There’s still part of the bus trip to go, follow by a metro train ride from the stop, but I hold on.
Immediately after I check into the hostel and drop my belongings in the room, I find the toilets to heave my guts out, which leaves a stomach acid aftertaste. In the afternoon, the hostel has left snacks for the guests in the communal area. I take one, thinking that I should eat something, but soon regret the decision. I can feel the little snack sitting in my stomach. Again, my body wants me to flush out the food I had just ingested.
One of the wonderful things about the Goodmorning Hostel is that it offers free beer and sangria for an hour everyday from 7pm. Even at my state, I force myself to go back downstairs again, but after sitting there for a bit, I realise that I don’t have the energy to do much socialising. I turn in, and sleep for the next 12 hours.
When I wake up, I am better, but know that it’s not yet time to eat anything heavy, and I stick to muesli, despite waffles being on offer. The weather forecast says today is the only sunny day over the next few days, so I have to again force myself to go to Sintra. The hostel provides a tour, but at a hefty €45, I forgo this option, and also still not feeling well, it means that I can call it quits whenever I want.
It’s ALL uphill from here
Missing the train to Sintra by mere minutes, because the Internet had lied to me about the departure time, I eventually arrive in Sintra just before midday. Sintra is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which means that there are a ton of tourists and there are tour guides and drivers waiting at the station vying for your business. I decline all of them, but in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have, and really, I should have just gone with the tour from the hostel.
So it’s a lot of walking. Lots of uphill walking. First up, is Quinta da Regaleira. It’s a quinta, which is a palace in a walled-off estate. The palace itself, is pretty standard affair, and like many I have seen before, this doesn’t really stand out, so I breeze by and stay outdoors. You can see in the distance, up high is the Moorish Castle and it is where I need to be next. I look at my watch, sigh a little at the task before me, and leave for the walking trail that leads up to it.
When I arrive at the hiking trail that leads to the castle, it’s unexpectedly void of anyone else. They have either taken an alternate route, via Vila Sasseti which I later deduced or taken a car to the top. The first part isn’t marked well, and I am basically guided by the saida (exit) signs that point towards me. Eventually, when I reach a point where the path takes a steep incline paired with some rough steps, I start to see people coming down. As the peak of the hike approaches, I am huffing and puffing, stopping for a few seconds, but slow and steady wins the race. Finally, the castle! And what a view!
When I leave the castle to walk back down the same trail that brought me here, I see an Asian family - two older parents, and their grown-up child. The younger adult is looking at his phone trying to figure out where to go when they hit a fork in the track. I notice this, so when I eventually catch up to them, I literally point them to the right direction. At some point, the elderly are not fast enough to keep pace, and I feel slightly guilty that perhaps I should have stayed with them a little bit longer.
Matt explains MAAT
By Wednesday, I am about 90% back up to health, and although another dreary day is expected, it doesn’t turn out that way. However, given the walk that I had the day prior, I mainly stick around the hostel except to grab a bifana nearby and a much-needed healthy smoothie to go with it for lunch. When happy hour comes around, I am able to join in fully, attentively and enthusiastically, where we start playing a game of Cockroach Poker; one of the few games I brought with me on the trip. I am joined by other guests, including Matt from the States and James from the UK. They have just been to MAAT, a museum they have found hilariously odd and details some of the peculiar exhibits they saw. It is after all, a contemporary museum, but I am curious to see it for myself.
The MAAT, Museum of Art, Architecture and Technology, is no MOMA of New York City or Tate Modern of London, is exhibiting some interesting interactive art pieces. A piece is just the game of Grand Theft Auto, where people are getting shot, but at the bottom of the screen displays the date and number of gun deaths in USA. There is also a room, where furniture and household items are made of bricks. And another is a game where you are messaging with your sister Nour who is trying to escape to Beirut, but the game is long, and I am unable to see the outcome. The most striking exhibition though, is what looks like a small house from the outside, but when you enter upstairs, it’s actually a gay bathhouse; the heaters are on, and one of the shower head is on and the water flows through the grated floor into the “spa” downstairs. It’s a visual feast, and there are a lot of details to create an immersive experience. It is overall a worthwhile experience.
Not so Fado
It’s happy hour again, and there’s a decision to go to a restaurant that also has a fado show. A taskmaster Asian woman organises the booking and informs us that we have to stop our drinking and go NOW! When we arrive at the place, there isn’t enough room to sit together, so four of us sit at a separate set of tables, including the aforementioned Matt and James. Looking at the menu, I am astounded at the prices, compared to what I have been used to, this is definitely a tourist trap, but I have to eat. I order a couple of “cheap-ish” dishes (codfish and rice), and so do the others. James orders a fish cake as his starter, and when it turns up, it looks like a turd-coloured stubby finger. He is not happy with the situation, and we make fun of how terrible the experience is. The fado performance itself isn’t too bad, actually good, but we only stay for a couple of sets. By now, Storm Elsa is unleashing her powers, and the rain is bucketing down.
We eventually catch a taxi back to the hostel, where we have beer and snacks, before having to say my farewells to the new friends that I have made.