This is the last of my catch-up posts, covering our first few days in Portugal (March 19 to 22), when Ralph and Pat were still with us. The final post in this blog is still to come. It will cover our great, if brief, visit with daughter Caitlin in Scotland. This one picks up just after we crossed the border from Spain into Portugal.
We made it to
Albufeira before 4 p.m., and located a tourist information centre. The not-very-friendly attendant directed us to a horrendously touristy hotel strip
in the centre of the city. She wouldn’t make any recommendations, or give any
other assistance. No, they didn't have Wi-Fi we could use. The area she sent us to was pretty much my nightmare of a tawdry
seaside resort, with cheap souvenir and beach clothing shops, everything geared
to the foreign, mostly English, tourists who have made this place what it is.
We started driving
away from the mess in the centre, and happened on another TIC. The guy there
wasn’t exactly overflowing with enthusiasm for his job either, but was a little more willing
to help. We told him we wanted somewhere quiet, far from nightclubs and
restaurants – which we were beginning to despair of being able to do given how far the commercial mess stretches along this coast. He
directed us to an area outside Albufeira proper, and recommended a couple of
hotels. He suggested we use the office’s Wi-Fi to connect to Bookings.com and reserve
a hotel online. We chose the Falesia,
billed as four-star, and booked it for a very reasonable-sounding $87 (Canadian) for each
room, breakfast included.
When we got there, we
couldn’t believe our luck. This is a hotel that at home would cost well over
$200 a night – and might cost that much here in season. The rooms, on the third
floor, facing away from the front, were large, airy and well-appointed, with
good beds. They had balconies
overlooking a quiet garden. Wi-Fi was free. We discovered there was a 15€
buffet dinner available, which we immediately decided to avail ourselves of.
The place was an oasis of calm and quiet. Perfect.
Once we’d settled in,
we made inquiries about staying a second night and, surprisingly, were able
to get it for the same rate. Our original plan had been to stay one night, then
drive on towards Lisbon so we’d be within easier striking distance of the
airport, where we had to drop our rental car before noon the next day. But the
drive was only going to be two and a half hours. We decided we could get there
in good time from Albufeira.
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| On the balcony of our hotel room |
The dinner was good,
not great, but with lots of choice, lovely fresh salad things, several
selections of main course, and many desserts. The service, from the young wait
staff was friendly, even charming. They all seemed to have very good English, and enjoyed using it. We gorged ourselves. And went to bed early.
Breakfast the next
morning was also good, again with lots of choices, fabulous fruit. We gorged again.
Later in the morning, we went for a long-ish walk along a very convoluted route
to get to the nearest beach. There are a couple of large private condo and
hotel complexes between our hotel and the water. The hotel does provide a free
shuttle bus service, but we wanted a walk. (The distance to the beach may be
another reason the hotel is as inexpensive as it is.)
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| Pepto-Bismol pink beach house in Albufeira |
The beach was accessible
by a broken set of wooden stairs down a cliff. The views from the cliff were
spectacular. The beach is wide and sandy, with lovely prospects along it. Not
long after we got down there, it started to rain. It was a very light rain, but
the sky looked threatening, so we turned around and started back. We did a
little shopping on the way back to the hotel, and snacked on cheese and chips
for lunch.
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| Albufeira beach |
In the afternoon, we
decided to find Fisherman’s Beach, which according to a brochure we picked up at the
TIC, was a typical Portuguese fishing village, with the old town of Albufeira rising
up the hill behind it. It was nothing like that, just a beach with a lot of
tacky restaurants and souvenir shops and tired-looking condo blocks around it.
By the time we found it, the sky looked very bruised and ready to let loose.
We walked back to the car park and high-tailed it to the hotel. Wasted time.
The dinner that evening was very good again, with a whole different array of
main dishes.
We retired early, to pack and get ready for our quick get-away the next morning.
If It’s Thursday, This Must Be Lisbon
Our aim was to have
everything ready, then go down for breakfast right at 8 when the dining room
opened. Before we went down, Ralph and I
both went separately and settled our bills. On mine, there were drinks from dinner the
first night, but nothing else, no mention of the 15€ each for dinner the two nights. We
thought we’d charged it to our rooms. I didn’t really think much about it, but
Ralph was puzzled and asked. He was told that the dinner was included in the room rate. We
were stunned. So we got a 4-star hotel room with a pretty decent buffet breakfast
and dinner, for $87 a night. How
do they make money?
Miss TomTom guided us
flawlessly to the Lisbon airport. It took a little over two hours, mostly
through pretty, hilly countryside, along a very impressive motorway. Ominous clouds started building as we got closer to the city. Check-in at the Avis garage was slick, with no
billing surprises. We grabbed a cab and were at the apartment – in the Graca
neighbourhood, just down the street from the Senhora do Monte miradouro (lookout point) – by 12:30,
exactly when I’d told Rita we would be there. Rita, however, wasn’t there. I
called her and she said, oh, her husband was coming, but he was 15 minutes
away. Why didn’t we go down the hill and grab a coffee? Well, no, we had way too
much luggage to do that.
So we cooled our
heels in front of the apartment building on a narrow strip of sidewalk for 30
minutes. It was threatening rain. The little three-wheel tuk-tuk tourist buses
kept hurtling past us down the hill, along with a steady stream of car traffic.
Another resident went in the front door, and kindly let us into the lobby.
Henrique (we think that’s his name) finally showed up, accompanied by his
three-and-a-half-year-old son. He seemed a nice fellow, in his late 30s or
early 40s. He showed us into the
apartment, explained everything in pretty decent English and left us.
Our apartment
entrance is on the ground floor, but the building is on a hill, so at the front,
we’re two floors up. We can see out over the hill to the centre of town. The view,
a slightly obstructed version of the one from the miradouro up the street, is fantastic. We can see the castle, an as
yet unidentified church-like building off to the left, the Ponte 25 de Abril (a
suspension bridge across the Tagus river) in the distance, and lots and lots of
tile rooftops.
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| View from miradouro at the top of our street |
Once we’d settled in,
we walked up to the miradouro and
then into Graca to get ourselves oriented in the neighbourhood. We had lunch at
a little working man’s bistro – ribs and pork strips with fried potatoes and rice, washed down with beer and wine
(and water). We paid more money for it than we’d have paid in Valencia.
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| Karen keeps watch while Ralph and Pat hold up the pastry shop |
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| Street art: Graca |
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| Our lunch spot in Graca |
A trio
of working stiffs was ordering a liqueur-like fortified wine, served over ice,
and drinking it very quickly standing at the zinc bar. We were curious and
asked about it. The owner (we think she was the owner) brought us little sample
glasses of the stuff. It was a bit sweet and sticky but not as awful as I
expected. On the way back to the apartment, we stopped at a very crowded Pingo
Doce supermercado and bought groceries for the next couple of days.
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| Graca street scene |
Later in the
afternoon, we walked (steeply) downhill from Graca to a large plaza we could
see from our miradouro, Martim Moniz.
(It’s also called the Dragon Square, for a modern sculpture of a sea serpent in
the middle.) This is where the closest Metro stop to our apartment is.
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| Street scenes in Graca neighbourhood |
We
walked a little way up Rua Palma (which turns into Avenida Almirante Reis after a few blocks), admiring the tile-fronted buildings, then cut
in and up towards Graca, through a pretty little square (Largo do Intendente) with more fabulous
tile-fronted buildings, and street art. The avenue, and the neighbourhood in general, seemed a bit dilapidated to our eyes.
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| Largo do Intendente Pina Manique |
The evening back at
the aparment passed, with snacking on dessert-y things, reading, nattering,
drinking beer, etc. And then we went to bed.
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| Arch built to commemorate 1755 earthquake that destroyed much of Lisbon |
Yesterday, Sunday, we
walked down to the river by a shorter route than we had gone the morning
before, through Martim Moniz again, and then down the pedestrian shopping
streets, through the triumphal arch. The area at the bottom of these streets is
a part of the city that was badly damaged by an earthquake in 1755, and rebuilt
by military engineers in a grid pattern. The plazas are expansive, the
buildings 18th century neo-classical. Very pretty.
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| Panoramic view of Commerce Square, part of the reconstruction after the 1755 earthquake |
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| Looking down river from Commerce Square: April 25 Bridge (named for date of 1975 coup that restored democracy) |
While Pat shopped for
souvenirs for her family at some little artisanal booths set up along one side
of Praça do Comércio, the main square at the river, Karen and I and Ralph
wandered about the square and admired the views over the river. After a
toilet-and-coke stop at a cafe – public toilets are few and far between in
Lisbon apparently – we decided the next activity should be a self-guided
walking tour of the Alfama area. It was once a modest fisherman’s
neighbourhood, built up the sides of a hill from the river front. Now it’s a very
trendy district, and home to the city’s cathedral and iconic hilltop castle.
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| Cathedral: Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa |
We found the
cathedral and went in. There was a Palm Sunday service on. The church looked
like it might be worth a visit for Karen and I at some point later in our stay,
but it’s nothing spectacular, surprisingly austere. It was nice to see it in
use, though – the pews were packed.
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| Near Castelo |
At the gates to the
castle, we turned back down. We went down a long, winding street of stairs,
festooned with street art. It’s in the nature of Lisbon that to get anywhere,
you have to go down, then up. Or up, then down. It was the case here. There may
be a long way around from the hill the Castelo is on to Graca, but the most
direct way is back down the castle hill and then up the Graca hill. Somewhat
exhausting. Once we got back to the apartment, we were pretty much done for the
day, again.
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| Long stepped street near castelo |
Ralph and I did go back out for a quick shop in Graca. And later in the evening, we went up to "our" miradouro for the sunset, which was lovely. After that: total exhaustion. What a joy it is getting old!
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| Miradouro da Senhora do Monte |
Today, the plan was
to buy transit day passes, and take the highly-recommended No. 28 tram, which
wends its way through several picturesque city neighbourhoods. And also other
modes of transportation the passes give you access to, such as the elevators
and funiculars. It didn’t happen for Karen and I.
Ralph and Pat had
already bought their day passes the day before when they went out on their own
in the late afternoon. We all walked down to Martim Moniz to the subway in the
morning, and enquired about 30-day passes for us: not a bad deal at 35€ each. It took us a few interviews with
station staff to establish finally that we could not do it there as we had to
have a photo identity card made up first. This could only be done at one of two
big stations, both some way off. It would take a day to get the cards. And we
could not pay for anything with a non-Portuguese credit card. Why? It makes no
sense, when every other vendor in the country can accept foreign credit cards
without any problem.
I then tried to buy
two day passes for Karen and I, with cash. The automatic machines – the only
way you can buy tikets at this station – kept wanting to charge me 24€, when it should have been 13€. I’m sure it was something I was doing wrong, but I
could not figure it out, and was getting very frustrated. In the meantime, Pat
and Ralph had gone and lined up for the No. 28 tram, and were anxiously waiting
for us to finish and join them. We finally went over to where they were queuing
and told them to go on without us, which they did.
Karen and I started
walking to the nearest of the two super-stations where we could apply for the identity
cards we needed for the 30-day passes, Marques do Pombal. It was up the grand
Avenida do Libertade, a broad avenue with boulevards on either side of a
four-lane road, flanked by service roads. It’s lined with hotels, banks and
designer fashion shops. It took us a while to work our way over to it from
where we were. As we discovered later, there was a very simple route to get us
to the foot of the avenue, but we ended up traipsing over hills and down,
through a major hospital area. Our convoluted route had the advantage of taking
us through a lovely little park, apparently undiscovered by tourists, with
great views out over the city. This city is lousy with miradouros.
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| Park near hospital - note single-seater park benches with footstools |
When we finally found
the Marques do Pombal station, the attendant at the ticket booth explained that
their system was down that day, and they couldn’t process applications for
identity cards. Argh! Another wasted trip. Except it wasn’t wasted, because it had been a very enjoyable walk – the
weather sunny, with great cloudscapes. And
it wasn’t over. We continued on up from the subway station, into the
Parque Eduardo VII – named after the English King Edward VII – a broad green
space with greenhouses on one side, a dilapidated sports palace under
renovation, looking like it dated from the 18th century, on the other. A platform
at the end offers more fabulous views, down the Avenida to the river.
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| Front entrance of Rossio train station |
Not long after we sat
down at one of the outdoor tables, the staff seated another party at the table
beside us, a trio of very young American girls. Karen thought they were as old
as 14 or 15, I thought younger, possibly only 12 or 13. Either way, what were
they doing out on their own in a big foreign city – and in a not particularly
savoury area? I speculated that one of them may have been living here, the
others visiting. They all, especially the one, seemed quite confident. But I
noticed she made no attempt to speak Portuguese.
After they left, a
bunch of rough-looking English guys, obviously a busking band, with
instruments, including double bass and guitar, came and sat at the tables
behind us. They had a dog with them. One ordered a bowl of soup. The others
sort of milled around the table. One went off at one point and came back with a
liter bottle of beer. I asked him what kind of music they played. He said,
“Mostly swing – but really anything, everything.” I think they were just
sheltering from the coming rain, and not wanting to spend too much money.
It had been
threatening rain for some time. The forecast called for thunder showers, and
even specified the time: 3:15 p.m. We thought we’d miss it by sitting down
under the restaurant’s awnings. No such luck. When we came away from the
restaurant, the sky was very dark, and we heard some grumbling. We finally
oriented ourselves with the map and headed up a street that appeared to be the epicentre
of Little Angola or Little Cabo Verde, with traditionally dressed, very big
African women selling produce in a small square, and lots of lean,
aimless-looking young and middle-aged
men hanging around in the streets and lounging in doorways. Karen felt
uncomfortable with it. I thought it was interesting.
We found a set of
steps down to Martim Moniz square. We knew the way home from there. But just as
we got to the square, the heavens opened. We ducked into a Chinese grocery store, and
it started to teem. The time: 3:20 p.m. We waited about ten minutes and then
started across the square, stopping under the tents set up for vendors when it
started to rain heavily again. When we got to the other end of the square, the
rain pretty much stopped and we walked, by our now familiar route, up to the
apartment.
I went out to do a
shop. The Hoots showed up about 6:30, looking a little damp and bedraggled. We
gather they hadn’t had a terrific day, one thing and another. It hailed where
they were apparently. They almost immediately went out again to grocery shop as
they hadn’t eaten much and it was supposedly their turn to cook.
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| Twilight views from apartment windows |
Sintra
Tuesday was the
Hoots’ last full day in Portugal. It was supposed be nice weather – 59C and
partly cloudy. We planned a day trip to Sintra, a small city 40 minutes or so
north of Lisbon. It’s historic hilltop town centre has been named a UNESCO
World Heritage site for all the royal palaces and other cultural attractions
there. The modern city – it’s the size of London, Ontario – is down below.
The train journey was
as advertised. The national rail company runs trains from Lisbon to Sintra every
45 minutes or so. Ours, at 9:40, was packed. When we arrived at the other end,
it was a crowd scene, one that never really dissipated. This is a very popular place. (We’re hoping the
crowds we’ve encountered everywhere in Portugal since arriving, especially in
Lisbon and Sintra, are as large as they have been because it’s the week before
Easter break, and Portuguese and other Europeans are taking holidays. We’ll see
next week.)
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| Views from road up to Sintra town centre: National Palace with distinctive kitchen chimneys |
We walked up from the
train station along a switchback road with fabulous views, pretty gardens below,
and lined with modern sculpture. Sintra’s old town and the palaces and Moorish
fort are spread up a very steep mountain. It was a summer-time resort for royals,
aristocracy and the rich, because the weather isn’t quite as stinky-hot up the
hill. We would be doing a lot of climbing.
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| Panoramic view of Sintra old town from porch of National Palace: Moorish fort on hill |
After a 15-minute
walk, we came to the old town, with the the National Palace looming over it.
The building is on the site of the palace of Moorish rulers of Lisbon, which
was then part of Al-Andalus (from which, present-day Andalucia in Spain).
Nothing of the Moorish building remains. Most of what stands there now was
built in the 1400s or later. The most distinctive feature of the exterior is
the building’s pair of funnel-shaped kitchen chimneys.
We went first to the
Tourist Information Centre, where I was irked to find they charged to use the
toilet – only 50 cents, but it’s the principle. Sintra is an expensive place to
visit. The government train company lures you here with low fares – only 5€ return. But then you pay through the nose to enter the
attractions – 9€
and 12.50€ for the two palaces we visited. And then they
make you pay to take a leak? I swore I would never pay to pee, but I did here
because I was busting. When I came out, I left the door ajar for the next
person. Ha, showed them!
Pockets bulging with
glossy brochures about the attractions, we walked back to the National
Palace, paid the entry fee and went in. Compared to royal palaces in England
and France, this one is austere. No great works of art, very little gold and
silver. Not that I’m a huge fan of gaudy, but when you tour a royal palace, you
want to come away feeling a little disgusted by the excess. My Eat The Rich
political philosophy was born in the stately homes of England.
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| Interior views of National Palace |
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| Views from National Palace into gardens |
There are some
very pretty things here, including gorgeous tile work, of course – once-Moorish
Iberia is known for it. The gardens, which are also open, looked drab and not
very well looked after, though they had a kind of dilapidated charm. You needed
to use your imagination to see what they might have been in their heyday.
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| Views of and from the gardens of the National Palace |
By this time, it was
clear we were not going to get the weather promised. It was cool – and
would get cooler – and overcast. In fact, it looked like rain was very
possible. I was comfortable enough, but the others were under-dressed (though
none would admit it.)
We went looking for a
place to eat, walking up the hill from the town centre. We finally got past all
the tacky tourist shops and sandwich places and found a quite nice looking spot,
Tacho Real, in a relatively quiet area. There was a guitarist busking in the
entrance. (I still feel guilty about not tipping him.) It was a surprisingly
formal dining room, with waiters in dark suits and bow ties, but presided over
by a casually dressed older man in corduroys, a sweater and scarf. We assumed
he was the owner. He waited on us when we first came in, a very courtly fellow
with a twinkle in his eye. The rest of the time we were served by a very
eager-to-please young man who had a bit of the cross-eyed, pop-eyed demeanour
of Marty Feldman. (He made me smile.) We all had hunks of meat with a shared
salad to start: very tender and flavourful meat – not always to be found in
southern Europe – pork for Ralph and I, steak for the ladies.
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| Ralph and Pat at Tacho Real restaurant in Sintra |
Total for the four of
us with wine and beer: 73€. In terms of quality – and maybe value too – it was probably
the best meal Karen and I have had in Europe this year. It certainly wasn’t the
cheapest, but you expect to pay more in touristy places like this.
The restaurant owner told
us it was a 25-minute walk up to the Pena Palace, the next stop on our
itinerary. We may have misunderstood him, or he may have misunderstood us. It
was more like 45 minutes, hiking uphill along a switchback roadway. And that
was just to get to the entrance to the extensive gardens around the palace. Then
it was another 25 minutes up to the palace. A couple of tuk-tuk drivers stopped
beside us as we trudged up the first part of the route and offered a lift – for
5€ each. We declined. “Are you sure,” persisted one young woman driver, “it’s
a long way up there.” I wasn’t so
sure, but the others scoffed.
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| Views from just below the Pena Palace |
Pena Palace is a
crazy place, built in the late 19th century on the site of an ancient monastary
by some of the last of Portugal’s kings. The views from the fairytale
battlements are fantastic. The architecture, inside and out is...fantastic. See
the pictures. But it’s so high up. I kept thinking, why would these royals and
aristocrats want to be this isolated? It’s perhaps little wonder that the
monarchy was soon after overthrown (1910): the king had so little time for his
people that he wanted to be as remote from them and inaccessible as possible. You
can see Lisbon from the palace on a clear day, I just read – and we could see a fairly large urban build-up
off in the distance that may have been Lisbon – but in horse-and-carriage days,
it would have been a day-long journey.
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| Panoramic view of front of Pena Palace - storm clouds forming |
At Pena, you definitely
do get that feeling of eat-the-rich excess. The rooms, especially in the older
part of the palace, in the part that had been a monastery, are surprisingly
small and low-ceilinged for a royal residence – in particular the dining room (see
pic) – but the decorations are rich enough. I especially enjoyed the trompe-l’oeille painting that turns
vaulted stone ceilings and walls into quite convincing imitations of wood
panelling or more fanciful wall-papered surfaces. Some of the furniture still
looks practically brand new. It’s clear very little expense was spared.
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| Dining room, Pena Palace |
By the time we came
back out again, it was unbelievably cold. It clearly had never got up to the
forecast 59C, and the temperature appeared to be dropping fast. There was also
rain in the air. We felt a few spits as we started back down.
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| Impressive stone carving over main gate into inner courtyard |
There was no
question of exploring the gardens – for which we had paid with our entry fee,
and walked through on the way up from the entrance. It was too cold, and we
were too tired. We walked back to the entrance by a much quicker route than we
had come up. I insisted we grab one of the tuk-tuk cabs (small three-wheeled,
motor bike-like things with two rows of seats behind the driver.) The others
were still saying, “Oh, we can do the walk” – even Karen. But I was done in,
and did not fancy walking in the cold rain and icy wind.
She took us right to
the train station for 5€ each. A lot for a cab ride, but money well spent in my
opinion. It was not the most comfortable ride, however: bumpy, jerky and cool.
We waited about 25 minutes for the next train to Lisbon. The day ended with
snacking back at the apartment, and helping organize the Hoots’ departure the
next morning. We ordered them a taxi online to get them to the airport. Ralph had finally given up on his earlier
insistence that they would take public transit. They could have done, but it
would have meant dragging their bags down a steep hill over cobble stones for
10 or 15 minutes to get to the nearest Metro stop, then humping them downstairs
to the platform, waiting for a train and changing trains at some point. And all
to save 20€? It made no sense.
The next morning, we
were all up at 5:30 a.m. with Pat’s alarm. No worries: I wasn’t sleeping
anyway. When the idiot cab driver came, he didn’t come to our door, but stopped
at the bottom of the street, presumably to avoid going around on the one-way
street system. So we had to drag the bags down a short way. And then off they
went.
Bon
voyage,
Hoots! It was a great visit, very busy, with much travel and touring. Karen and
I were frankly exhausted. That day was a complete down day. We did go out
shopping to the local Pingo Doce, but that was it. In the evening, we watched
the first episode of the new season of Better
Call Saul. Normalcy returns.
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