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In Which I Swap Biking For Life As A Suburban Commuter
October 3, 2007 by Mike
Vila Do Conde
In the nicest possible way, I appear to have taken root here. This is a happy state of affairs, for the campsite is as friendly and accommodating as I described yesterday, and there is plenty to see and do in the surrounding area. There are lots of cats here.
Besides, two headlines from Tuesday's paper make deciding where to go next rather difficult:
"Dangerous assaults on campers in the north of the country"
"Torrential rain strikes Lisbon and the south of the country"
It would, nevertheless, be remiss of me not to note the main reason for staying here so long. I would be failing in my responsibilities and duties to you.. and to myself. So. The reason I'm still here is that the clothes that got washed on Monday morning still aren't dry. Light drizzle on the first evening, a full-on rainstorm on Tuesday afternoon, persistent and freezing fog yesterday: conditions are conspiring against me. The fact that I'm a bloke and fundamentally ill-prepared for domesticity may be a factor, though I have at last discovered someone who enjoys my cooking:
I can't say I've been busy, in any kind of sense that you who work for a living would understand, but I have visited a replica 16th century Portuguese trading vessel (a 'nau'), drunk a few coffees, read a couple of local papers, sat on the beach, chatted to barkeeps, campsite receptionists, old men sitting on sea walls, been kissed on the cheek by a three-year-old girl who fell in love with my bike helmet and whose mother took a bit of a shine to me too, watched some Champions League games involving Portuguese sides, surfed Facebook, read my book, gazed out to sea, fretted at the weather, watched a convivial group of retired fishermen playing cards -- all backslaps, laughter, astonishment, feints, hidden winks, raised voices, nutty brown tans, more laughter -- spilled tomato sauce on my only wearable trousers, checked and re-checked the state of my drying clothes.
I went to Porto on the Metro. 22 stops in something like three-quarters of an hour to reach the centre. Yackk.. that's why I don't live in the 'burbs. (Coming back in the evening rain and having to walk the two miles to the campsite in squelchy flipflops made up my mind if I was in any doubt.)
Porto: hmmmm. I started with the best intentions, but the Romantic Museum (well, Romantic Architecture) was closed for an early lunch, the Museum of Transport & Communications was closed for a fashion show and the Museum of the Stock Exchange was closed for repairs. I retreated to a bar.
When lunch was finally over - their lunch taking even longer than mine -- I visited the Museum of the Infante Henrique (Casa do Infante): Henry the Navigator, who should be the world's most famous Portuguese and probably still would be if it wasn't for Cristiano Ronaldo's kiss-curl. Sad to say, it wasn't worth the wait. The museum looks promising but like the rival chocolate snacks in the old Twix advert -- one bite and it's gone. Get this - there's actually nothing about Henry or the series of Navigations he sponsored that took little Portugal around the world and helped western Europe establish its global dominance. There's just some models of what the house looked like 500 and 300 years ago. Like I said - hmmmm.
To the Cathedral. Well, Saramago visits it in 'Journey To Portugal' so I have some reference to work off there. I spot a fountain he describes in some detail, but none of the Jewish graves he remarks on. I enjoy the peace of the cloisters (and so I bloody well should - they charge €2 to get in) but can't enjoy the shimmering, glittering treasury, the gold and silver, the bishops' robes and mitres, the art, the pomp and finery, without comparing these riches with the arch poverty just outside. the cathedral is built on top of a hill, it's the hub of the city and the centre of an area designated a World Heritage Site by Unesco: it's a most beautiful evocation of red-roofed, white-walled, mediaeval southern European urban poverty. The houses are squashed together, upper floors leaning across alleyways so you could spring from one house to the nest, limbless beggars, washing hanging from every window, paint peeling, windows broken, dogs barking, children playing in the dirt of a dank doorway, drunks prostrate in the afternoon, the smell of damp, no sunlight penetrating this deep, empty eyes, flies, graffiti.
And the thing is -- nobody's going to do anything to improve the lives of the people who live here because the rest of us are to busy coming to coo and take photographs and marvel at the beauty of their squalor. Clean up? Install plumbing? Install hope? What -- and risk losing our Unesco status?
--
Later in the evening a troop of wild-eyed youths come racing up the street. They're wearing gang colours, shouting slogans and jumping. Whooping, even. Pedestrians are forced to leap into the busy street for cover. There are perhaps 60 of them, whipped into a frenzy by the power of the mob. A slightly older man appears to be their leader. He shouts a command. They stop in an instant, bumping up against each other and an old man who hadn't heard them coming. Shopkeepers come to their front doors to discover the source of the commotion. Half of me is thinking - Nuremburg rally. The other half is thinking -- street gang/ mob attack/ getoutofherequickwhileyoustillcan and then..
.. oh, it's OK. They're young Christians. Nothing to worry about there, then. Our future is safe in their hands.
--
Across the river Douro, signs advertise the product that made Porto the second city of the land: Delaforce, Croft, Taylor's, Offley, Sandeman. Such was the power of the money that the British Empire spent on sticky wine that an entire city and region prospered.
--
I'm still waiting for my clothes to dry.
--
On Wednesday night, two more campers arrive in the bar. Jan - Belgian, wild of eye and hair; Erica - feeder of feral cats. They're cycling from Ghent to Cadiz. We've seen many of the same places and faces along the way. It's interesting to get their take. We don't see or hear or smell the same things.. and yet we do. It's a good, late night in which I discover that I can hold my drink rather better than certain people. (Mentioning no names, JAN.)
--
I have a date for tomorrow night. He's not really my type: Vitor is a driving instructor who got his pupil to follow me through Vila do Conde until I stopped and he could shout to me through the window of his car. He's a fellow biker -- rode to Tallinn this year -- and we're meeting at 10 to swap war stories. 10! To get food! I'm normally in bed by then!
I don't normally reveal what happens on my dates -- too much of a gentleman -- but on this occasion I may make an exception. Right. I'm off to do my hair!
Comments
By Carlos Henrique | October 14, 2007 6:50 PM
Olá Mike
I wait that its trip is to elapse of its affability.
In its daily one of trip, it liked to be able folloies it and to know the main cities or localities for where it passes, for who follows it in the trip to have a ideia for where the Mike is to pass.
It is the order. Continuation of very good trip.
Carlos Henrique
14/10/2007
By Carlos Henrique | April 1, 2008 9:25 PM
Hello Mike
From his passage for S. Martinho of Oporto, and of our meeting in the park of camping of that town that not more he had known about his person and about his travel.
So I wait that everything is well with you, and that the whole travel is running well.
Again here I want to leave my embrace of solidarity, waiting that the future itineraries keep on passing very well, and that with good time it could enjoy the beautiful sceneries for this world it had been.
A great embrace
Very good travel.
Carlos Henry
01/04/2008
By Mike With | April 12, 2008 11:14 AM
Carlos
Muito obrigado!
--Mike
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By karen With | October 7, 2007 10:47 AM
Here we 3 are reading and listening to your tales - Mike writes well say 2 proud parents and a sis!!!
We may take a perambulate later!!!