Weird things we saw today

All travel involves immersion in different cultures. Today we saw a number of things that, from our perspective, were just weird.

Number one: amazing metal hammered reliefs and carvings in the Cathedrals of Porto. However at the Last Supper it seems the meal was, umm, a puppydog? Maybe this means something? Bad artistry?

Number two: From Fatima, we are used to the rather physical votive candles: the assorted weird limbs, babies, severed breasts but a soccer ball?! You really think Jesus is taking time away from preventing earthquakes or saving drowning people to make your soccer team win?

Number three: Saint Nicholas the Patron Saint of children: three kids were kidnapped and beheaded and stuffed inside a barrel. Then Saint Nicholas went and prayed for them and they sprang resurrected from "a pickle barrel".

Number four: the saint that got all their teeth pulled out. She stands waving a big pair of plyers with a big, gross bloody tooth in the tongs. Patron saint of toothaches and those without dental care.

I think that's one important Saint.

Number Five: absolutely disgraceful behavior of Glasgow football fans last night. They took over the Ribera pier: preparation for the game against Braga.

Probably a thousand tanked Glaswegians, smashing glasses, bottles, chanting and puking and pissing everywhere.

They were so bold they actually broke open a water main and had it flowing down towards the river so they could have an active toilet /vomiting area in a small street next to the square to purge;  "have a slash" and resume the festivities.

Number six: normalize the worst.
































Number two:

Porto Goes Through a Change

We were in Porto 15 years ago when very few tourists went to Portugal. I guess we were in The Age of Discovery from a turista point of view.

We now remember we had had a miserable few days in Coimbra when a fierce gale hit, turning the city into a river. Soaking shoes, filthy laundry with nary a place to even wash it. Slipping on greasy cobblestones cursing the heavy backpacks and foul weather.

Just before the storm hit we went to an ancient river gate, just as the winds turned.  A few medieval statues stared down at us surrounded by cold stones.

 I knew in my bones that hundreds of years ago plague victims were quarantined here and left to die.

You could feel a vile chill. I can't describe it anyway else. Inquisition, cruelty and man's inhumanity to man.

Out of Coimbra we arrived in Porto via train.

With the guide book that sadly tried to rouse us about the glories of the "gritty" city of Porto, I urged Catherine to look at the brilliant azelujos tiles that graced the train station.

Hauling a wet and now smelly backpack of dirty, heavy clothes meant she was about as interested in the walls as I would be about staring at old concrete.

I can't remember our hotel. Only that we walked through crumbling infrastructure, pitted roads down to Ribera.  There was garbage everywhere. The buildings were faded and sad.

We walked to the Port Vaults and the few open were neglected and you got a brief and impatient tour.

I remember saying to Catherine that if they got money and renovated this place it could be a gold mine. Fix it up, all the medieval buildings, river, boats. Put some cafes in they would have a bonanza.

So from the mouth of a babe. Porto did just that. The EU invested gobs of money; Portuguese renovated the city, still a work in progress.

We can barely recognize the cold, dead harbour that thrives now with boats, tourists, cafes, art and new bridges, revamped palaces, small enchanting cable cars and revenue.

A restaurant owner, 35, tells me it all started in 2010. He, like me, can't believe the changes. But he laments the change though it benefits the town. With the investment the rents increase and old Porto, the heart as he calls it, is pushed out.

Gentrification, I say? "No not really like that. It needs to happen. But just in a more balanced way. I think, I hope we can do that."

Alcobaca

Yesterday to the very interesting town of Alcobaca. The site of a huge monastery home to 999 Cistercian monks at its peak praying in non-stop shifts.

Remember, back then, the warrior class really took the Commandments seriously. They knew what they were doing was wrong but counted on the power of numerous poor monks and nuns to intervene on their behalf by praying. The Knights and kings were confident that the endless prayer cycles by those so holy and devout would weigh in their favour and reduce their time in purgatory.

 They donated gobs of wealth to keep the prayers going making these houses of simple wealthier and wealthier.

The Cistercian were the silent ones begun by St. Bernard of Claireveaux who galvanized Europe by preaching the 2nd Crusade.  Many think he did so in part to rid Europe of the detritus of nasty knights who pillaged and murdered their fellow god-fearing Christians.

What better way to get the proverbial kids who wouldn't move out of the basement, away than lure them away with gold, riches and the opportunity to slaughter new populations.

As impressive as I've ever seen.  The ceilings at least 20 meters straight up on tall stalks of thin columns jutting sraight to what looks like heaven.

A beautiful and peaceful garden with orange and lemon trees where the monks meditated.

Now not sure how much the monKS actually meditated. You go to the kitchen and a giant chimney indicates how much delicious food the monks enjoyed. There, two marble slabs over 20 feet in length and 5 feet in width where the many lay brothers (servants) worked non stop to ensure the bigger brothers were sufficiently stuffed.

Apparently the order was shuttered when stories of the decadence and outrageous conduct of the monks became too much for the church to sweep under the carpet.

So now the marvel of architecture sits empty of persons other than the tourists that wander the cloisters our jaws awed by the enormity of it all; and still pondering how generations of stone masons and their children constructed such a thing namelessly, only for the greater glory of God.

Obidos and Penises

We are in a beautiful medieval town, Obidos, featuring small cobblestone streets, enchanting street lamps, a pillory (for whipping 14th century wrongdoers) and a very impressive castle.

Every July the town features a huge medieval fest and the inner walls of the Castelo sport faux 12th century stables and stalls in readiness for the trip back in time.

The town also holds court in December as Christmas central where throngs of tourists come to celebrate the holiday.

Starting in April, tour bus after tour bus arrive making the streets impassable given the number of visitors.

 We are however in the bottom of down season so we have the town to ourselves.

Still small tourist shops line the streets thicker than Niagara on the Lake but sport some interesting items for sale.

Many cork purses, hats and shoes; the ubiquitous tiles, Our Lady of this and that and then surprisingly, Umm Dildos.

In a Christmas and kids theme store, Catherine came from the back where all I saw were charming felt and wool animal hangings. "Uh there are all these Dildos back there...not sure what that's about" she said.

"Really? I don't believe you" "Go see for yourself" she says.

I push by the wool angels and farm animals and she's right: about 25 huge ceramic dildos, many in charming hand-painted azejula blues with fascinating patterns.

I go to the proprietor trying not to break the tiles or pottery. I had my backpack after all.

She was a pretty cool woman in her 60s, playing Leonard Cohen and singing to  "So Long Marianne" aloud, one of my favorite Cohen songs.

As I suspected, it was a weird local cultural thing, like the Spanish "shit log" featured in some Spanish nativity scenes where you get Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, shepherds and ummm...a guy taking a dump.

"So what's with the Dildos?" I ask

She begins laughing: "the penises!? In my village 5 miles from here the king came in 1874 and held a big feast for the people. But he asked that instead of the usual gifts you give the man who hosts the feast, he wanted gifts which were jokes.

So a man who is a ceramicist brings a huge penis to the king.  Everyone loves it and from now on it is a symbol of our town. In our town they are everywhere by things for children. It's no big deal.

Then she called to find out how much a taxi would cost to go to her town, where we could pick up a rental, and what time the buses went.

Hotel Unhappy

The hotel we had stayed in the last few days will not be identified. However it was owned by two Northern Europeans who were also clearly Buddhists but do not reside there.

I don't know how many times it is possible to get your self photographed with the Dalai Lama, but these two seemed to have broken some record.

Strangely enough for Buddhists, they make it clear  that they will not employ Portuguese.

Therefore the managers were Polish, the grunt staff Nepali and Tibetan and a weird assortment of international men of mystery ran other things; I still don't know the nationality of Pretty, the bizarre cat who stalked the back garden to near bird extinction, but I assure you she could not be of Lusitanian origin.  No Portuguese staff.

Perhaps the most disturbing is that the absent owners decided that the art to adorn the walls of the cafe/lobby were sketches done by a friend who underwent intense Gestalt art therapy.

I did ask about the "art"..to a Polish manager suggesting maybe guests didn't want to eat "breakfast included" subjected to some person's inner demons. I shall post them tomorrow.

In fact I commented that, given the etchings, I think their friend should be in jail. The weird  Polish manager burst into a quiet snigger.

The strict rules of the hotel forbid tipping anyone except collectively. 

Then there was the soap: in the effort to reduce all things of waste and the world  we were alloted what appeared to be a chocoate cube sized piece of soap.  We did make it last three days but I was getting tired of scratching the shower floor for Quality Street size remnants.

The staff all seemed out of it, including the Polish manager who just yawned all the time or said she was confused, and I began to think might be on opioids, because she asked me one day whether she should show me my room or put our stuff in the safe. 

And we had ummm been there two days.

The male kitchen staff glared at us; the central Europeans just played on their phones, and couldn't answer basic questions: "what is at the ancient art gallery?"

"I don't know...art?.."

The Doll Brothel

Fado is the sad blue song of lost love, country missed and the whims of fate: thus Fado.

We went to the Museo de Fado yesterday. Fado came from working class and proletariat roots born in revolutionary anger.

The "Fadoists" as they were called were one eyed men who played guitar and threw knives at people to intimidate them. They were men and women of the streets: ruffians, thieves and whores.

The famous painting of the Fado player singing to his Mistress who had some huge stilleto scar on her cheek gives you a feel of a time and place of poverty, grub and a Dickensian dignity.

The Fado museum had many treasures but none more weird than this.

A famous sculptor who I think drank a lot made a very realistic dolls house with small furniture, living rooms, kitchens and bedrooms.  However it was a doll brothel to celebrate Fado's gritty roots.

Each tiny bedroom had tiny black and white photos of women of the evening in 1900 states of undress.

A strange  play: Ibsen: The Doll's Brothel

Jeronimos beware wrong thought

A glorious tour of Sao jeronimos monastery. Started in 1501 it was completed over 100 years later.  Fascinating to see an edifice begun in the late middle ages; austere, cold and Gothic finished some 100 years after.

Then the birth of Renaissance with their love of birds of paradise, fruits and vines.  In the mere century portugal had gone from medieval to "discovery" as the country calls it.

The discoverers found there beautiful fruits, plants and wondrous fauna of great curiosity.  Then the trend for everything in Europe to be light, gay and astonishing. 

The old solid column in the monastery sport rococo risen above grey firm foundations.

A couple came in to the amazing sacristy where I was puzzling over 14 brilliant panels of paintings of the life of st. Jerome.

I spent the neXt 20 minutes explaining the panels and architecture to the couple because I am a nerd who enjoys sharing knowledge.

The one panel I was quite at odds with involved Satan bringing books to st. Jerome. It was clearly a devil, all horns and pointy ears.   Then next panel St. Jerome being beheaded by St.  Michael while Christ cries.  Scary stuff.

Turns out he wakes up and it was all a dream.

Whew.

Next day Jerome throws away all profane Christian books that do not agree with orthodoxy.

He learned to avoid wrong think.

Food

Totally jet lagged after hours of delayed flight. We were supposed to arrive in Lisbon at 10:50 am. We got to the hotel at 2:30 pm. I didn't realize this is Reading Week bringing with it scads of canadian and American students ready to party.

I looked at the 2 hour customs line for "all others" and cursed myself that I have yet to renew my Irish passport.

I could however cackle at C. Even if she had renewed her UK passport she like all the other Brits would be stuck in the line that snaked slowly along the breadth of the airport while euro members raced by.

I enjoyed the replies of the 19 year old boys explaining how they intended to support themselves for their next 3 months backpacking in Europe.

They were sweet and earnest talking about all the work they had done to save up to travel.  In my youth we would have rolled our eyes and probably given the immigration dude the finger secretly.

Maybe milleniaLs aren't so bad after all.

Then dinner.

By 8 pm Lisbon time we both realized we had not eaten since 9 pm EST and hunger set in. We were famished.

Garlic shrimp, a salad with fresh greens, prosciutto, goat cheese and crostinI the size of a table top, accompanied by an order of  whole wood grilled sole fish with fries and vegatables. All this includibg a bottle of excellent Portuguese white wine set us back  $60.

I said to Catherine I haven't been this relaxed in a year.