GPS tries to Kill us Again

I think Glynda the Possessed Evil GPS in our former car rental decided a new method to try and get rid of us.

I had earlier described her attempts to have us straight off a mountain and dead.

Putting in an actual hotel address from Bom Jesus de Monte to Porto filled me with confidence. This time she would not be able to trick us...

However her new ruse was to drive us straight into Porto, right at the height of rush hour, on a Friday, and confound us so much we would have a heart attack simply from stress.

From her taut British accent I can only imagine the malevolent chuckles she produced privately which we were not party to.

Her first rule of order was to reassure us over and over that our destination was less than a kilometer away.

An ancient man sees us drive into his shed then try and back up. He smiles and waves.

GPS into action: Next, sharp rights and lefts, then she had us driving along a sidewalk: yes a real sidewalk with trees and things.

Then "next sharp right!"...again on the same sidewalk. The old man smiles and waves at us again as we drive along tram tracks. Yes tram tracks - walled tram tracks.

Follow Glynda and she demands we go the wrong way into an active roundabout while we again drive the sidewalk and the ancient man smiles and waves as we drive by.

Catherine forces the car with a monster deductible into a real road like a mother cat holding a small China figurine in her mouth, so Glynda can GPS things other than that guy's driveway.

With my guide book, ripped pieces of paper and a "tourist map" I come to accept what I suspected all along.

We are not in the Vila De Gaia de  Nova of Porto. Rather a far, far suburb north of the new football stadium. Probably 20 km away.

I just program the nearest big street and follow Glynda hoping she will take mercy.

The rain is pouring and the fog so thick we can't see a foot front. She tells us we are at destination. I jump out and find a teen walking by.  "Falar Ingles?"

"Yes, of course" 

"Do you know where this hotel is?"

"Of course just walk up the stairs ...there". The fog was so thick I could barely see the car.

We pulled up to the hotel and the car rental guy was waiting for us.

Catherine says we would have been here hours ago but your GPS got us lost all the time. It tries to kill us I added.

"So I hear this all the time, I don't think GPS works so good in Portugal"

Silver, Money and Gold

The Casa De Infante Museum in Porto is an excellent review of the layers of history.

First start with Roman Portugal, then known as Lusitania, and great houses, estates and trade routes from before the time of Augustus Caesar spread along the river bank.  The Portuguese do not seem hostile to the notion of Roman conquest and appear to be proud of their Roman forebearers.

Then to the early then late Middle Ages; the site becomes a mint.  The kings and assorted dukes, councils and ruler types mint coins of silver.  A valuable metal that became equated with the value of a thing: a cow, cloth, wine, bread, swords and hired hands.

After a few hundred years of non-stop war and pillaging, silver becomes scarce. With no new mines in Europe, from which to get silver, currency becomes scarce. Then you have no new money with which to pay your mercenaries, boat makers, saddle makers and shoe makers, all of which are necessary to make war and wealth.

In the 14th century all of European nobility loved nothing better than to make war. For them it was a glorious thing. The downside was that you would go to hell or at best purgatory because of all that, well, killing your fellow man.

The only way to find new sources of silver was to travel out of Europe. Thus began the "Age of Discovery" as it is known here.

In the meantime the mints in Porto figure how to make molds to pour the silver and put "reeds" in the standard coin, the familiar divets we have around most coins today.

Before the divets people would shave and shave the coins smaller and smaller then "re-mint" the scrapings. 

Money was becoming scarce, very scarce and just in time, happily, the ships of Porto find Brazil.  First the only goods shipped back were "cats, nuts, parrots and slaves". Not a valuable haul apparently.

Soon after they then find silver and gold and gold and silver and more gold.

Soon the country has more wealth than they knew what to do with. Gold, silver, Brazil wood, sugar, coffee and slaves: an abundance.

Ironically the Church of Saint Francis Assissi sits in the center of a strange social triangle.

The wealthy as I noted in an earlier blog, know that to kill is wrong and that killing will send you to hell etc...

Earlier Saint Francis grew to renown (and controversy as did his order) by renouncing all property and possessions: living among the poor and despised and caring only for them. His sanctity lit a fire in Europe and he was soon joined by Saint Claire, who also followed the example of poverty, renunciation of property and communal ownership.

The wealthy, terrified by the omnipresent fear of hell and eternal anguish, did their  best "please Jesus" manouver, as logic dictated at that time: give as much gold and silver to the monasteries as you could - they after all are blessed by heaven; give gold and silver to artists; create great art to glorify God (though even if you are only thinking of glorifying God, ensure the artist sneaks in your likeness praying beside the ubiquitous Manger or Calvary scene.)

Make it all out to Saint Francis and poor Claire. Give Francis gold dust stigmata and Claire a wreath of silver, gold and the finest of Brazilian wood carvings.

In the church of Saint Francis the wealthy poured 660 pounds of pure gold taken from Brazil to gild every inch of fantastical rococo wooden carving.

The sculptures honour God the Father, dominant in his high throne now holding a round globe in his arms; Jesus Christ, who suffers terribly and Mary who mourns incessantly.

All the wealthy lived in fervant hope that the money they had cast so devoutly would see them eventually arriving on the sunny side of the street.

My Corona

Europe, Portugal included, is in terror of the Novel Corona virus.

Catherine sneezed at the ticket office in a Palacio yesterday and a man behind the desk got into crash position, hands over head and yelped some rough prayer.  The three other staff teased him about his over reaction.

 "He's afraid of Corona": I asked? Yes they all said,  laughing.

"I don't have!" Catherine replied loudly.

Upstairs Catherine sneezed and coughed again and a woman on the 6 person tour nearly jumped out of her skin and half jokingly wrapped her scarf around her face.

"We all have to be careful these days?! Yes?!" She said.

Anyone you know who descends from Europe lives the inheritance of one lucky beast.  One to two thirds of Europe's population (most likely on the higher percentage) died in what is now known as the "Black Death" therefore those here today are the descendents of the few who made it.

Not that Corona is anything like The Black Death.

However the news doesn't make people any calmer, running non-stop news feed on the issue. The usually more level headed BBC focuses in Tory fashion on the impact on business, which is beginning to get really irritating.

So far I haven't seen any outright xenophobia or racism, likely because the largest outbreak nearby is in Italy.

Almost all the tourist here currently are Brazilians and a few Spaniards and Brazil has only a few cases, Portugal and Spain none.

Nonetheless the country takes precautions. At our Porto hotel this afternoon, a latex gloved staff member wipes down all the elevator rails and buttons with disinfectant discussing with me whether "it" can be stopped or whether it's inevitable that Portugal will see the arrival of Corona.

So in the meantime it's wait and see while people nervously eye the shared cocktail peanuts.

Glynda the Hated Gobal Positioning System

I hate the GPS I have named Glynda, in the Jalopy we rented from Turistcar.

She has tried repeatedly to murder us by telling  us to take "the next sharp right" (in a taut British accent) so that we drive over a cliff far, far down and into the bottom of the Duoro Valley.

Boom.

Three days ago we were terribly lost in the mountains of the Douro with Glynda driving us up sheep trails; then down into vineyards overlooking really breathtaking views but no roads to speak of.  We reached a small town as it was getting dark and quite cold.

I walked around the village yelling "ola" and "securro!": help. A woman came some time later trying to program malevolent Glynda. "She is nuts" the woman said.

Her children arrived home from school in a small bus the mountain kids take to school.  Her husband walked up behind furious that our car was blocking the tiny road.

Our Mary of Empathy tried to show a long road two mountains away that we might want to follow to get to Villa Real. Husband shut that down and we rumbled on our way despondent. 

The small bus pulled in front of us and stopped and then motioned for us to follow  him.

It was dark now and the small bus guided us through some of the toughest mountain roads and terrain I have ever seen.

Sheep/vineyard roads older than the Romans; twisted, winding with no barriers, sheer drops; our friends wait for us if we slow down.

Finally to a main road. 

He gets out and tells us to now just follow the signs. Pointing the direction to Villa Real.

It is now pitch dark and I walk up and warmly hug and kiss both cheeks in gratitude.

I teared up I relief. His co-pilot wife laughed.

We found our way.

A few days later we started off to Braga.

All the way Glynda insisted we drive there by way of Spain and at times Brazil.

So then I bought a map.