I’ve
a friend in Beijing whom I’d asked about Portugal. “Any place outside of Lisbon that is a must-see?” “Yes,
Porto.” Hmm. It would mean a three hundred kilometre drive north.
Then, the following day, I’d need to drive five hundred kilometers the
opposite direction, back down south to the Algarve. I considered the photos of the riverfront. OK, we're going.
The car has a USB outlet, which is great for the iPhone
charge, but I can’t get the device to play on the car stereo for the life of
me. Instead, we’ll make do with
the iPhone’s built in speaker which, with the right music, is audible over the
aircon. I’d followed organist Larry Young to multi-instrument the work of Sam Rivers, who plays
on the former’s 1964 classic, “Into Somethin’,” which I’ve had and dug for
years. Mr. Rivers’ contribution on
that disc always stood out in my mind, as I knew nothing of his other
work. I had on the album "Contours" he recorded a year later, 1965. I’m not usually a huge fan of the soprano sax
but he is cutting it up in a way I couldn't ignore, as we raced up the A1 Highway, on this
tune “Point of Many Returns.”
I’d thrown the Sheraton hotel destination into Google Maps
and was promptly lead on a ridiculous two-hour goose-chase on the wrong side of
the Douro River, looking for the address.
Eventually a lovely family drove me to the destination, as it was
plotted, an abandoned town house on a street with no lights. “Thank you but this can’t be it.” Ahh, the Sheraton . . . Oh, the Sheraton? but that is in Poroto" "Yes, precisely, I’m going to
Porto." But this is the other side
of the river. I've long realized this, but
thought that was all part of the Sheraton folks, plan. Remarkably kind this family rescued us from a night of more nonsense and they drove ahead of me
and took me to the right location, which we made it to by 11:00PM. All I could say beyond “Obrigado” was a
heartfelt: “Have a lovely life.”
Sitting now, back across the River Douro, looking up at the
magnificent run of pastel buildings and orange tiled roofs terraced down and
down and down to the waters edge, from beneath the Tower of Clerics which my
younger one and I had just surmounted, I’m glad we came. My older daughter made an interesting
observation as we waited for meat pies and olives: the view was somehow more magnificent, in the shadows of
evening time, when we were lost and harried that it was now, in the sunlight,
at our leisure. She’s right.
The Lonely Planet had a walking tour of the city, that
seemed about the right pace for us with only a few hours to take all of
Portugal’s second city in. Ten
sites recommended, beginning with the afore mentioned tower, and winding up on
the esplanade where we were currently, still waiting, for our lunch. “What are we going to do here?” “Here, it’s my first time in Porto too,
read these two paragraphs.” “I know
but what are we doing?” “Read the
book, we’re heading down hill, crossing the river and having lunch. There are ten stops, we have nine more
to go.” One down with an all down-hill way to go and they were
already 筋疲力尽[1].
Rua Da Clerics and Rua Da Flores must have been marvels when
they were constructed. I tried to
draw my daughter’s attention to the balconies. Imagine a . . . a . . . a hot guy, playing guitar singing to
you up on your balcony and me coming up from behind you, and throwing a shoe at
this hot guy and then you turning and punching me . . .” Nice try dad. The day before we’d blown through
Sintra, outside of Lisbon and the faux Gothic fantasy palace of Quinta da Regaleira, that most
assuredly did work. “This is on my
list of places to return to.” But
the Baroque streets of Porto, down at the post-imperial heel, weren’t having
the same impact.
The train station, with its remarkable, blue tiled narrative
to Portuguese travel, interior, seemed to have a greater impact. “It’s kind of like Grand Central
Station.” “OK. I’ll grant you that.” It's certainly not like Beijing's South Station. The Cathedral up the hill is, like most
of the Portuguese churches I’ve seen to-date a bit rough-hewn. It’s useful for explaining what the
difference between Romanesque and Gothic is. The two main towers in the front are more imposing
than inspiring. The flying
buttresses on the side, more functional than fantastic. The left window of the knave was
concreted over. The remarkable
medieval hush still swallows all as you walk into a building like this, but it
isn’t enough somehow, as you try to convey the majesty that these buildings
represented when there were no other “indoor” spaces larger than a room or
two. I found I kept saying:
“someday we’ll go to Chartres and you’ll see devastating stain glass. Someday I’ll show you the flying
buttresses of Notre Dame and you’ll see what I mean.”
The Baroque finery of the other churches on our tour, Misericordia
Church of Porto and the Church of São Francisco, similarly dazzle but fail to
ultimately delight one, or provide one with what’s needed to rest your case
that medieval churches are wonderful.
I find all the golden, swirling puffery a bit schmaltzy, layering over
the primal medieval facades. This, I
tried to explain is what the Lutherans and the Calvinists were responding to
when they wanted to strip it all out and have a simple, whitewashed focus on a
single, unadorned cross.
By the time we reached number 8 out of 10 on the tour, their
spirits were lifting. All that
remained after this was crossing the bridge and finding a place to eat. How hard could that be? And we stopped before hand in the
simple, medieval town house of Henry the (Infant) Navigator’s birthplace. The museum was closed, but it didn’t
matter. We sat in the courtyard
and considered the arch they had, reconstructed and propped up, block atop
block. “How come they lost the
ability to make an arch?” Once
Rome fell, most of the written knowledge was lost. People tried to build arches, but the stones would fall, as
they’d place the final bits in. So
they’d stare at the old Roman arches and wonder, awed by their ability, that
they couldn’t seem to match.
Finally, but the time this building was built, they had begun to recover
arts like building arches.
The Dom Luis I Bridge was built around the same time as the
Brooklyn Bridge, on much more modest scale though in its day, for a few years, it was the largest bridge in the world. But with its two tiered approach
and surfeit of girders it makes for a fitting, modernist testimony to linking
this jewel of a city elsewhere.
Here on the other side, its all about Port wine and wines that bear the
name of the River Douro, none of which I can sample, as I’ve got 500 kilometers
of driving ahead of me. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dom_Lu%C3%ADs_Bridge
"Hi? Yes. Can you check in the back and see what happened to our
food? And I’ll need a second
double espresso, with the check."
See you next down in Portugal’s Mediterranean Algarve.
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