In a pluvial disproval of My Fair Lady, nary an airborne drop would meet the Spanish soil. As I watched the verdant champs of France give way to the sepia vegas beyond the Pyrenees, I would soon meet the heat of Madrid in the summer. With its canyons of calles walled in centuries of constructions created for commerce, the capital offered little sanctuary from sweat. And, without the time or money to spend on an in-depth tour of Iberia, I beat a hasty retreat for Spain's cheaper coastal neighbor, Portugal.
Buying an overnight ticket to Lisbon was straightforward, and involved a half-hour wait at Atocha Station, which was the site of the worst terrorist bombing in Europe on March 11, 2004. My train would depart the following evening from the Chamartin depot north of town. One of my three male coach-mates was David, an affable Argentine-Canadian, and upon hearing the news that we would get an extra hour of sleep due to a time change at the border, we sauntered our way to the bar car for a couple of Super Bock beers coupled with conversation.
Both of us had similar fascinations with the small country ahead. We openly wondered how this strip of land could end up with a different language and culture than the nation it shares its sole border with, especially when that frontier possesses no noticeable geographic impediments. Also, Portugal has contributed comparably little to the world in the last millennium, besides the promotion of seafaring in order to gain territory and trade in human chattel.
Nonetheless, I was happy to arrive in Lisboa (as the locals call it) with the cool marine breeze caressing Europe’s only capital along the Atlantic. The city is more visibly weathered an impoverished than other Continental cities, but in a way, this added to its charm. Its setting along the hills above the mouth of the mile-wide Tagus (Tejo) River adds to the aesthetic. Morning found me moseying from Santa Apolonia Station to my hostel, then up four flights of stairs to my tiny room, painted pastel blue, with an open window facing a bustling back street. After this, my first order of business was to make a beeline for Belem, the borough to the west that bid farewell to explorers like Balboa before they set off into the unknown. The marina-marinated suburb offers pleasant waterfront walks, a renaissance tower steeped in history, one of the largest monasteries in Europe, and a massive monolith sculpture devoted to the ambitions of Henry the Navigator. But, despite my going ga-ga for geeky old sites, it wasn’t until later that day that I marked a triumph in my personal Portuguese Age of Discovery…the Pasteis de Belem.
Since 1837 (that’s 24 years before the American Civil War for geeks keeping score) the Pasteis de Belem has been turning out custard tarts that are the namesake pasty of the whole town. It was a packed place, no doubt, but somehow, I managed to muster enough hand gestures to make my order understood. I ended up with a half a dozen diminuitive flaky cream pies, and ate three of them under a statue of Vasco da Gama to countless quantities of calories. On my way back to the Praca do Comercio in one of Lisbon’s antique electric streetcars, I ran into a couple I’d met from Beijing on the train the night before. We talked about China for a bit, and after, I convinced them to take the second half of my delicious custard pies, happy to share the joy and spare myself the guilt of gluttony.
At this point I should mention that Portugal is overall not very veggie friendly. A lot of dishes labeled "vegetarian" at restaurants often have meat in them. Also, shellfish garnishes many plates, so I think anyone allergic out there should take care. Piri Piri sauce is popular, a spicy chili concoction created in their former African colony of Mozambique. Also popular is the practice of serving at least a half-liter (many times one liter) of wine per setting. This left me needing a nap. I fell asleep to the evening sounds of Fado being performed at the restaurant in the alley below my window.
Fado is a Portuguese folk music that developed in the 19th Century. It’s characterized by mournful lyrics, and the singers traditionally wear black. Seeing the performances from a table in a crumbling stucco alley made me imagine Southern Italy, although I’ve never been there…but have seen The Godfather…and watching the women singing in ebony Victorian garb made me picture the wedding of a mob boss’ daughter, although I’ve never been to one…but have seen The Godfather.
My second day was spent working off a fraction of the pastries I’d consumed walking to the Castelo Sao Jorge, a Moorish castle propped on a high promontory above the city. The castle itself was not the most impressive edifice I’ve seen on my trip, but the view of Lisbon below is the best to be found.
That night, sounds began to approach from nearby corners, the muffled cries of “POR-TU-GUL! PORT-TU-GUL!” and the buzz of the vuvuzela, a plastic version of a South African horn that got the World’s attention during the 2010 World Cup and has served to annoy me on more than a handful of occasions. It was a big night, the Euro 2012 championship semifinal between Portugal and their Iberia-hogging enemy Spain. Like any good local, I went to watch the game at a bar. I’ll be honest and admit that I find soccer a little boring, and this game was no exception to that mood. After almost three hours, it came down to a penalty shootout. Pressure. The stakes are high. Two of Spain’s goals are answered…two are not. I see drunken men in tears, tearing Portuguese flags down from shop windows. Shirtless inebriates in the fetal position on the street screaming, “Quem!”
It was time to go back to bed. The short melancholic melodies of the Fado singers helped drown the cries of the forsaken fans of futebol.
Although I cheered for Portugal the night before, I did not spend my next Lisbon day listless over the heartbreaking loss, especially because now I knew I would be back in Madrid for the final match between Spain and Italy. Instead, I hopped on one of the frequent commuter trains west to the fishing-cum-beach town of Cascais. Sitting on a spit at the brackish junction of the Tagus and Atlantic, the sunny town of Cascais is as tacky as every cheap beach town should be, but a nice place for a palm-lined stroll.
When I returned to my room in Lisbon, something was amiss. I realized that the underwear I’d hung on a clothesline outside of my third-story window had fallen victim to the cool ocean breeze and landed in the greasy alley. I looked down upon not a soiled pair of boxer shorts, but my clean knickers hanging neatly from a window. This tiny act of random kindness was just one of the reasons why Portugal won me over with its frumpy charm. It’s also a value destination as far as Europe’s concerned, and a lot of Spaniards seem to go there just to shop. Still, I think the best part was falling asleep to the soulful sounds of Fado.
Before long, I was back at Santa Apolonia Station, cramming my bag into the tiny crevice under my bunk, and dreading the loss of an hour’s sleep aboard the return train. But, Spain would have its own rewards, particularly in terms of pork.
[Erik Lang is author of “The Year of the Human Being” a travel blog based on a true story about exploits on a trip around the world. He has struggled to keep up with his entries lately. Stay tuned for his next installment from Spain entitled “Hambrosia: Ham of the Gods”]
