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Life’s greatest treats are those that are unexpected.
Expectations. Odd, these little anchors that shape our outlook.
When we come to expect something that is largely beyond our control, we set our selves up for disappointment when the expectation is not realized. On the contrary, when our expectations for the unfamiliar are neutral, the results can often be pleasing.
Such was our experience on a recent holiday – nine days in Portugal and Spain, followed by nine days on a cruise ship across the Atlantic.
After driving what seemed like back in time, from the snow-walloped Eastern Ontario through a still autumn-like New England, we left our car in Boston and flew via Shannon and London to Lisbon . The weather progressed at each stop along the way, and by the time we flew along the Portuguese coast for our descent into Lisbon, the sun shone brightly on the Atlantic, welcoming us back to the Iberian Peninsula.
Though we’d spent considerable time in Spain – the land of bulls and Picasso, paella and flamenco composes perhaps 20% of my time in Europe – neither of us had ever been to Portugal. Not that there’s a shortage of information about travel in Portugal, and not as if we hadn’t read any literature or seen any photos beforehand, but our expectations of Lisbon and Portugal weren’t boiling over as they can be when visiting hyped destinations as, say, Italy.
Landing over the 25th of April Bridge (sister to the Golden Gate) and historical Lisbon relaxing in the Sunday afternoon sun, we’d reached our first destination on time and with our baggage. In today’s world of travel, our expectations were already exceeded. Short cab ride later, we were at one of the new properties of Dom Carlos Hotels; for 70 bucks a night our expectations weren’t much, but the room, albeit small as a cruise ship cabin, was shiny new, spotless, and highly functional with modern fixtures, LCD television, and a marble bathroom. We had thoughts of dinner somewhere nearby – after that long, cleansing, relaxing shower that feels so nice after a night and day of travel – but instead fell asleep at 6:30 in the evening, and awoke some 12 hours later feeling recharged and ready to go. I’ve said that before in reviews, but jet lag can be overcome in numerous ways – for the last few years we’ve sworn by No-Jet-Lag pills.
The sun would continue to shine all week, and we’d not see a drop of rain while on land (and measurable in minutes what we felt at sea). Had this become an expectation for us? In our travels in Europe, which cover more than four months of the past 7 years, the precipitation days we’ve experienced are in the single digits. Still, it’s best not to expect good weather, as if it were an entitlement. Living in Canada can help ease this, as one comes to expect variable weather patterns. The opposite can also materialize: when we lived in San Diego and visited Europe late one winter, we encountered a mix of snow, ice, and rain in Amsterdam and Budapest, and didn’t allow ourselves to appreciate these cities as much. Back to Lisbon, it is said that November and December can be rainy, so we went with tempered expectations.
The ideal weather in Lisbon was thus a bonus, the first of many unexpected travel pluses.
We can steer clear of sayings such as ‘a marriage of old world and the hip ultra-modern’ or any of the other clichés to which you’ve been exposed. Lisbon is an old city, been around for a millennium. Portugal has a rich culture and history. We’re now in the 21st century. Any other connection is superfluous.
With our base at the plaza of Marques de Pombal, we were within walking distance to much of the city’s attractions, and a block from the metro which is extensive but not expensive – a one-day pass covers all subways, buses, trams and lifts in Lisbon for a mere €3.35, while the Lisboa Card covers said transport plus dozens of museums and sites (including Sintra) for €15/25/31 for one to three days. Starting to sense that Lisbon is a relative bargain for Western Europe?
Despite the widespread transit availability, Lisbon’s historic core is best experienced on foot – with one unique exception. Much as San Francisco has its cable cars (and we can dismiss of those comparisons at this point, having covered the bridge, hills, and trolleys) Lisbon has its historical trams. Intimate with seating for 24 but traveling at higher frequency, the rickety trams snake through narrow passages up and down the hills of central Lisbon – Seven Hills as they call the city. We took the famous Tram 28, forewarned by guidebooks, online boards, and even the tourist kiosk that pickpockets are at work here; thus we passed up on the first one that came by in favour of one five minutes later that was empty. From origin to terminus this tram is a 45-minute journey up to the castle, past miradouro viewpoints in the Alfama, back down via the flat grid of Baixa-Chiado, and up again through Bairro Alto past the parliament to the turnabout. At times you can reach out the window and practically touch the shops and homes that are nearly scraped by the tram, which must occasionally stop for cars or people that are abating onto the tracks.
The rest of the old city we walked, and walked, and walked some more. Though other areas of Lisbon were rebuilt after the great earthquake of 1755, these parts date back 500-1000 years. “Europe is not a museum,” as they say, and nearly every block in Lisbon, though historical, is also functional. The smell of bacalhau (Portugal’s staple, a dried salted cod), emanates from storefronts near the Praça do Comercio, while pastry shops and fashion boutiques dot the maze of streets that are vibrant day and night. The venerable Café A Brasileira is an institution in the Bairro Alto, with its statue outside of Fernando Pessoa, one of many writers and poets in the Bohemian café scene in the 1930s. Today’s café scene is still humming, as is that of fado clubs. Originally coming about as the mournful music of sailors’ widows, fado is expressed today in various forms. We took in an evening at the Clube de Fado in the Alfama district on our last evening in Lisbon, alternating food and music, an appetizer followed by four ballads, a juicy steak (for Jen, and the bacalhau for me) followed by a different crooner, and so on.
Ah, the steak. After a very satisfying breakfast at the hotel we were good for much of the day’s walking. In the mid-afternoon we hopped the metro and left the historical centre for the Parque das Nacoes. Built for the 1998 world expo, this area begins with Oriente Station , designed by architect Santiago Calatrava and reminiscent of his mentor Saarinen’s airport works. Across from the station is the Vasco da Gama shopping centre, a multi-story glass and marble affair – looking closer, however, one realizes that the glass roof doubles as a waterfall. A far cry from the malls of my youth. On the back side of the centre is a food and entertainment complex. We hit the “beer deck,” realizing that the entire area has a nautical motif, and after a bit of a walk on the promenade, saw a restaurant we’d read about. Portugalia is a chain of high end brewpub-steakhouses, and though our initial communication efforts with the waitress may have stumbled, between my rusty 10 words of Portuguese and our pointing to what others were having, we were rewarded with a superb first meal. The steak is served in a creamy garlic and olive oil sauce, and we’d benefited by seeing others order the fries for dipping purposes. Though our initial reaction to seeing the steak sizzling not on the platter but in some measure of sauce was one of perplexity, we were immediately appeased by the first bite. Portugal may be known for seafood, but Portuguese know their steaks. We walked the meal (and the pints of beer) off with a walk around the park, itself now a complex for conventions, entertainment, retail, and dining, complete with an aerial tram and flanked by hotels, offices, and residential developments. Apparently not completely satiated by the meal, we stumbled onto a Brazilian rodizio restaurant and made a note of the menu and hours so that we could return. It was nightfall by the time we retraced our steps through the Vasco da Gama centre, detouring through a supermarket as is our manner whenever visiting a new place. The mall and the station are even more dramatic when lit up, and though we’d expected a historical city, this modern slice (did I just touch the third rail of clichés?) was different from some of the ‘modern Europe’ we’d seen elsewhere, places which, without labels, aren’t too distinct from their 21st century North American counterparts.
The second day we’d devoted to seeing the magical city of Sintra , a UNESCO World Heritage Site. In existence for nearly two millennia and occupied over time (much as Portugal itself) by the Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Christians et al, much of today’s Sintra took foot in the 18th and 19th centuries, when it became the home to royalty following the great earthquake. After a commuter train ride of about 40 minutes, we stepped off into the clear, crisp air and into a different era. Our focus this day was on three primary sites, visited well in the right order and served adequately by public transport – watch out as the maps are deceiving; though these sites look walkable from one another, hilly terrain makes the bus a better option. The Palácio Nacional de Sintra was our first stop, a fine example of regal architecture the majority of which being built in the 12th and 13th centuries. Its conical, Madonna Blonde Ambition Tour chimneys are what catches the visitor’s eye from afar, but the highlights are the fresco ceilings and the intricately designed azulejo tiles that depict various scenes of nature and history. Almost directly above the palace is the Castelo dos Mouros , a fortress built by the Moors in the 8th century and yielding panoramic views of Sintra, the palaces, and out to the Atlantic Ocean. Last up was the highlight of the day, the Pena Palace. Reminiscent of Mad Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria, the Pena Palace is part noble bastion, part Disney whimsy – sans the mouse. Though perhaps due for a fresh coat of paint at the time of our visit, the Pena Palace did not disappoint, its walls and passageways yielding one curious combination of architecture, colours, and patterns after another.
Sintra is not to be missed on any visit to the area, and many opt to stay here for a few days. With our compacted schedule, however, we returned to Lisbon for sunset at the Santa Justa lift, a cousin of the Eiffel Tower which offers views of the city on a glorified balcony. The remainder of our time in Lisbon we spent mainly exploring the historical sites, many highlights of which were in Belém. Portuguese for ‘Bethlehem,’ Belém is another piece of Lisbon that largely survived the great earthquake and thus has much of its history intact. The Jeronimos Monastery is a good place to start; perhaps the pinnacle of Manueline architecture, the monastery houses the tomb of Vasco da Gama as well as a magnificent cloisters (at the time of our visit they were preparing for the signing of the Treaty of Lisbon, which was held here on 12 December 2007). Up the street is another landmark, the Pasteis de Belém. This pastry shop has been serving up its renowned cream tarts and other delicacies since 1837, and is a good stop for a snack and coffee before moving on to the Museu dos Coches. Said to be the most visited museum in Lisbon, this structure houses dozens of regal coaches from across Europe, including those used by Popes and royalty from Portugal, Spain, France, England and more. Not far from here is the mouth of the River Tagus, and the span of the 25th of April Bridge is seen very well from a park near the ferry docks. On the other side of the water is the giant statue Cristo-Rei, inspired by Rio’s Christ the Redeemer. Vasco da Gama and many other explorers left from Belém on their voyages across the globe, and are honoured at the Momument to the Discoveries at these shores. Further on down is the Tower of Belém, built in the same age to commemorate the expeditions of Vasco da Gama et al, and itself a UNESCO site. We returned to the Alfama and the castle just in time for sunset, and would conclude our visit to Lisbon the next morning with a walk through the Edward VI park, a visit to the impressive Gulbenkian Museum, and some shopping at the new branch of Spain’s El Corte Ingles, the largest department store in Portugal and one of the biggest and nicest we’ve ever seen – their basement eateries are an excellent stop.
TAP Air Portugal continued to shame the travel business, delivering us to Barcelona on time, fed a decent meal including wine, and with baggage waiting for us to boot. The nerve. It turns out we’d miss Portugal after that.
With airport terminal snafus and a rude gaggle of girls on the Aerobus into town, we knew we were in a big city. I’ve written about Barcelona in this space previously, and my experiences were so positive here that I’d only expected to come back for an encore, this time introducing my wife to Spain’s second city.
And the expectation factor rears its head.
For Jen, Barcelona was one of those places that you’re “supposed to like” – didn’t help that all her husband could do was talk up the place. So as Jen failed to be impressed by La Sagrada Familia and other modernista architecture, and found La Pedrera and Parc Guell isolated highlights in an otherwise big city that was too crowded and polluted for her tastes, I began to see Barcelona in a different light, this time through my wife’s eyes.
Early on, after checking in to the same hotel we’re I’d previously stayed (and still considered a bargain, the Hotel Regencia Colon, 70 euros to be in the middle of the Gothic quarter), I made the mistake of trying to re-create some of the experiences of two years ago. We dined on tapas at the Taverna del Bisbe, but this time the food was just standard (and some of it just reheated and lacking flavour), our table surrounded by noisy tourists, and the overall experience not very memorable. You can’t go back, so the saying goes, and the saying is often correct. By the second evening, after a day of seeing the major tourist sites and having a pricier Basque “pintxos” lunch that I enjoyed but Jen did not, we found a quiet restaurant off the beaten path and got away from the tourists for a while. Ironic, I know, considering that we’re tourists, or travelers if you will – that’s the paradox of travel, trying to find places that are accessible to one’s travel plans (and budget) without having to share the experience with every Yank, Brit, Mick, Canuck and German who also found out. Barcelona is no secret, of course, and I can only imagine what visiting in the summer must be like.
Things picked up radically for us, however, over the weekend. On Saturday, our friend Silvia flew out from Madrid for the day. We dined and toured together, and had good company as always. As time wound down and we gradually got ready to bid adieu, we got caught up on the streets in a protest rally. The crowds gathering were immense – later we would hear numbers of 200,000 or more – and Catalonian flags were waving fervently. Silvia, in her Castilian accent, asked a nice-enough seeming gentleman in his 50s or so what was going on. “It’s like this,” he said, “we’re not part of Spain and we don’t want to have anything to do with Spain.” I saw a look of horror come across Silvia. “Where are you from?” he asked her. When she told him Madrid, which was obvious by the accent anyway, he replied, “and it’s nothing personal against you.” Sure, she thought, nothing except being against everything I believe in. The Aerobus was nowhere to be found, and we eventually found a taxi that took Silvia out of the horded to the airport. With the rally in the way between where we now stood and the locale of our hotel, we decided to get right into the middle of things, me snapping photos while Jen yelling “Viva España!” It was a harmless event, even with protestors shouting “Independence!” and waving anarchy flags and signs that read “goodbye Spain” – more like a North American union rally. This is the kind of cultural experience we look for.
Our last full day in Europe was spent outside the city, in the towns of Figueres and Girona. These are a more laid back example of Catalonian life, the former being the home of Salvador Dali and site of his museum, the primary reason for which we’d made this day-trip. The Dali museum is worth the time and effort (easy train, actually, or a simple drive, close to the French border), and warrants a few hours for the museum and the jewels exhibit. Love him or hate him, one has to give credit to Dali as a technical master. We’ve both like Dali for some time now, having visited the museum in Florida and owning a couple of pieces in our home. Girona was a bit shuttered for a Sunday, but this made for easy exploration of the old city, including the Jewish quarter and the well preserved cathedral.
I still regard Barcelona as a fine place, cosmopolitan and sophisticated, a nice city break or port of embarkation. The greater region of Catalonia has even more to offer, much of which we’ve yet to see, such as Montserrat, the beaches, and the coastal towns towards France.
With an exciting time at sea ahead of us, however, we spent only a half-day finishing out our time in Barcelona, and made haste for the port where our ship awaited us. But not before one last treat, this at the Boqueria market where I'd previously dined twice, once at a seafood stall and the other at Pinotxo with a good friend. Catalan for Pinocchio, Pinotxo is a diner-like eatery near the front of the market, and with only 10 odd stools is always crowded. Our luck had two patrons getting up just as we passed by, and within minutes we were enjoying café con leche and tortilla (omelet for the uninitiated), followed by a plate of garbanzos sautéed with jamón that would be the pinnacle of our dining in Barcelona – as I said, it only got better. To top it all off for our last memory on the Peninsula: a glass of Cava, Spanish sparkling wine. At 11am, you say? On holiday, why not indeed.
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