zhisou

We got the fancy new Metro into Porto.   A proper city, I was quite excited, I love getting to know new places, especially places I’ve heard of.  I had an idea of Porto as bustling and busy, beautiful and old, but modern and vibrant.  It’s not really any of those things.

It’s actually quite ugly.  I was disappointed.  It hugs the mighty Duero on steep banks, just as that lovely lazy river meets the Atlantic.  It’s famous for Port Wine, and the haphazard old tweeness of the Ribeira district – ramshackle colourful houses squashed together to look like a picture-postcard from a distance, but like a serious public health hazard from close up: it was dirty, it was ill-kempt.  It wasn’t charming and twee, it was old and tired, beautiful only when you squinted to smudge out the detail.

It wasn’t all bad.   The railway station was stunning (see photos in zhisou pix), and there were many nice buildings and historic stuff, some of it probably important if you knew your onions, which I admit I didn’t.  Don’t.  Porto, after all, gave its name to Portugal, so it must have been quite a key player in the olden days when people went round naming countries.

We got an old tram that made heavy weather of trundling a few short kilometers along the river.  Someone in a colourful house was hanging out their washing – without shame they unfolded a large pair of bright orange underpants and pegged them carefully on the line above the street, hanging there for all to see.  I smiled: something to blog about.

There was an impossibly attractive French couple next to me.  Young, with that French olive skin and quirky good looks that the French do so well.  He had curly hair that belongs on film, she a redhead with ashen skin.  They talked about fascinating things like French people do, although they did this in French so I had to just assume that that’s what they were talking about.  They could have been talking about the orange underpants I suppose.

We ate opposite the beautiful old stock exchange, big hearty plates of steak and chips served with the trademark mound of white rice.  They serve rice with everything in Portugal.  I like rice, so that’s okay with me.

We took a boat on the river and saw how lovely the city looked – the old Port Wine cellars on the south bank, the colour of Riberia opposite, the old town perched high up above.  It was nice.  I thought maybe we would get an ice-cream after, it was hot.  Maybe I’d get one of those posh Magnums that come in a little box.

We got back, weary from the sun and a day walking city streets.  The Metro stop is in the centre of what might be described as the old town of Povoa.  The original Povoa, before the casino and marina and chavs arrived.  Our plan was to walk about and find something authentic.  Something Portuguese, something good, something we could savour and talk about.  Something to add to the list of great holiday meals.

We had a burger.

It was all we could fucking find.  We walked for bastard miles around that damn town.  There was nothing.  In the end it was this strange looking crepe bar that did burgers or a Japanese restaurant.  I lost the vote, though really it was one of those situations where we all lost.

We went to bed.