Notes from Travel in Portugal and Spain in May and June 2023

 Travel Notes

From a trip to Portugal and Spain.... 

 

 Sunday, May 28, 2023

 

 I’ve started a new band and it’s called Everyone Is Going to Portugal. We got here to do the advance work this morning after boarding a 10:15 p.m. flight from Dulles Airport to Lisbon. Getting here was shaping up as a first world problem but so far everything has been pretty, pretty good. 

 

   We kept hearing there was going to be an airport strike this morning that would delay our getting out of the airport after landing for up to six hours. So last night on board our United flight was not only a sleepless night, but one spent thinking about standing in line the next day for hours on end.

 

   We talked a lot about this, but nothing happened to delay us. The United flight was good too. I don’t fly much but I’ve come to think of United as kind of a cheesy airline. Do its mechanics and profit-driven executives really care enough about their work? 

 Enough to make careening down the runway in the dark at the speed of a race car and then flying for hours through darkened skies at 600 miles an hour six miles up over bottomless frigid Atlantic waters seem like anything other than stupid? 

 

    You wait hours to board and when you do it’s late and you’re cranky. There are all these people with their kids and their endless crap to load into the tubular projectile boarding for the abyss.  But, you know, I think United has really figured this out. It’s an unnatural act for its customers to agree to what they’re doing, but they’ve taken the edge off the foreboding.

 

It's the friendly skies of United, for one thing. And then they’ve got that fantastic theme song that gives you this kind of relaxed, soaring feeling. You’re a bird! Exult in the warm wind soothing your wings as you soar upward! This isn’t about barreling down into oblivion! 

   In the pavilion on your way to the boarding gate you pass by the Polaris Lounge. It’s not for you since you didn’t sign up for it, but what must it be like in there? Your aching left leg would like it. It says to you why don’t we stop here, John, why not? Can we stop here? Huh? Huh? No, but it’s nice to know it’s there. One imagines a feeling of floating on a cloud in the warm evening dark, gazing up at the Polaris constellation, taking celestial ease.

 

   When you board, they’ve got these snappy rock tunes playing that at first make you want to strangle someone. You’re supposed to be sleeping, But then a few minutes later, the dopamine is flowing! Even the really old lady in the seat up ahead is bobbing up and down to the beat as she waits for someone to finish storing their suitcase so she can sit down. And then even the instructional videos of post-disaster lifeboats and vests are kind of cute.

 

    And the flight itself was fine. The overnight crew was nice and the captain crisp and confident. When the sunlight started creeping through the windows in the later stages of the flight you really did feel feelings of gratitude and fondness for your trusty old jet plane.

 

Portuguese for good morning: bom dia.

Portuguese for good night: boa noite (bowa noyt).

Portuguese for good afternoon: boa tarde.

 

  My friend, old left leg, has shown up for the walk off the plane to go through passport control. He wants to sit down as always. He and I put up with each other, him saying, never mind, it’s okay, let’s keep walking, and me saying, I’m going to ignore you for a while, but only for a little while, okay?

 

  Cathy and I pass into a large open area in the pavilion and see an enormous line of people standing in roped off lanes – waiting for what? Where is the end of this line and are we supposed to get in it? It’s not quite clear. Then we see an area where there are portals to pass through. It says automatic passport review. There is an American flag. A British flag. A Canadian flag. Do they want us to go there? There is nobody there. Unlikely. But standing behind the portals are some security people, chatting with each other, and looking our way briefly.

 

There is another gringo-looking lady trying to feed her passport into the scanner, but she keeps getting a red light and a cross saying her passport hasn’t been accepted. A security person walks over, tells her to keep trying. Then a green light! Walk into the portal. Stand still to be photographed. Okay, you’re in.

 

Cathy tries it and gets in. I try and keep getting red lighted. More encouragement. You’re in! You’re through. Now what? We see a sign that says exit and there are no lines ahead of us. Just a long walk with old left leg to exit the airport. All right! No ordeal getting out. Instead of a few hours, we’re loose in Portugal, in no more than 15 or 20 minutes.

 

I bumble through use of the Uber app to summon a ride to our hotel. Cathy assures me that we are in the right place for the Uber but I am not so sure. Wait, there is Mohammed, okay. We’re off. I have trouble understanding Mohammed’s English but it’s less his pronunciation than my hearing. When he starts talking about “Tram 28” I think he is talking about Trump 24 and gear up to start my obligatory bloviation about the evil one. No no, tram! I’m sure Cathy is thinking: thank God.

 

 

Wending our way toward the hotel, Lisbon looks dusty and grey. Maybe even kind of dirty. Where is the charm? Why is everyone so thrilled about Portugal? Why is everyone going here? Mohammed can’t find the hotel. He gets out to ask for help at a café. Finally, we find our way there. Should I tip him? I don’t know Uber. I give him a five Euro note and feel ridiculous. Is he annoyed? Whatever, I’m exhausted and here we are at the hotel.

 

   We nap for a bit, then with miserably low blood sugar follow the instructions of the clerk at our hotel for where we could go to get ourselves a bite to eat.  Just walk down the street to the red brick building and there is a good restaurant there 

 

We start out. Looking up, the street starts to look magical. The air is comfortable and cool. Look at all the cafes! Look at all the people chatting and relaxing on a Sunday afternoon. What are they eating? Look how the tiled street is all smooth with polished stones, at the dignified architecture of the old buildings.

 

   A bustling maitre’d hanging out on the sidewalks charms us into his restaurant, assuring Cathy he can make her a delicious vegetarian meal. I see all kinds of fresh fish on the menu. You’ve come to the country for fresh fish. A short time later, a tall cool drink, then bread, then grilled cod. Bliss -- Everyone is Going to Portugal is playing its first gig.

Monday, May 29, 2023

 

    We paid for the hotel breakfast, and I am grateful for it and also for the money and therefore the opportunity to go someplace else tomorrow morning. The coffee was too cool because the milk wasn’t warm. I took too much bread because I was looking for something I couldn’t find that tasted great.  The stony little apple was too hard and made my bleeding gum bleed more.  If Bolsheviks take me out and shoot me, shed no tears, I have it coming, part of me will be cheering and glad when they do. 

 

    Today Cathy and I and old left leg went to the Gulbenkian museum. If you’re gonna be a rich guy that the Bolsheviks take out and shoot, then be Gulbenkian, because you’re gonna leave behind a lot of cool stuff that’s going to make people feel better. 

 

   We called Mohammed to come and take us there but I’m still thinking he’s disappointed in me. I thought, okay, this morning I’m just going to establish right away we don’t want to do a big tour the way he’d like us to, but we’ll call him for our various short hops while we are here in Lisbon. 

 

      He’ll like how straight up I am, shrug and say, whatever -- so where is it you want to go today? But after he arrives, and I tell him, it turns out he has difficulty hearing.  I tell him we’ll call to take us to Belem later this week, but he starts mentioning all the places in Belem we should see and begins stitching together a tour he could take us on when we go. Mohammed isn’t having it. I thought we Americans were the hustling entrepreneurs, but nah, it’s these socialist Europeans. 

 

  When it’s time to pay up for the ride, he says, don’t pay me today, pay me later this week. No, I insist, he says. 

 

   Later in the day a Portuguese lady with a shop up by the São Jorge Castle that overlooks Lisbon flacked it hard when we went into her shop to buy some tile. No, no, you want the nine-tile arrangement, not the six tiles. Six tiles too small. But I reply nah, nah, it’s not the money, it’s just the six tiles just looks better. If Cathy likes the nine tiles, that’s cool, it’s no problem, I’ll pay. (Uh, we’ll pay). 

 

   The lady then tells a story about a Brazilian guy who comes in with his wife to buy tile and there is an extended discussion between spouse and spouse about which color tile is better. She is unsure and then finally says, no, I’ve made up my mind, I want this color. He turns to the lady and says, wrap up both types of tile, I’m buying them both. Swoon.

 

    I tell the Portuguese lady, Cathy’s gonna have to trade me in for the Brazilian guy. The lady also appears to have difficulty hearing and pays no attention to me. Flacking it hard, I tell ya, flacking it hard. We buy the six tiles, but really, it isn’t my fault. These European socialists. We shouldn’t be anything like them. 

 

    Anyway, Mohammed drops us off at the Gulbenkian and we take an hour-long tour in English.  Old left leg isn’t very interested in the tour and wants me to squat a lot and that puts me out of ear shot. But I did learn that Calouste Gulbenkian was born in 1869 and died in 1955. He was fabulously wealthy, one of the richest men in the world, known as “Mister Five Percent,” according to our tour guide. Born in Istanbul, he obtained a petroleum engineering degree from King’s College in London, according to museumspotlighteurope.com. 

 

   Western business interests relied on his expertise to get access to oil resources in the Middle East. The five percent reference is to how much of a petroleum deal he was paid to make it happen. He used his money to collect 6,000 pieces of art from around the world. 

 

   Our guide at the Gulbenkian said he was Armenian and had to flee genocide at the hands of the Turks.  He ended up in Egypt and then later in London. As his wealth grew, so too did his art holdings, which were kept in Paris. 

 

    Because of World War II he left France with the idea of going to America, and, according to our guide, stopped en route in Portugal. He liked it so well he decided to stay. At one point he considered donating his collection to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. – that particularly caught Cathy’s attention because she worked there -- but ultimately opted instead to house his collection in Portugal.

 

    Here's what the Rich Steves guide says about the Museu Calouste Gulkenkian: Gulbenkian gave his art collection to Portugal “in gratitude for the hospitable asylum granted him in Lisbon during World War II. The Portuguese consider Gulbenkian an inspirational model of how to be wealthy: He made a habit of ‘tithing for art,’ spending 10 percent of his income on things of beauty….”

 

      Spanning some 5,000 years of Egyptian, European, Islamic and Asian art, it “offers the most purely enjoyable museum-going experience in Iberia – it’s both educational and just plain beautiful,” Steves writes. “In short, Gulbenkian had all the money in the world, dedicated much of his life to collecting what he thought was the most beautiful art anywhere, built this fine building to show it off, and left it as a gift to posterity.”

 

   I’ve never considered myself an art person. But what a pleasure it is to walk by or work in a well-designed building, or even to handle a beautifully designed everyday product, hello Apple. 

 

   Look at the power of a design in a picture and the pleasure that comes over your mind and body as you absorb it. Look at the intensity of color and its energy.  It’s easier over time to see and to respect why artists are so driven to create beautiful things. Mock it or starve it or erase it and you will sicken the vitality of us all.  

Tuesday, May 30, 2023

 

It turns out there is a very extensive and specific scientific literature about jet lag, specifically the jet lag that occurs when flying from the United States to Europe. Day one you are exhausted of course because you’ve slept little or not at all on the overnight flight. Day two has a semblance of normalcy because adrenaline is kicking in to keep you functioning the way you usually do. 

 

     But day three it’s game over, your body isn’t going to fake it anymore and you are really, really tired. This is also referred to as “Extremely Sensitive Tourist Syndrome,” or more popularly, “Snowflake Tourist Syndrome.”

 

        Here’s an example of what can happen.  You realize that though you have dollars, you are running low on Euros and you really need to get some. Like, say, the day before, when you’re pulling out your wallet to pay the driver six Euros at the end of a taxi ride and  you cheerfully tell him: “I’ll pay with a card!”, and he actually slumps forward and puts his hand to his forehead and starts muttering – and so you instantly reassure him, “no, no, don’t worry, I still have some Euros!” 

 

   But you don’t want this to happen again. So you go the next day – Snowflake Tourist Syndrome Day -- to get Euros. And you think, no problem, I’ve done this a lot of times before, just whip out the debit card and go to an ATM and you get your Euros.  The first ATM shows you how to put your card in, but your card doesn’t look anything like the card in the visual instruction. It’s rejected, and then you turn it and it’s rejected, and you even try it upside down in both directions and it’s rejected, rejected, rejected.

 

   Then, you go to a second ATM and the same thing happens. And a third. Then a fourth. You think, just find a bank, but your brain is cursing at you, why don’t you just go to sleep, you idiot. I’m messing with you because you are keeping me up. You stumble into a place you think might be a bank because there are various people sitting at desks. You ask: “Is this a bank?” The lady at the desk closes to you actually laughs in your face and tells you no. Hello, microagression? 

 

  You are wounded, but you smile like “ha, ha, pretty funny, ain’t I”, but really, she has a nice smile and she gets out of her chair and walks you outside into the sunlight still smiling and carefully points to the place where the bank is and you feel a little better.

 

    Then when you get to the bank you wait in a line for quite some time and get annoyed, but then you think, okay that brain of mine, he’s a rascal isn’t he, just be patient but then a lady shows up and sort of gets behind you but she’s eyeing all the bank clerks and you think:  “she -- isn’t –going – to – respect – the -- line.” It’s been reported that in some cases the teeth are gritted at this stage of the syndrome.

 

    It’s really remarkable how detailed the literature is about this stage of jet lag recovery. Inside you are glowering and you turn around to look at her and you think, keep your glower inside you, because you are starting to wonder if they are thinking, huh, ugly American, acting all hissy and entitled.

 

   But a nice bank clerk pops up just in time and takes you over to the ATM and explains to you, you need to avoid certain types of ATMs in Portugal, but others work, so look for that type , which we have right here, go ahead and put in your card.

 

    You do and under his kind gaze the ATM acts all helpful and efficient like it’s going to be my friend and we go through a few screens without trouble.  But then after it’s asked me how much money I want and I answer, the screen gets kind of orange and says “communication problem.” 

 

    “Let’s try again,” the clerk says. We do and Lucy the ATM pulls away the football. I say, “could I get cash if I put my credit card in?” Yes, so I put it in and it prompts me for my number. What number. My PIN. I don’t know the PIN for my credit card. Credit cards have PINs? We talk some more and the upshot of it is try later today, maybe it will work then. I say, okay, no problem, I’ve got quite a few dollars I could just change them for Euros and he points out a nearby place that charges next to nothing to do that and it works out just fine when I go there.

 

    There is another stage of the Syndrome, however. You have become hungry and you look for a place to eat but there are so, so many tourists, and this place is too crowded and that one too loud and you don’t want to sit at that one where you will be forced to pretend you are enjoying the manically performing street performer and  then the next one has servings that are way too big, and really, the pictures of the food are kind of gross.

 

   By now, it’s been observed, the pedestrians you encounter as you walk from café to café are walking at odd angles, crisscrossing in front of you and constantly cutting you off as if you are in some kind of Alfred Hitchcock film. 

 

    But you keep going and then you turn down a side alley that’s shaded and there’s a little café.  You look at the menu and there’s stuff you want like “grilled sea bream” and “spaghetti with mushrooms.” There’s a nice awning and some empty tables underneath and there is no maitre’d at the moment, but you see an empty table and you sit down at it.

 

    He shows up and sees you and gives you this weary look – guess he’s had a long lunch shift and he’s running on fumes, you figure. He gets up real close to you and hands the two of you a couple of menus and wordlessly walks away.  Then when he comes back, he looks at you and he’s got this kind of traffic cop vibe and gets really close to you and mutters “Yes?” You pretend like everything is A-Okay and give your order. Then it takes a long time for the food to come and longer for your own order.

 

     That’s it. That’s all there is to this stage. But, but, the textbooks all say, there is one more stage to go. In this stage, you are back at the hotel and you begin to brood. You know what is happening, you are brooding over something really ridiculous, and you are just not going to be able to stop yourself. It’s been likened in some texts to a dog gnawing at a flea bite.

 

   What was that guy’s problem? Why was he acting that way and for the new arrivals at the tables around us he went into warm and animated discussions of all the different ways he could prepare a particular dish for these charming patrons?  You looked at him more than once when he was doing all this, thinking, wait, is this the same guy that served us? Well yes, it was.

 

   You think – is it my rube  American tourist look because I’m carrying my Rick Steves guide? Is it that I’m wearing kind of a Sabra hat that has a bit of a military look and he doesn’t like the military? There is much pondering, much wondering with each new hypotheses, why am I saying this out loud? Just stop. 

 

    But there must be a final hypotheses, and it is this: You sat down at that table without his permission. It didn’t matter that there were other empty tables and the place wasn’t crowded and nobody else was waiting. That’s what you did.  

 

   So anyway, that’s it, tomorrow is another day. Thank God it’s all well known and well described in the literature and there is nothing really wrong with me and I just have to go to bed. Good night!

    

 

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

Today, Everyone Is Going to Portugal played a show at the Jerónimos Monastery in the Belem section of Lisbon. There was a very long line waiting to get in; it took something like an hour and a half. This was where sailors went to pray with the monks before heading out on voyages of discovery down the west coast of Africa, some of them around the southern tip of Africa and all the way across to India in search of a sea route to get the spices there.

Imagine the courage to make such a voyage. You probably knew you had a good chance of dying. Maybe the prayers there helped you feel tight with your Creator, and a tight relationship was what you wanted if you were going to endure the fear of coming close to dying or of managing the journey into death.

Leaving Belem had to be like taking off from planet earth in one of the first rocket ships. The Atlantic was mysterious and uncharted and the techniques the Portuguese relied on to navigate it had only recently been developed.

The long line was to see the cloister inside the monastery. There was a shorter, faster line to go through the adjoining cathedral wherein lay the tomb of Vasco da Gama, who made the first voyage around Africa and all the way to India and back bearing precious and unbelievably valuable spices, including pepper.

The tedium of the wait faded in the bright blue sky and pleasantly cool temperature. Everyone is going to Portugal, but to me Americans weren’t conspicuous among them. The people waiting were from all over Europe and all over the world. The curiosity people in line had about each other created a certain energy. Watching other people is the best part of travel.

Although the architecture of the cloister was dazzling, I was a little surprised it held such strong interest for so many people, probably no more than a reflection of my ignorance. The cathedral too struck me the same way, though the presence even posthumous of the brave man da Gama captured the imagination.

The overall complex was a bright white, extraordinary given its age. Its construction began in 1501 and ended 100 years later. When one sees the pollution-blackened exterior of the monastery in the town of Batalha, completed 68 years before Jerónimos construction began, the relative cleanliness of Jerónimos amazes.

Jerónimos “was built to commemorate Vasco da Gama’s voyage and to give thanks to the Virgin Mary,” according to the website golisbon.com. UNESCO has classified it a World Heritage monument. I’m guessing its appeal stems largely from what it represents about the spirit of a small nation that achieved great wealth and power through its maritime skills.

After the visit we went to taste the Pasteis de Belem, an exalted small custard pastry held in a buttery flaked crust. Our taxi driver from the day before said it is for Portuguese the object of a culinary pilgrimage he likened to the spiritual pilgrimage Catholics make to Rome to see the Pope.

The driver said that as a young man he went to Belem every day to consume nine of the pastries. We each had a couple and they were divine -- as could attest the heavenly host of pigeons that fluttered at our feet to grab the falling flakes.

But for me the most exciting part of the trip was the visit to the Maritime Museum at one end of the monastery, where few people showed up to visit. The Portuguese marine tradition is fantastic.

The following is taken from the text accompanying various exhibits in the museum. The Mediterranean was the center of the known world and the Atlantic a “’dark and perilous sea.’” But equipped with new ships and new navigation techniques in the early 15th century, Portugal set out to sea to expand.

“Oceans were explored, contacts were made and new trade routes with distant peoples established. The Portuguese discoveries helped to create a new concept of the world. They were an important first step towards globalization through one of the most fascinating aspects of human history: the maritime adventure!”

The first step the Portuguese took was the conquest of the North African city of Ceuta. Leading an expedition “of scores of ships and thousands of men from all over the country,” King John I took Ceuta by storm on August 21, 1415. Its capture allowed Portugal “to control the navigation between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean and to protect shipping and the trade routes against Moorish pirates and corsairs.”

Geography played a big role in Portugal’s economic history well before the time of King John I. “From ancient times, Portuguese shores were visited by ships of many different peoples and from many different origins.” Its position “as a hub between the Mediterranean and Northern Europe promoted contacts between diverse cultures and the development of maritime trade routes.”

During the Middle Ages Portuguese merchants were able to create “important trade routes with some of the main Mediterranean ports, as well as with North African coastal cities.” But its maritime trade really prospered in the Atlantic, where Portugal negotiated commercial treaties with England, and where there was “the constant presence of Portuguese merchants in the main ports of Europe’s Atlantic littoral and the North Sea.”

The travels that inspired creation of Jerónimos were that of da Gama, who left for India on July 8, 1497, in command of a fleet of four ships. Over ten months later he’d made it to India, the first European maritime connection to that country. Da Gama “established the route that would be sailed by the ships that every year, for about three centuries, would make the long India run.”

Pepper and other goods ordered from India grew at such a rate that by the 16th and 17th centuries the cargo capacity of the Portuguese ships carrying them had increased tenfold. Pepper and cinnamon were shipped in bales and sacks but “other fragile or rare oriental spices were transported in ceramic containers of different sizes” to protect them. The containers themselves proved to be a very popular product on the European market.

Here’s more detail from Rick Steves’ Portugal. Although da Gama has attracted much of the attention, many other sailors were part of the grand maritime enterprise. Backing them up was Henry the Navigator, the brains behind the operation. The son of King John I, he lived from 1394 to 1460. He planned the logistics for the invasion of Ceuta, the wealth of which whetted his appetite to organize other expeditions to explore the Moslem world.

Henry handled various administrative details but also issued strict orders to sailors “not to return until they’d explored what was known as the ‘Sea of Darkness,’” Steves writes. They discovered the Madeira Islands and the Azores but came up empty in later voyages. They’d “run into a barrier – both a psychological and physical one. Cape Bojador (at the southwest corner of modern Morocco), with its reefs and currents, was seen as the end of the world. Beyond that, sea serpents roamed while the hot equatorial sun melted ships, made the sea boil, and turned white men black.”

Sail on, said Henry, and then, finally, Gil Eanes made it around Bojador, and it turned out that wasn’t the end of the world after all. Henry died before the discovery of the sea route to Asia and the realization of the great wealth it would generate. But others began making their way farther and farther south along Africa’s western coast. Bartolomeu Dias rounded the southern tip of Africa, the Cape of Good Hope, in 1488.

Hoping to avoid windless seas heading down the African coast, Pedro Cabral, along with Dias, first swung way out west in the Atlantic – and landed in Brazil in the year 1500. That eventually led to wealth from sugar plantations and eventually gold and gems – and massive exploitation and trafficking in human misery by taking and transporting slaves from Africa to work on those plantations. Steves: “All told Portugal ships are estimated to have transported over 4 million slaves to the New World.”

And there’s the Portuguese sailor Ferdinand Magellan, whose expedition is credited with the first circumnavigation of the globe in 1522. Is it my imagination? Or does he get short shrift in Portugal? It seems so. We had to leave the maritime museum without fully digesting its contents, so maybe I missed it -- but I never came across the homage to Magellan I thought I might see.

It turns out he did not find favor with the Portuguese king. One account says that a badly injured left leg along with some questionable dealings with a vanquished foe in battle undermined his ability to get funding from the king for his expedition. (Hearing this instantly won him the sympathy of Old Left Leg.)

So, the circumnavigation of the globe of the expedition of Ferdinand Magellan was accomplished for a Spanish king!

He headed west in 1520 with five ships, stopped in Rio and Patagonia, and navigated around the treacherous southern tip of South America, later named in his honor the Straits of Magellan. He made his way west in what later was named the Pacific Ocean but died in battle in the Philippines.

Nevertheless, the circumnavigation is identified with him. He organized the journey and one of his ships made it all the way back to Spain. His fierce leadership through sickness and danger kept the voyage on track up to the time of his death.

Britannica notes that some have tried to illustrate Magellan’s accomplishment by likening it to space exploration. “Such a comparison might even be said to underestimate Magellan’s feat—a 16th-century maritime expedition was arguably much more unpredictable, and hence far more perilous, than computer-assisted space travel—but in any case, the achievements of Magellan were of profound importance,” says Britannica.

It concludes: “His supreme accomplishment was the discovery and crossing of the South American strait that bears his name—a major navigational task, considering the knowledge of the period. Moreover, being the first to traverse the “Sea of the South” from east to west, he demonstrated the immensity of the Pacific Ocean and the challenges it posed to navigation. Finally, the idea of the voyage itself had relied on the not-undisputed idea of a spherical Earth. The circumnavigation completed by Magellan’s expedition thus confirmed the conception of the world as a globe.”

There’s much more, of course. For example, when Napoleon was busy threatening to invade Portugal, a huge contingent of Portuguese ships helped relocate the country’s government and royalty to Brazil, its largest colony. So, maybe Everyone is Going to Portugal isn’t always on the playbill. Sometimes, sensibly, it’s Everyone is Going to Leave Portugal, at least for a while.