Oh, Porto, I had such high hopes for you. Why did you start whiffing the moment you stepped up to the plate?
Strike One: The stranger who confronted me seconds after I emerged from the car park and trailed me to the hotel. I’ve never felt as threatened in Europe as I did in my first five minutes in Porto—and, remember, I’m an experienced traveler who has comfortably transversed many European cities at night.
Strike Two: The hotel, which was designed and decorated by MC Escher’s sadistic cousin and run by people unfamiliar with customer service. It fell short of what any reasonable person would expect from any hotel, let alone an upscale boutique hotel run by a major American hospitality chain.
Right off the bat, you made me feel unsafe and unwelcome—two wild swings and misses before I even set down my suitcase!
“Dave, are you going to use baseball metaphors throughout this post even though no one in Portugal, let alone Europe, will understand them?” I hear you ask.
Yes, I am. And any accounts and descriptions of this blog post may not be disseminated without express written consent. Got it? Good. Let’s proceed.1
Things Look Better in the Daylight
I woke up early the next morning, ready to give Porto the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the city had the yips last night and was ready now to show me its A-game.
After breakfast, I headed to Porto Cathedral and admired its fascinating blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Baroque architecture. The cathedral faced a plaza offering sweeping views of Porto. The spiral pillar in the plaza was unlike anything I’ve seen before.
Things were looking up. I pulled out the scorecard and recorded Ball One—one step closer to getting on base.
Out of Tune
As I admired the view, I heard a familiar song played on an unlikely instrument: Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” on a saxophone. I went over to the busker, put two euros in his sax case, and applauded when he was done.
He thanked me in German.
I nodded and fumbled the word “Danke.”
My one syllable of German wasn’t convincing. He asked, “Nederlander?”
I shook my head no and said, “American.”
I couldn’t make out the expression on the musician’s face, but it felt like a scowl at first. Our country isn’t getting a lot of positive publicity these days in Europe, and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a tirade that (a) I wouldn’t understand; and, (b) I’d probably agree with.
The scowl was actually the start of an awkward smile. The sax player began playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” A nice gesture, I thought, until he finished and began praising Trump in broken English.
Surely, something is being lost in translation, I thought. Through a combination of Spanish, English, facial expressions, and hand gestures, I confirmed the sax player and I held widely divergent opinions about the current state of American leadership and politics.2
I expressed my surprise and disgust, and then walked away. I wish I had taken my two euros with me.
That could have been Strike Three, but I was feeling generous. I was eager to see how the game would play out.
In Search of Hidden Synagogues
I set off in search of Jewish historical sites. I found one online—a synagogue that had been hidden until 2005—and headed in that direction.
Vitória Is Mine!
I continued exploring the Vitória area, which used to be a hub for Jewish life in Porto.3 According to the internet, which is always right, this area used to be called Judiaria do Olival and was designated a Jewish neighborhood in the 1300s.
I would have booked a Jewish heritage tour if I had more time in Porto. But, since that wasn’t the case, I just wandered around, not looking for anything in particular.4
I enjoyed this part of Porto, and added another ball to the scorecard. The count was now 2-2. The odds of getting on base (and possibly scoring) were getting better.
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service
I considered making this Strike Three, but I was still in a good mood, and, all things considered, this didn’t seem as egregious as the reasons for the first two strikes. It was time to move on.
Gurl, Gulls
Before we get to the highlight of my trip, I’d like to share an observation: The gulls in Porto have drag queen energy.
I will not be taking questions.
Booking It
“C’mon, Dave, didn’t you find anything in Porto that blew you away?” I hear you ask.
Hell, yes, I did. And I shouldn’t be able to hear you. This is a blog post, not a Zoom call.
The real question: Would it be another ball, a base hit, or even a home run?
Livraria Lello is considered one of the world’s most beautiful bookstores. I got there around 11 to discover a line to get in. I sighed and dutifully got in line. After a few minutes, it dawned upon me that I might be queued up for something else, like a museum or a Chili’s. I asked the person in front of me, “Is this the line for the bookstore?”
“Yes,” he said. “The 11 o’clock line.”
“The 11 o’clock line?”
He explained that Livraria Lello has a timed entry system, and you need to buy a ticket for €10 to get in.5
I thanked him and shied away in embarrassment, like Homer Simpson backing into a hedge. Yeah, you don’t normally think about getting tickets for a bookstore, but everyone else here had figured things out and I hadn’t. D’oh.
I looked at my phone and, fortunately, some tickets were available early that afternoon.
I killed some time sipping a latte at Garcia & Marquez—being waited on was a nice change from Cafe Guarany—and then bobbed and wove through packs of feral tourists to find a pleasant, shaded spot in Jardim da Cordoaria.
Finally, it was time to return to the bookstore, get in line, and, before long, go inside.
Livaria Lello was Ball Three. Now we’re at full count, which means Porto is thisclose to getting on base—but could just as easily strike out.
Parting Shots From Porto
I slowly worked my way back to the hotel, stopping for lunch and picking up some Pastéis de Nata for the Complimentary Spouse.6 Despite the frustrations and safety concerns from the previous night, I was actually feeling upbeat about Porto. I was high on books and pastry, but it was time to return to Lisbon.
And then it was time to check out. The issues that I thought had been resolved last night were, in fact, not resolved. Not only were they not addressed properly, but the hotel staff made things worse by trying to pretend they were doing me a favor.
I wanted to say, “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining,” but idioms don’t translate well. Instead, I spoke softly and politely, but my eyes said, “Bitch, please.”
That was Strike Three. I left Porto with a bad taste in my mouth and an angry feeling in my chest, which I couldn’t blame on the latte at Cafe Guanary.
But I had a change of heart on my drive back to Lisbon. I wasn’t ready to write off Porto entirely; I’d be open to another visit. I erased Strike Three, leaving Porto with a 3-2 pitch count. Every player has an off day, and maybe Porto just needed one more pitch to prove itself.
And that’s the exciting thing about a full count. You don’t know what will happen next, but something will definitely happen. The next swing leads to a base or the dugout.
And there’s always the possibility of a home run. When a batter hits it out of the park, you jump out of your seat with joy, willing to forgive or forget all the frustrations and missed opportunities that came before.
That’s an unlikely outcome, but an exciting one, and perhaps it merits another visit.
Footnotes
- Tip o’ the hat to my cousin Eric, who pointed out a flaw in my analogy and helped me fix it, and my friend Mike, who gave me a crash course in baseball after I moved back to the States and is the reason I know anything about the sport in the first place! I understand baseball better than Europeans do, but not nearly as well as Eric and Mike do. ↩︎
- Must be nice to live in a country that has already clawed its way back from fascism instead of one roaring toward it. ↩︎
- This is no longer the case for obvious reasons. ↩︎
- I didn’t visit the Kadoorie Synagogue, the largest operating synagogue in Portugal (and Spain, for that matter), as it was at least half an hour away on foot, and I wasn’t sure it would be open to guests on Saturday. ↩︎
- With your ticket, you get a €10 credit toward your purchase in the store. So it doesn’t really cost you anything unless you don’t want to buy books in a bookstore, and if that’s the case, why are you going in the first place? ↩︎
- Some of them were, er, lost in transit. ↩︎