One Fugly Mutt

Location: Porto, Portugal

Thursday June 3, 2010

We made fun of Selina (rising Chinese sophomore at Cornell) the whole time on the way to the Madrid airport via metro, because she missed the train twice during our journey, so we had to meet her at the estación de aeroporto. We even accidentally met up with Kevin (white rising junior at University of Texas) and John Greenlaw (white, “British-looking” rising junior at Quinnipiac [! I know! Haha, Yalies.]) while waiting for Selina at a connection. As we were riding the metro/waiting at a station, she burnt up Lauren’s text messages with questions such as: “Where are you guys now?” and “Where should I be getting off?” We were like, Selina… look at the map that’s probably right behind your head… Haha. Funny thing is, when we got to Porto, she had the best sense of direction, often leading us to places without a map, because she could remember. She was especially good at knowing where the gelato and pastry places were. Her Asian stomach-memory must be quite strong.

When we got Porto, Portugal, we took the metro to Lapa station, where our hostal: AC Hostel was supposed to be closest to, according to the posted information on hostelworld.com (best place to find hostels, bitches!). We got out of the metro (Porto’s metro is a large light-rail system, there’re no underground trains, which I appreciated more after my summer in Minnesodah) and was faced with this strange apartment complex marked with large, colourful graffiti that seemed more like a rundown asylum or jail than a living space for Joe the Plumber. Porto was not love at first sight.

We came upon our hostel with multinational flags on top of the door after a 5 or 7-minute walk (more than the 3-minute walk that the directions promised. Lies! Haha.). The hostel owner and apparently only receptionist (I really don’t know when he sleeps), Ismael, who speaks English, Portuguese, Spanish, French, Italian, and German (he used to be a money broker in Switzerland), was super nice and helpful with tourist sights and insider tips on getting the Porto experience: where to sightsee, how to find authentic Portuguese food, where the best beaches are, and so on. All the hostel owners whom I’ve met are so great! Oh, Ronnie… Felix… and now, Ismael! Lauren, Selina, John, Kevin, and I shared Room 2, on the first floor, because we were the first group to arrive. The room had two windows that opened up to the cobbled-stone street. Everything was fine-and-dandy in the hostel room except for the fact that sleeping in the room was like sleeping in the front-row seats of a Nascar practice track. The cars going up the one-way street went mad fast and the sound of their tires against the cobblestone echoed on the walls of the buildings of the street.

Our group set off for lunch down toward the historic part/downtown Porto. Seeing the beautiful part of Porto definitely changed our minds about the town. The town was so quaint and the architecture was so beautiful! And there’s cobblestone everywhere. Cobblestone sidewalks. Cobblestone streets. Cobblestone alleyways. I imagine clackers have a difficult time navigating.

Then Lauren saw her first real-life trolley!

Lauren and I picnicked at a park while the other kids looked for a restaurant, because our señoras love us and packed us lunches for that day. Well, my señora did. Lauren’s gave her packages of cheese, salami, and crackers that would last her the weekend. When we were eating in the park, which was littered with beer cups and cans (no open-container policy in Porto, perhaps?), we spotted the cutest pair of dogs playing across the way by their two wagging tails, because the rest of their bodies was obstructed by low hedges. When the darker dog came by us to investigate, I realized that it was probably the ugliest mutt I had ever seen. Its breed was nondescript and its dirty face had straggly hair that was unkempt. But it was very well-behaved, like most dogs I’ve encountered so far in Europe. They can be off the leash and be calm enough to act civil around friends and strangers. Do Americans just spoil their dogs too much through lack of discipline? But too much discipline is disturbing. Remember that time when Carrie (or was it Miranda?) went out with that one guy who had that creepily quiet dog trained by monks at a monastery? Now that was disturbing.

We walked all over Porto’s historic district, looking at the exteriors of buildings, statues, and the interior of a metro station (decorated with the classic blue tiles of Portugal) and the Sao Francisco Cathedral.

The inside of the baroque-rococo cathedral was stupendous. It was certainly wasn’t the biggest cathedral ever (Segovia’s totally pwned), but the ornate decorations and carvings was already a mindfuck in itself. If the cathedral was any bigger, I think my eyes would have ODed. We spent quite a bit of time in there looking and sitting in the pews. John, who grew up Catholic but is not religious now, sat next to me and explained many of the stories of the saints that the triptychs and statues depicted. In the basement of the church building, we explored the black and white catacombs. Too bad it was nothing like The Cask of Amontillado. There was no cobwebs nor nitre nor the quiet tinkling of bells.

The whole time, we were working our way downhill. We went downdowndown toward the Douro River, hopping down countless steps that wound through cute, little, colorful buildings. I can’t imagine living down by the river. The view is great, but the hike up must be a bitch.

The view of the river sure was purdy! I know that Ismael told us only tourists go down to that spot so all the restaurants are über expensive, but I can understand why. The river is beautiful with “typical boats” (recreated cargo boats with faux-barrels of wines on their decks) and bridges. We could see the famed wine houses on the other side of the river. Porto vino = port wine = port, anyone? We enjoyed some cheap sangria (tourist trap!, according to Ismael, but who can resist after walking 5 million km in the hot sun in jeans?) by the river. We watched some Portian boys run off the bank to jump into the river. A pair of Portian girls in bathing suites was jumping off the bottom level of a bridge (but still pretty far up) into the river as well. People can get desperate when it’s mad hot.

On our way back to the hostel, we came upon the procession for Corpus Christi. The parade went on forever, with participants and observers singing along to the hymns that were projected from a bus of a male chorus. Lauren saw her first nun! It was just a day of firsts for her. A sea of believers swarmed to follow the tail of the parade. The religious fervor was a bit crazy.

We took a siesta back at the hostel as we waited for the rest of the group to arrive on their evening flight. There were eight more girls, all starving. So we headed out to dinner once they set their stuff down in their rooms in the hostel. Man, was it hard to navigate with so many freakin’ people. Because the girls were so hungry, we just chose some random touristy restaurant that was opened despite of the holiday. The place was understaffed with only one waiter running around trying to take the orders from our party of thirteen and seven or eight other tables occupying in the terrace. That’s when the girls (not me) who didn’t bring jeans or long-sleeves realized that Porto actually gets cold at night. Portians actually walk around at night in jeans and trench coats. Yes, it gets to be that cold.

One girl decided that vacay of vacay was time to get drunkydrunkydrunk. So she downed five beers, 0.5 liters of sangria, and a shot of disgusting Portuguese vodka, while other people were just sipping on sangria. By the end of the night, she was stumbling here and there on the street and openly peeing on the sidewalk. When we told her not to do that, she said, “What? I do that all the time in America?” But this is not America, hon. Oh, American tourists. She later confessed that she was still in love with her ex who graduated and was moving away, despairing that she won’t find someone again. Oh, I love emotional drunks.

I wanted to try the bar that Ismael recommended. He said it’s the cheapest bar in Porto, serving 55¢ beers. I was leading a smaller group there, but when we got to the alleyway up to the bar, some of the girls got sketched out, because it was the same alleyway they felt uncomfortable in earlier that night. We turned back. Damn. I really wanted to see what the 55¢ beer bar was like. Poopers.