Portuguese Azulejos

Coming to Portugal by car, the land begins mountainous and sparsely populated. There are sheep, rocks and dust – not an immediate change from Spain, except that the land suddenly feels tipped inexorably toward the sea. This isn’t the Mediterranean, it’s the open ocean, and a traveler can feel that they’re sliding down towards a hard break between shore and water. There, at the westernmost extreme of continental Europe, met by salt and seawind, one finds themselves confronted by houses that shine, clad in beautiful colors and patterns. Azulejos, in Portuguese, the tiles that cover these buildings are a distinctive and amazing part of this land.
Tiles are as Portuguese as salt cod or lonely shepherds, and come in a staggering array of shades (mostly of blue) and designs. Near the coast, everything is tiled. They’re distinctive as much for their individuality as for anything else, with whole blocks of buildings bursting with color, each façade different.
The azulejos are a holdover from pre-reconquista Iberia, when the Moors controlled the peninsula. The patterns have evolved from early designs, and the basic tin-glazing and shaping technique is little changed. Brought to Portugal in the 1400's from Morocco and Algeria, the ceramics are used to reflect sunlight, trap cold air and keep houses cool during the hot summers. Also, the tiling helps preserve the mortar and soft stone of Portuguese seaside houses, protecting them from damp and rain.
Initially, the ceramics were produced in single lots, with a workshop creating one pattern and color for an individual building. In the 1700's, the great earthquake of Lisbon flattened the city, and produced an unprecedented demand for new tiles. At the same time, Portuguese colonies - particularly in Brazil - were beginning to use Azulejos, and more shipments were needed to satisfy the growing appetite for them. This led to standardizing and mass-production, with simpler, more neo-classical designs.
Some older tile scenes still survive in the country - some even in Lisbon, like this wall in the Madre de Deus Convent. This older, Delft-style type is something of a period-specific thing, though newer murals do exist dating from the 20th century, when azulejos had a bit of a revival.
The tile museum (the Museo do Azulejo) in Lisbon is fascinating and informative, but it feels sterile. This isn’t a medium that does well in neat exhibits. Portugal is a living gallery of tiles, and part of their appeal is their usefulness and cracks. They are out in the elements on the street, subjected to ocean storms and graffiti spray cans.

Maybe the most arresting sight in the museum, we came across a woman carefully cleaning and restoring an overwhelming hoard of old ceramic.
The azulejos are also part of an old way of life, crystalized in a way that’s somewhat unique to this country. Mostly untouched by the great wars, Portugal – even and especially in Lisbon – is an old place of hung laundry and odd angles, cobblestones and crumbling beerhalls. After the great earthquake of 1755, Lisbon was rebuilt and then left to sit, almost untouched. The azulejos of that time have lasted and become part of the language of the architecture. Houses are still built with the tile, old buildings remain as vibrant as when they were first constructed.
Architecturally, azulejos are what a traveler always hopes for. So much of Europe is modern or rebuilt, or just not quite place-specific enough. Portuguese tiles are immediately connected to a sense of a specific landscape and history, like the curved rooflines of Japan or the adobe of the American southwest. Seeing them in use, one gets excited about the differences that are out there, the beauty that exists all over the world. They stand out in the mind afterward, and are ever-intriguing at the time.

Hanging Around Lisbon

Hanging around Lisbon are ham legs and trolley lines. Up the steep, narrow, cobbled streets roll the yellow cars packed to the brim and oft decorated with less artistic examples of the city’s ever present graffiti. The restaurant windows are crowded to the gills with fresh fish, skewered squid and tanks of live crustaceans ready to be served, all displayed under a raised curtain of presunto. In some cases, the seafood and ham are almost touching. A string of dried garlic acts as a dividing line.
Hanging around Lisbon are motorcycles and drying laundry. You can get a glimpse at the interior life of a building through its hanging clothing and parked bikes. A family of four lives here, a man lives alone there. Laundry is hanging every. Always well wrung out, there’s never a drip from above.
Hanging out their windows in Lisbon are old women. If you smile or wave, they’ll return the gesture with equal enthusiasm. If they see you from their height. In the Bairro Alto, they watched street cleaners clear away the thick layer of discarded beer bottles from the night before – or the wee hours of the morning. In Belem, they watched the train arrive and the sun set behind the bridge. In Alfama, they took in fresh air – their radio waves emanating from the opened windows.
Hanging around Lisbon are newspapers and the men that buy and carry them. The papers are kept close, always - rolled up under their arms as they light a cigarette, flattened up against the wall as they fork at a sweet in the pasteleria, piled up with the others as a group of men play dominoes or cards. Hung up on the doors of paper shops, they announced Qaddafi’s death. Faded, posting up the windows of long-closed stores, the headlines were far less recent.
Hanging around Lisbon are pigeons – lots and lots of pigeons. Here, they watched a political rally going on in the square. On the ground, they scare, amuse, engage little children. Pigeons are something I remembered from my first trip here, in the winter of 2007. This time of year, domesticated bird friends hung around, too. Parakeets in cages were set outside of balconies to chirp responses to pigeons and radio hosts alike.

Hanging around Lisbon are holdovers from a summer that hasn’t quite ended yet. Outdoor tables are still favored over indoor ones. Along the water, public space is set up for lounging. A café nearby had a pile of multi-colored beanbags ready to be dispersed to the evening crowd.
Hanging around Lisbon are daily menus - whether a chalk or marker board, a print out or a piece of paper with a few words scrawled on it by the chef. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a note reading “Today, we have sardines.” Other times, it’s a long list separated into meat and fish, outlining the contents of the cooler sitting next to the grill. Each day, different restaurants seem to highlight the same things – a common understanding of what was best and freshest at the morning market.

Hanging around Lisbon are a number of these little vehicles. Yeah…. I have no idea, either. I do know that I really like this city and would be more than happy to keep hanging around.

Teeming With Coaches

At Lisbon's awe-inspiring Museu Nacional dos Coches, the gold-leaf and brocade, craftsmanship and excess are all nearly too much to bear. The museum is dedicated to some of the most opulent and fantastic vehicles ever built, focusing mainly on coaches and carriages from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. Once the royal collection of Portugal, it's housed in the former riding arena (if you can believe it) of the court, under portraits of princes and queens, dukes and - of course - their horses.
What is perhaps most impressive about the collection is how infrequently some of these glittering, ornate things were used. Some of them served as transport for one journey, or even for one procession. This incredible thing was driven, apparently, only once, to impress Pope Clement XI in 1716. I'm sure it made some kind of impression - even though it was actually only one of fifteen one-off coaches that were sent as part of an embassy visit to the holy see.

The scene depicted, by the way, is a triumphal meeting of the Atlantic and Indian oceans.
The immediate thing that is striking, though, is the sheer size and weightiness of the carriages. None could be called modest, many stretch over twenty five feet. Almost all of the vehicles are classified as "coaches" because of their suspended and enclosed cabins, four wheels, side doors and elevated driver's seat. This differs from, for example, a cabriolet, which has two doors, or a landau, which is open or convertible.
The Museu dos Coches illustrates very plainly just how absolute the authority of the European royals was. Their privilege gave birth to such a gluttony of creation that the individual coaches seem almost inconsequential when presented in this group. It's interesting to see, though, how the vehicles became plainer as the monarchy modernized. The later examples aren't nearly as ornate as the earlier specimens.
Besides the coaches, there are a few cabriolets and berlins, vitorias and coupes. Upstairs, there are a smattering children's carts, which were used to trot around the gardens in, pulled by ponies and goats.

Also in the museum, a sizable collection of what are called "litters" or sedan chairs. These are small boxes, essentially, which were carried around on poles, supported between two or more men. The one above belonged to the ill-fated king Pedro V, who reigned from 1853 to 1861, dying from cholera at age 24.
The most elaborate and gilt-heavy carriages were, without doubt, commissioned by João V, who reigned from 1706 to 1750. The relatively new exploitation of Brazilian diamond and gold mines had suddenly filled the royal coffers to bursting, and the young king began to emulate his contemporary Louis XV of France. He built dozens of exotic and expensive coaches, employing at least twenty artisans full time for several years. The craftsmanship is incredible, the detail never ending.

The museum is fascinating, certainly one of the best in Lisbon. It's a little far away from the center, but not difficult to reach by trolley line 15.

The Museu Nacional dos Coches's hours are: 10-6, Tuesday through Saturday, and 10-2 on Sundays. Admission is 5 euros, except Sunday, when it's free.

Under the Sea at Oceanário de Lisboa

One of the perks of travel is learning about yourself, or something, right? Well - something I've discovered about myself during this trip is that I'm not really a fan of zoos, but I am a big fan of aquariums. Maybe it's because they remind me of my father sitting in front of his salt water tank at home. Maybe it's because I spent way too many hours watching Blue Planet during college. Maybe it's because I secretly want to be a scuba diver. The Oceanário de Lisboa was a particular treat. I mean, look at that incredibly rare, bizarre sun fish. It's the world's largest boney fish - but, more importantly, its fins are all weird! (Sorry, I'm no David Attenborough).
Oceanário was built for the 1998 World's Fair, which was themed "The Oceans, a Heritage for the Future." Lisbon went all out for its hosting gig, erecting this aquarium along with the Vasco da Gama Bridge, Europe's longest at the time. The point was to celebrate Portugal's long oceanic history and also celebrate the 500th anniversary of Vasco da Gama's arrival in India. Oceanário was an immediate hit and remains the most visited place in all of Portugal. I love the building because you literally feel like you're walking out into the ocean. And then you dive in.
The main tank is 180,000 cubic feet, holds about 1.3 million gallons of salt water and is 23 feet deep. The aquarium's rooms are kept pretty dark and entering through the labyrinthine temporary exhibit space is slightly disorienting. One of us may or may not have walked into a wall. There are two floors. So, when you're down looking at the bottom dwellers, pelagic swimmers dart around above your head and vice versa. Throughout, there are walls up to create windows- or frames, really. Information panels describe the fish that tend to hang around in that spot. It's pretty neat, because you get the sense of a curated exhibition within this free flowing environment. You read about the grouper then and here it comes, swimming right into the frame and out again.
There was almost too much to look at. It was like the visual equivalent of surround sound. So, I guess like live Imax? Kooky seahorses and curly-cue anemones. Bright red shrimp and mesmerizing jellyfish. The Portuguese national treasure: bacalhau. There are a series of habitats, a number of smaller tanks aside from the centerpiece one which are devoted to different bodies of water: the North Atlantic, Antarctic, Temperate Pacific and Tropical Indian. Though, keeping with their "One Ocean" design concept, they all feel like they're connected to each other and the sea outside.
In the Antarctic section, were these penguins, born at the aquarium recently. They liked to yelp a lot. Amphibians, birds and a funny sea otter rounded out the non-fish contingent. The otter floated on his back with his "hands" folded on his lap, posing for pictures like a pro. In total, there are about 16,000 animals in the complex. And that's not even counting the piles of plush ones in the gift shop. Have you ever seen a cuddly cotton squid? Well, I have.
Of course, the biggest crowd-pleasers (aside from the sunfish and penguins) were the sharks. It's pretty incredible to feel so close to these creatures. It's even more incredible to see them brush up against a giant manta ray, while little yellow tangs swim around in the foreground and penguins dive into the water overhead. Some scientists criticize the fact that species that would never normally coexist are made to share a habitat at Oceanário. I'd rather be simple-minded and say that I think it's sweet.

Vinho do Porto, a Short Explanation

In 1703, the British were in a bit of a pickle. Embroiled in the War of Spanish Succession, they had just been denied import rights to French wines, leaving the nation thirsty and irritable. So, the English signed a treaty with Portugal, enticing the Portuguese to switch sides in the war and setting up a trade agreement that would allow the British Isles to begin buying wine from a small, underdeveloped viniculture region on the Douro river. Because the journey between the two countries took such a long time, the wine usually spoiled at sea, and the producers began fortifying the wine with extra alcohol to protect it. Thus, a peculiar wine and a strange union were formed; Port - that denizen of desert lists and decanters - isn't drunk much in Portugal, but is loved almost to excess in jolly old England. We did some exploring in the vineyards and cellars to find out a little more.

Porto is a beautiful city at the mouth of the Douro river, near the north-western point of the Iberian Peninsula. It has a long history, but was generally a sleepy place until trade between England and the Mediterranean countries picked up in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It wasn't until the British began importing port, though, that the town really boomed. New wine wealth paid for large mansions and a staggering amount of tile work on older facades. Today, it's still beautiful, even if most of its shipping industry is no longer active and some of the old estates have been left to decay.
The city faces the river on the northern side, soaking up the southern sun and shining in myriad colors. There are lace markets and tiny cafes, men playing cards or fishing along the piers. Ancient archways, once used as dockside storerooms, line the waterside, some with twisting alleyways behind. Old, flat bottomed river boats - native to the area - bob in the river, kept up by the wine houses as floating advertisements. Although many of the larger vintners keep offices here, the real wine action is actually across the water, in the sister town of Vila Nova de Gaia.
We visited one cellar in Gaia, operated by Wiese and Krohn. Huge drifts of casks were stacked in untidy rows, punctuated intermittently by mammoth aging barrels that stand nearly fifteen feet high. All port is aged in barrels for some length of time, but there is an important distinction to be made between two dissimilar types of the wine. "Barrel aged port" - most notably tawny ports - spend most of their existence in barrels, and are bottled when they're deemed ready to drink. Ruby, white, "late bottled vintage" and - most importantly - vintage ports are all known as "bottle aged ports," meaning that most of the aging process is done after the wine has been taken out of the cask. These wines are generally meant to sit before drinking, and are supposed to get better the longer they're kept.
The port classification system is extremely confusing, and not always entirely truthful. A "ten year tawny," for example, might not really be ten years old - it only has to acquire the character of a wine that age to be sold as such. Vintage ports, on the other hand, are attached to a single year, and may not even be produced if the harvest isn't perfect. Ruby ports are often marketed as similar to vintages, but are actually of much lower quality - they're usually "bottle aged" in cement tanks.
Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia may be the most visible wine towns, but they are actually not even in the production region. The grapes are cultivated and harvested about seventy-five kilometers upriver, in a strictly demarcated patch of land. The hills around the Douro are steep there, and the soil is dry and rocky. Traditionally, the slopes were terraced by hand, with rock walls between rows and narrow paths for picking. Today, much of the land has been broken up by bulldozer and dynamite to allow for broader terraces and tractor lanes. It's still pretty, though. The soil has a yellowish tint and the undulating lines of the grapes create beautiful patterns on the hillsides.
At Quinta do Panascal, a vineyard and winery on a picturesque bend in the river, the grapes had already been harvested when we visited. The wine house was empty of liquid, but the smell of alcohol and fermentation clung to the cement and seeped from the barrels. Here, the grapes are still picked by hand and mashed by foot - the only way, according to them, to treat fine fruits.
It's true that the Portuguese don't drink a lot of the stuff - in country, Port is generally only spotted in gift shops and in touristy restaurants. But in the actual wine region, some of the wine's mystique vanishes. As one man told us, "it's what I drink with dinner, with lunch, after dinner, whenever. It's our wine, so we drink it."

Gypsy Kitchens: Indian Summer Cocktail

It looks like Autumn and feels like Summer here in Portugal - an unusual heat has lingered into mid-October. This is to the time of year that one usually switches from gin and tonics to something like port, from a refreshing cocktail to an earthier sip. We enjoyed a combination of the two, while watching the mist set in over the river Douro at our campsite and eating some deliciously salty Serpa cheese. This port and tonic cocktail is not our invention, only the name is, but we felt the need to share.
The drink was on offer at Quinta do Panascal, a beautiful prized vineyard we visited in the Tavora Valley. It was created to showcase their white port's crispness and complexity. We didn't order the drink, opting to have a traditional tasting. However, once we tried the Fonseca Siroco, we could immediately see how the tonic and mint would work splendidly. We purchased a bottle after a gorgeous walkabout the grounds, accompanied by a particularly informative audio guide. A few bunches of wrinkled grapes hung around post-harvest; copper toned leaves crunched beneath our feet, but the sun beat down like it was August. Two small bottles of Indian Tonic water, a bunch of fresh mint and some ice were acquired on the drive home.
I suppose Indian Summers would work with any white port, but being as Fonseca Siroco is pretty widely available and it was their idea, you might as well use it if you can get your hands on some. It's crisper and dryer than a lot of other ports like it, which works better with the sweet, carbonated tonic water. Muddle some fresh mint at the bottom of a glass. Unlike a mojito, there's no sugar added to this drink, so go ahead and throw a little crushed ice in with the mint to add texture to your muddling. Add your port, then your tonic, more ice, a sprig of mint for the look of it and you're ready to enjoy the cocktail. It would make an excellent pitcher drink at a lunch party.

Here's the recipe:

Indian Summer

Ingredients:

Fonseca Siroco or a white port (chilled)
Tonic Water (chilled)
Fresh Mint
Ice

Process:

- Muddle fresh mint in the bottom of your glass, use some ice from traction
-Pour in a good helping of port
-Add tonic water (the proportions can be played with)
-Top off with a little more ice
-Stir, sprig and serve.

Afurada - The Place To Go For Portuguese Barbeque

Good luck and patience are two of a traveler’s best allies. On a day we planned to spend retracing old steps and wandering well traveled lanes, a fresh opportunity unexpectedly leapt into view.
Just across and west of Porto, on the south side of the Douro, Afurada occupies an oblique corner where the river and the Atlantic meet. We stumbled upon it by chance, following the scent of charcoal and grilling fish.
Porto is a beautiful, wonderful city. We’d been four years before, though, and wanted to explore a little further than the wine houses and tourist cruises. The Douro valley was clogged with haze and fog as we drifted away from the center. Mist obscured the sea beyond a few hundred feet of chop. Smoke from autumn fires – trash, clipped vines, harvested fields – scented the air and stung our eyes. The landscape seemed particularly watery and washed-out, with colorless edges and indistinct shapes in the distance. Walking along the riverside, passing abandoned houses and silent fishermen with lines in the river, we felt that solid ground was somehow retreating behind us.
Afurada was a surprise, emerging in a compact cluster of colorful tiles and lunchtime energy. A fishing village, it was thick with gulls and galoshes, women carrying buckets, men yelling to one another. The scent of the sea was suddenly stronger, and the roar of offboard motors replaced the buzz of mopeds. Also in the air, a different smoke, much more appealing.
It’s common, in this part of Portugal, for restaurants to have grills out on the sidewalk. It’s a great advertising ploy, really, because who can resist the sight and smell of barbequing food? There is no better place (that we’ve found) to experience this Portuguese churrasco than in Afurada, where the seafood travels less than a hundred yards from boat to coals, and the crowds are always boisterous and local.
At Taberna S. Pedro, the atmosphere is blue-collar and the menu is especially fish-heavy. On Mondays, those in the know travel out to Afurada for fresh fish, which is hard to come by in other towns where the fishmarkets are closed.
The Portuguese "cozinha grelha" ("grill cuisine") is based around two small fish - sardines and dorade. There are lots of other fish around the periphery and a considerable amount chicken and pork-belly, but the headliners are generally "sardinhas" or "dorada." Almost always, the dishes are served with a salad beforehand and potatoes - either boiled or "smashed," which means baked and then semi-flattened with a fist - on the side. White or red wine is fine, thick cuts of bread are nice, olive oil coats everything.In Afadura, established restaurants aren't the sole domain of street grilled food. This woman was cooking for a few men who were sitting at makeshift tables down the alleyway to the left.
A tiny, wooden ferry services the mouth of the river, bringing hungry travelers across from the Porto side or (heavier in the water) back from lunch. The cost is one euro per voyager, the ride is slightly less than five minutes. There are no scheduled crossings - just walk down to the pier on the Afurada side, or to the busy little quay just west of the large bridge on the northern shore, and wait for the boat.

After our lunch, we sat on the deck while we waited to depart. Two older men futzed about with screwdrivers, fado music warbled up from the cabin, local youths smoked cigarettes and looked out towards the sea. It was a perfect thing to stumble upon, this little fishing village in the mist - we were sad to leave, but that boat was the perfect way to say goodbye.

Open Air Living Rooms

In 2008, smoking bans took effect in Portugal – and as the smokers moved outdoors, apparently, so did the televisions. At least in Guimarães. At first, I assumed it was part of the national soccer obsession. But the celluloid flickers didn’t die down after the last Gooaaaalllllll. During the day, soap operas and game shows played. In the evening, sports and the news. Latenight was dedicated to subtitled American movies and television shows. One night, this bar was playing Seinfeld. That probably doesn’t even translate well! No matter, tv is tv is tv.
Most establishments with an outdoor television also have at least one, often two, sometimes three indoor ones. In these cases, they’re all tuned in to different things. People face in the direction of their choice, and nudge each other if there’s something interesting going on in another corner. Since they’re all on mute, it’s not really a disturbance – just a peculiar part of the local scene.
This place got fancy with it, projecting onto a neighboring building. Cars and people passed by just low enough not to become accidental projection screens. It felt less like a television set and more like a window – a live interaction or, more, a connection with something happening at the very same moment. Live sports always feel like that, I guess, but something about the scene occurring outside the (literal) box of a television in the fresh, night air accentuates that. The fact that they're life sized helps, too.
The first time we encountered an abundance of televisions was in the former Soviet countries. We’d walk into a bakery or store or cozy family restaurant and a flat screen would be showing music videos (unfortunately, not muted). So, we’re very used to the anachronism of it. It’s funny to see soap operas playing at a upscale restaurant or terrible airplane-at-best, straight-to-dvd-at-worst movies being ignored by elderly newspaper readers at a bar.
Who knows if people watch more television in public spaces here because they watch less or own fewer TVs in their own homes. All I know is that outdoor televisions will always be a uniquely Portugeuse thing to me – and that flipping through our photos of this city makes a wonderful game of “Spot the TV.”