HAMMER TIME!

I've been around the world, from London to The Bay, and never seen anything so odd...

Porto, like all Portuguese cities, has an annual festival honoring the city's "popular" saint. Most of these events involve parading the saint's statute to and from a few churches, a parade, late-night celebrating in the streets, etc. Mind you, the southern Europeans like to stay up late, and these things can begin as late as midnight and go until dawn.

Porto's celebration, while in many ways traditional, has a very strange twist.

Porto's most popular saint is John the Baptist, who, for the un-Sunday-schooled, was ordered beheaded by King Herod. His festival happened to fall during the few days we had scheduled to be in town. Unsure what to expect, we got a hotel room facing away from the street and hoped for the best. Stopping by the tourist information office for a map, we picked up an event schedule for the festival. The schedule noted that we could stop by the office the next day for our free "play hammer" so we would be ready when the festival got started.

Turns out, the most popular part of the festival involves hitting total strangers over the head with plastic squeaking hammers as they walk by. We were very skeptical, to say the least. This is clearly a country with a lawyer shortage! How could this be a good idea? We decided to go hammer-less, afraid that carrying a hammer would mark us as combatants and increase the chance of hammer-related violence towards our persons.

Heading down the hill to the river, we saw many folks carrying said hammers, but didn't see any hammer-related action. Brandon, absorbed with the technical side of videotaping something that caught his eye, was taken completely aback when he found himself the victim of a sharp rap on the head. While his 'fro deflected the worst of the assault, the shock and surprise may have subtracted a few days from his lifespan.

It seemed no one was safe from the hammer's fury. Finding a local hammer vender, we accelerated the arms race with our own weapon. Now armed with plastic hammer, we headed to the city waterfront at the appointed hour, where we indeed observed the locals bopping each other over the head with glee.

It took only a few moments for us to join in the fray. Brandon exploited his clear height and reach advantage over the Portuguese, bobbing with abandon and often with impunity. Megan, ever the jurist, took to dishing out retribution bonks to those in the crowd who sought to sneakily bop the defenseless and unaware. She adopted the moniker "Spiderman," for her even-handed distribution of justice for the downtrodden.

Much to our surprise, no fights ensued and we heard few complaints, even as the hour grew late and the alcohol flowed. In the end, the Portuguese endurance won out, and we headed back uphill to our room around 3 a.m. as still hundreds poured downhill. The sounds of reveling continued until dawn.

How does this all tie into John the Baptist? Our best theory: your head is still attached, so celebrate!

Who put the Port in the Port-U-Portugal?

Our last Portuguese stop, Porto, is the country's second-largest city, but its undisputed cultural capital. Great, cheap food, friendly (mostly English-speaking) citizens and clean lodging would have been enough to make us happy, but the city's biggest draw is its port wine. Port, Portugal's best-known export, is warehoused and distributed around the world from Porto's 20-or-so warehouses, most of whom welcome visitors. We felt welcome, so we visited (no, not ALL 20. Geez.)

Port, like all wine, ranges from the cheapest cheapies to several hundred dollars a bottle. This tasting is a range of 10-year-old tawny ports from different producers. The customs laws prevented us from spending our house down payment, and after two days Megan had tasted quite enough port. Were Brandon a single guy, he could be there still.

One Last Beachside Fling

On the way to Porto from Lisbon, we found time to stop by a beautiful white-sand beach called Costa Nova, outside of a small town called Aveiro (VERY highly recommended, btw.) No great stories, just a few great pics.

Brandon the Navigator

Had he been born 400 years ago, Brandon would likely be aboard a Portuguese ship right now, rounding Cape Horn, a case of the scurvy and his peg leg notwithstanding. Having already conquered the end of the world, we HAD to make a stop at the monument to the heroes of Portuguese navigation while in Lisbon. An impressive structure, the monument shows 20 or so men who helped open trade routes with India and brought small pox to the natives. A stop-off to visit the tomb of Vasco da Gama, enshrined in a nearby monastery, completed the trip.

Megan, on the other hand, has been missing California for the past three and a half years. This picture may suggest that although she is in the midst of a great European walkabout, her heart lies a little closer to home...

Lisbon at Sunset

Portugal constantly surprises you. On the one hand, it proves to be everything you would expect. Old men sit in the park, wasting away the day chewing the fat. The villages are filled with dilapidated little homes covered with brightly painted tiles. The smell of fish is pervasive, everything you order still has its head when it makes its way to your plate, and wine is cheap and easy to come by.

On the other hand, the country can prove as cosmopolitan as anywhere in Europe. Lisbon is surprisingly fresh (by European standards.) An earthquake leveled most of the country in the 18th century and wiped clean the proverbial slate. The resulting capital is more like Vienna than Madrid, and the Spanish influence we expected to find is nonexistent. The influx of EU money has revitalized the city, and we were sad to leave so soon.

The List

Days on the road: 52

Countries visited thus far: eight

Meals eaten at McDonalds: five (and they were damn good.)

Postcards sent: three

Hours of televised soccer watched prior to this trip: zero

Hours of televised soccer watched during trip: eight

One-way airline flights taken: three

Number of street dealers offering us hashish for sale during a three-day trip to Lisbon: twelve

Digital photos taken: 525

Number of intimate encounters clearly overheard in hotels: three

Ice cubes enjoyed: four

A thousand words, saved

A few classic pics from Portugal...





The pace is pretty rough here in Sintra.




We usually don't know where we're going, but the language barrier isn't always the problem.







After we took this picture, Brandon put the car back in his pocket.

It's not you, it's me

Sorry if you tried to post and couldn't - think we got the problem fixed. Post away!

To the End of the World!

Waking up one day and realizing we were halfway through our trip (!), we decided to cut things a little short in Spain and hopped the next bus out of town to the southern Portugese coast. It seemed a good idea to take advantage of the last few days of the pre-tourist season. The Algarve region has become widely known for its excess of sunburned Brits, Germans and backpacking Americans, and we didn't take long to follow suit.

Our first stop was Tavira, Portugal, a perfectly sleepy little fishing village on the edge of the Algarve. No American college kids to be seen anywhere, but plenty of Brits. Two days there led us to Salema, a true Algarve town. Lulled into complacency by wonderful accommodations, beautiful beaches with rental cabanas and cheap food, we were still there five days later, complete with requisite sunburns.

We did find a few hours to take a daytrip to Sagres, the southwestern most tip of Europe, a spot formerly thought to be the end of the world (along with, like, four other places in Europe...) where Prince Henry the Navigator founded his School of Navigation. As you can imagine, one of us was very interested, one a little less so.

Dragging ourselves back on the road, we've moved on to Sintra, outside of Lisbon. We're off to Lisbon tomorrow, 15 June. Sintra's been amazing - full of castles, forests and Moorish ruins, but where in Europe isn't?

Monkey Love

After several weeks in foreign-speaking countries, a daytrip to English-speaking Gibraltar sounded irresistable. The Rock, a tiny 2.5 square kilometer British protectorate on the southern tip of Spain, is famous for its "apes," tail-less monkeys that have grown entirely too familiar with the town´s many human visitors. Just like bears in the Sierras, they recognize things that likely contain food, e.g., backpacks, plastic bags, etc., and will climb right on you to get to it.

Danielle was the chosen backpack wearer that day and was accosted no less than five times by curious primate friends. Those opposable thumbs are useful, and one managed to make off with her sunscreen.
After impressive acrobatics by Brandon, the sunscreen was retrieved and the monkey properly chastised. Both the sunscreen and Danielle were given a thorough bath afterwards.

Toro, toro, toro!

When in Spain, do as the Spaniards do. Taking this to heart, the guys decided a bullfight was mandatory, while the ladies decided that zapatos shopping and cervezas by the river sounded much more appealing. This being their first bullfight, neither were sure what to expect but were quite certain bloodshed was inevitable. And indeed, this was the case. The ticket included six bullfights, each fought by novice matadors. The first bullfight was a bit difficult to watch; the fate of the bull was certain, but the steps of the ritual were not, creating palpable tension for the uninitiated.

As the fights progressed, the skill, daring and ritual of the event became more evident, and the guys left with a certain appreciation of its cultural signifigance. But now that they can say they've been to the bullfights, next time it´ll likely be cervezas by the river all around.

Baile!

We spent a facinating few hours taking in a flamenco show in Ronda, Spain, one of flamenco dancing's origination points. Everyone says you have to go, and it more than lived up to the hype. It was incredibly enjoyable!

A Jamón Love Affair

We in the States prefer our meat as far, far away from its animal origins as possible. Not the Spaniards. Observe Exhibit A, jamon. In southern Spain, the enjoyment of jamon is a regional obsession, and no one seems to have any qualms about carving a nice, thin slice right off the poor piggy's leg. Every restaurant and bar has a ham leg on display, in various states of undress. Here, the proprietor had just prepared a new leg for consumption right before our eyes. Note the hanging ham legs have small triangular cups attached to the bottoms - this catches the seeping fat drips.

Once you've resolved any misconceptions about your meat's origins, you'll find the jamon is quite tasty. Spaniards find a multitude of uses for it, including sandwiches, tapas, or just straight up. By the end of the trip, Chris had developed an addiction for which he may have to seek treatment.

Tapas

Before...

After...

Andalucian Fiesta

All´s been quiet on the western front, as we´ve been enjoying time in the Andalucia region of southern Spain with Chris and Danielle. After tearing ourselves away from the Cinque Terre, we flew to Sevilla to meet up with them and take in more than a few tapas and "tinto de verano," an addictive combination of red wine and lemon soda. After several days of sun, bull fights, fried fish and jamón (ham), we moved on to beautiful, calmer Ronda, to the southeast of Sevilla, then finally to Granada to enjoy La Alhambra.