I don’t know why some of us are fascinated with archaeology, but I feel the urge on a biological level. I’ve gone well out of my way for every old bit of rock strewn from here to Syria and from Hadrian’s to Hannibal’s. So that’s basically the whole Roman empire… if we are not quibbling over bits of Persia which came and went between battles. I´ll get there one day if they let women drive cars, the taliban all die and the foreigners in fatigues go home. Rant over.
ancient looking landscape, tick
I don’t think it’s the same as a genealogist´s quest, but I sense these ancient peoples as though we are related. I think my curiosity has something to do with discovering the essence of lifestyle (pretentious little name for a quest, n’est-ce pas quoi?), taking notes from a time when ideas of democracy and philosophy were new and shiny, and the first time people were leisurely enough to lie under a shady olive and contemplate beauty. Just look at Roman house design (excellent examples at Conimbriga) and you get a clear shot that the Romans new how to live and had a taste for beauty. (Look at Portuguese houses by comparison – rooms without windows? Hello, are we dead yet?)
ornately tiled rooms centred on a leafy, watery, light filled centre - Romans had style
And although the class divides were enormous and lives were most often cruel and short, these great empires still set an example. Could we ever again build monuments so awesome as the Temple of Luxor or even the Parthenon, staring down on Athens as a constant reminder to how far civilisation has fallen?
Anyway, the Sepulturas of Midões are today’s subject and they are medieval graves, certainly not of Greek or Roman origin. But nonetheless intriguing and mysterious if only on a more personal scale.
brown sepulturas sign gets you to this chapel. follow the path at the far right of this pic
One of the nice things foreigners bring with them to a new country is their curiosity. And I suppose, their perspective. I was tickled when a gaggle of forum punters started gabbing about a tiny medieval site hidden away in some local scrub. It’s not in the guide books, it’s not on the internet. The local council don’t promote it. There’s just one brown sign pointing vaguely in the general vicinity and all it says is “graves”.
you´re on this path, take a left when the path divides
But you know, for us people drawn to bits of old rock, this is enough. Someone raises the question and in an instant, a team of Indiana Jones´ are on the case. I just get the feeling that archaeology, history, and grave robbing is built into human DNA. Or as Jose Franco at Remax Viana once wisely told me: the stones speak to us.
and you´ve discovered something spooky!
The Sepulturas of Midões are interesting, not just because they are old (maybe as old as 8th century or perhaps as young as 12th Century) but because they are individual and isolated. They are obviously graves, but they are not in a graveyard, and they are not adjacent to any site of worship, Christian, pre-Christian, pagan or Muslim. While variously referred to academically as Roman, after the 3rd Century AD you have to concede that the Romans had little or no influence in Portugal, and Coimbra having been controlled by Islamic Moors from the 9th Century, the idea that Christianity was holding sway, even in the countryside, is unlikely. And these graves support this idea. These appear to be private burials with no particularly religious aspect. Small family groups, or village groups, close to farms and houses. Also close to fontes, or basins and small tanks: in the midst of things, to be visited frequently.
dont miss the groovy cacti growing behind the chapel
There are a few other sites around the River Mondego of similar age where people have appeared to have been buried privately, in groups of twos or threes or fours, outside of cemeteries and away from places of worship. Somewhat uncharacteristic of Christian burials, or Islamic burials (although the Moors also built graves by carving out the rock). It seems the country folk, despite regular interruptions by marauding hordes of Vikings, Normans and Whosits were essentially left to their own devices. Bless their atheist socks. The other interesting thing is the graves’ design which is uncommon and typical only to this area; the holes have heads and shoulder spaces carved into them. The peoples of the Mondego were travelling between villages and sharing their burial rituals. And this suggests community. Independence. Cooperation. Peace.
anthropomorphic - dead people shaped
And so we wander away in search of cake to discover the very interesting modern history-mystery of Midões. This tiny town /big village has not really any shops to speak of, a couple of cafes, no banks. But there’s a whopping cathedral-like church and a collection of Palacetes. Signs of serious wealth! Yet the public squares, while pretty, are not on the same scale, so it’s not the town that appears to have had the money, but a few individuals. A brief chat with some locals and a quick look around and one could conclude it’s the usual olive oil and wine money. But unlike say, Castaneira de Pêra with its many big fat country houses – these are actual palaces, with statuary, parapets and overt decoration – which makes them way-more-curiouser, dude.
and it´s for sale
Did I mention yet the pastelaria yet? Of course, it’s way above standard and will provide satisfaction in large helpings with cheery hospitality, even on an especially hot and still Sunday afternoon. This Midões place sounds just like a day trip.
Local Big Richard has invited me to an afternoon of boring local history tête-à-tête. And I say, put the kettle on Dick, I’ll bring the cake.
And of course, if you have an uninteresting brown sign near you, or even a rumour of history about your place, please cough up. We should all be eternal travellers, and the bigger our world gets the more curious it becomes.
For a little more, in Portuguese, and to credit my sources:
http://www.igespar.pt/media/uploads/trabalhosdearqueologia/50/9.pdf
http://www.j-f-midoes.web.pt/historia.htm
where it all started, and thanks to Sophie
http://expatsportugal.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=7520&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=0&sid=27f34e59d7846aac2148addd9f5714f2
another of Midões´ fontes
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If you only have one day in Portugal, let it be in Braga. It’s my favourite town. Actually I plan to live there one day and make a lifetime of this day-tripping thing.
Let me show you around.
Your day begins, naturally, with a coffee. Since you’re in Portugal you will also being eating one of the finest freshly baked pastries on the planet. The Brasileira know their business so the pastries, or even toast, will be as impeccable as the service. Anyway, you will be too busy watching all the stylish Bracarense walking by on their way to work… poor gorgeous things, off they go.
A quick walk around the pedestrianised old centre follows, window shopping at the variety of little boutiques running the gamut from lingerie to liturgical. There are local dress designers, tiny art galleries and antique collectables to seduce the spender, all tucked in together on the cobbled network of the compact town centre.
The oldest cathedral in Portugal (1070) is also here in the old town. It’s an important arquitectural monument, part brutal medieval, part golden rennaisance. There’s also a very nice fountain in the main square, a fortress-like episcopal palace and numerous intriguing old mansions to check out.
After this effort you’ll be needing a cup of tea and another pastry, if not lunch. This time we are at the glassy art deco Salão da Chã Lusitana. If the Salão isn’t romantic enough, you’ll have a view of the lovely Jardim de Santa Bárbara where you are guaranteed to see young couples smooching.
Five minutes outside town lies the Bom Jesus de Monte, a serious place for pilgrims at certain times of the year, a fun place to take photos the rest of the time. The curiosity of the Bom Jesus is a marvellous baroque staircase, with a lovely church at the top. Along the way there are spookily life-like scenes of the stations of the cross, but what you can’t miss are the Five Senses wall fountains. They are famous and funny. Otherwise known by the names my friends Jem and Kate gave them: Tears, Snot, Ear Wax and Vomit. Beware, it’s quite a walk up, (watch the Bracarense exercising! A rare sight in Portugal!) but those of us not here for devout agony can ride on the antique water-driven funicular.
And don’t miss the ceiling of the church, if it’s open. One of the prettiest in Portugal.
Now that the funicular has put us in a vintage mood, we are off the see the Confiança soap factory, which has been producing elegant luxury soaps since 1894. It’s not just soap: it’s about Portuguese design and tradition and pride. And it might be about buying a special souvenir for your mother.
Tired? Time to check into the hotel and have a little lie down? I’ve booked the best room at the Hotel Francfort which is right on the main square with views of the fountain. It’s my favourite hotel in Portugal (of the hotels I’ve actually stayed in, that is). Our hostess is Dona Eugenia and she is at least 70, so you’ll be taking your own luggage up the stairs. She’s been running this hotel for 45 years and I suspect she hasn’t changed a thing in all that time. It’s just the way a hotel should be. Big rooms, springy beds and a full complement of matching furniture. And at €15/head who can argue? The Francfort is a perfect example of what is lacking in modern hotels. Charm, character, and a hostess like Dona Eugenia.
At last, it’s time for dinner. Taberna Felix is the best restaurant in Portugal so I’ve made a booking. Although they have recently expanded, it’s still an intimate restaurant with a short menu to match. The owners and their staff are so nice and take care of you like old friends. The taberna is tucked away on an atmospheric small square with a couple of other small restaurants alongside and lots of tables outside, and only a couple of other foreigners which make you feel like you’re in on a local secret. I don’t have to tell you that the food is superb. The desserts are even better. Felix, if mispronounced because you´ve indulged in a few local ports, means Happy. Time to waddle back to the hotel…
But wait! What’s that on the path between you and the hotel? It’s an open air bar! It’s music and caipirinha! Braga is also a university town, full of bright young people who require evening entertainment. Therefore Braga has a whole new personality which comes out after dark. Plenty of opportunity to rub up against those fit and stylish Bracarense.
But I’m going to bed, because tomorrow there’s the market at Barcelos… so much to do, so many more pastries to eat…
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I’ve got a thing for bath houses. While in Turkey I did my best to get a sweat, a steam, a scrub and a wet down everyday. I just think it’s the height of decadence, and cultural intimacy, to mix it with the locals in a watery way. And after communal bathing in Turkey, the Mid East, North Africa, Northern Europe, in Sydney and even once at the Paris Ritz I tend to think that the people of the world are much more at ease with nudity than is commonly thought. But I digress, because this post is about Spas, which are related to bathhouses in their water treatment way. And because there is an antique architectural element that attracts me to them both.
Caldas Da Rainha, the Hot Springs of the Queen, is a classic spa town. Spa towns always hint at a 19th century grandeur, where the monied would while away their days “taking the waters” and relaxing. These days the old spa towns are gracefully fading, and the ailing have moved on to detox and rehab. But the grand old hotels, gardens, tea rooms, and what used to be fashionable architecture, remain. Spa towns are quaint and gentle, and often very pretty. Caldas certainly is all of these things.
The Spa is a predominantly European phenomenon, but Katoomba in the Blue Mountains outside of Sydney has exactly the personality I’m talking about. Cauterets in the French Pyrenees is a classic place, and I’ve been to a wonderful old pool/spas in Berlin and Stockholm. Luso in Portugal is also a favourite town of mine here, especially as the hospital-spa still offers many kinds of water treatments, like a “Vichy” hose down, steam inductions and a variety of strange massages. I’ve met delightful spa town in the colonies too. Dalat in Vietnam is a charming 19th century gem and I would imagine there might be a few ex-spas in India.
One day I’d love to do a tour of the great spas of Europe. I’d start in Budapest, certainly the bath capital of the world, and move south seeking them out in Switzerland and Austria. You can never be too clean.
Anyway back to Caldas… the first stop should be the hospital itself, located in two lovely old buildings just down from the main square. At the back of the main building is the gorgeous Nossa Senhora do Pópulo, which has a fabulous bell tower, and where patients can go to bolster their faith in modern medicine. Opposite the church and beside one of the many lovely Manueline palacetes in the back streets of Caldas, is the Hospital Museum. I can never resist a hospital museum, and although there’s nothing much macabre about this one it certainly reinforces the image of an olde worlde cleanliness and some hysterical hypochondriasis… fainting spells and smelling salts and that sort of thing. Quaint, rather.
Of course it made me feel like a lie down in a cool room followed by a good professional pummelling by Irmã Perpétua (or whoever the Portuguese equivalent of Swedish Helga might be). But alas! Unlike at Luso, the hospital isn’t open to people just-chucking-a-sickie – and seriously Caldas CM - this should change. Honestly they must have no idea how arduous being a tourist is and just how willingly we will shell out €15 to have someone in a white coat give us a rub down.
Actually it’s probably a good thing because there is really no time to waste if you want to see everything else that Caldas has got going on. The first thing you should start noticing is Caldas´ very special street signs. There aren’t many left these days so keep your eyes peeled, especially around the hospital area and along the park. The parque Dom Carlos I is gorgeous, with ponds and row boats and an excellent café/restaurant with loads of shaded outdoor seating. A wander around the José Malhoa Museum (naturalist / impressionist painter 1855-1933) inside the former park boat house is relaxing and mildly interesting. There’s also this enormous dilapidated building which they call the pavilões do parque, which appears to have been a former school. Stunning building, superb location and if this was Sydney it would have been turned into some seriously nice and expensive apartments by now. Looks like the pigeons will have it to themselves for a while longer.
Don’t let it get past midday or you’ll have missed the Caldas market. It’s on every day in Praça de Republica, right in the middle of things. It’s one of the nicest markets around, with the perfect balance of fresh veg, charcuterie, bread, sweets and stacks of different local handicrafts. But especially it has a spread of the famous ceramics of Caldas de Rainha. What you see at the market is not strictly Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro but it’s still fun and highly photogenic.
Just beside the market square is my favourite café in Caldas, Café Central. Here is a café as we knew them in the old country, a place that does proper lunch, as in, light meals with salad. The food is inventive and wholesome and there is serious gelato and cakes too. But it’s the interior design that does me. Like the Brasileira in Braga, it’s like the owner (I don’t know her name but she’s always there and I want to be her when I grow up) has done the most restrained renovation possible, simply restoring the original design and adding a fresh coat of paint and some new chairs. It’s a rejuvenation of art deco/ mid century elegance. It looks modern and vintage at the same time. Thoroughly divine.
And right outside the café is one of those unique street signs. Cute. On the same side of the square is Residencial Central which is where I like to stay. It’s a big homey oldie of course, run by the super welcoming Diogo and Fatima who have three great girls. Watch Diogo or that welcome drink will end up with you under the table. It’s the kind of hotel I’d like to live in, and it felt like I did. Still a bargain at €20 single, €35 double.
But the real reason I visit Caldas so often is to catch up with my mate Rafael. Caldas is a good place to get to know him, first in the Museu de Ceramica where you can see his work in context with the other wacky ceramicists of the era. Then at the Bordalo factory there’s another little museum which explains more specifically about Rafael’s life in Caldas. After that you can lose a couple of hours in the shop where there are new editions of bizarre giant fish and crab artworks, fresh copies of large scale commissions, figurines and of course cabbage things in all colours. But what else the factory produces is some of the most lovely table china I’ve ever seen. Opulent, classic, whimsical. Oranges, rabbits and palm trees. Funny and just pure elegance… and the most adorable little coffee cup sets in the world.
You’re bored? But there’s still the new cycling museum, Atelier-Museu António Duarte (1912-1998), some groovy Henry-Moore-like sculpture at Atelier-Museu João Fragoso (1913- 2000), the Museu Barato Feyo and yet more 20th century art at O Espaço da Concas. And a bunch of small interesting shops. And Mango. But never mind, you can always pop off to the beach at Foz de Arelho (20 minutes), a pleasant strip of golden sand and no swell to speak of, and if Caldas hasn’t tickled your cute inner pony enough you can clip clop up to Obidos (15 minutes) which will twee your tail off.
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I have just spent the last 10 days touring with friends. I’ve been fine tuning my itinerary and my “camp mother” tips…
10 days is not enough! You will not be able to see the whole country without wasting large amounts of time travelling. And this is my Tour Golden Rule #1: spend as little time in the car (or other transport) as possible. You should commit yourself to either the north (north of Porto), the south (south of Lisbon) or central Portugal. This is the central Portugal tour. Well, more or less, because I include Braga, because it´s worth the exception.
Tour Golden Rule #2 is to spend lots of time relaxing and eating. Even with your dearest friends or family it can be hard to gauge just how many churches/museums/goats they want to see… but exhaustion is rarely on anyone´s wish list. Don´t rush them, they are trying to chill out.
Keeping visitors well fed and watered is essential, and Portugal makes this task easy provided you keep an eye on the time. Try to start lunch between 1pm-2pm and dinner between 8-9pm. Getting fed during these hours is guaranteed anywhere, outside these hours you can´t make assumptions. Fortunately tostas mistas, pastéis de nata and café are generally available at all times in an emergency. These disciplined meal times allow you space for morning and afternoon tea as pastries and coffee are a cultural obligation.
We start in Porto and finish in Lisbon. Arranging your flights and transport this way conforms with Rule #1. But whether you start with Porto or Lisbon is up to you.
Day One : Porto
I´ve been sworn to secrecy about the best hotel bargain in all of Portugal, suffice to say you can live royally in Porto and blow away your guests with extravagance, for a mere €83 (triple). After this, unfortunately, nothing else compares. Start hunting now… “Castelo” is your keyword.
Porto has too much to do in just one day… but here´s a bunch of the best: Ribeira district, Bolhão market, Palaçio da Bolsa, São Bento train station and Igreja do Carmo for azulejos, Café Majestic and Leitaria Quinta do Paço for refreshment, Porto Paixão for shopping. The top museum is the Museu do Arte Contemporânea, in a modern Alvaro Siza building and surrounded by gardens. And of course, there is port tasting.
For dining, head to the Ribeira district. The many restaurants range from rustic to fine dining. Take a wander and find your own.
Day Two: Braga
My favourite hotel and restaurant in all of Portugal are in Braga. Hotel Francfort is on the main square. I go there for the furniture, not the plumbing, and for €15 a head no one complains.
The restaurant is Taverna Felix and I recommend you book ahead. They are full every night because their food is fantastic. Leave room for dessert.
In Braga you shouldn´t miss Café Brasileira, the cobbled old town, or a glimpse of the cathedral, the oldest in Portugal. But really you come to Braga to see the Bom Jesus do Monte, a crazy baroque staircase located 5 mins out of town. Take the funicular.
Day Three: Coimbra with a stop at the Palaçio do Busaco
A visit to the Palaçio has been a nice diversion in the past but I don´t think I´ll bother again. It´s a stunning piece of architecture, nestled in a national park, but the €5 entry fee to the park and the bad attitude of the hotel staff when we wanted to have afternoon tea has turned me off. I suppose the time has come when the hotel is sick of tourists, and if they can genuinely afford to turn punters away, then good luck to them.
Coimbra´s personality is dominated by the university, one of the oldest in Europe. A walk around the steep maze of streets in the old centre is a must and it´s best at night. It´s dotted with cool bars where you can mix it with the young people until the wee hours. The Baixa area is full of inexpensive restaurants and hotels. The outstanding sight in Coimbra is the Biblioteca Joanina, don´t miss it. Café Santa Cruz is an excellent place for people watching and for free fado on a Friday or Saturday night.
Day Four and Five we spent at my house… so here are some other suggestions because I can´t put you all up. You could stay in Coimbra two nights and visit the roman ruins at Conimbriga. There´s an excellent restaurant at the ruins too, with more spectacular desserts, mark my words. Suggestion two is Tomar, or Santarem. If the people like Batalha (see next) then you could also take them to Alcobaça, and Leiria is also good for a feed, or a shop or another castle. If you need a nature fix, go to Lousã, where you can stay at the excellent youth hostel or the adorable palaçio, or a least eat at A Condessa. From Lousã you can walk in the mountains and visit the Aldeias do Xisto. Only two days to fill, and too many suggestions.
Day Six: Nazaré with a stop in Batalha
“A Giant Hairy Spider” is how I describe the UNESCO-listed monastery known as Batalha. There is nothing else to do here, but with a monument this awesome, you need no distractions. The best café is located perpendicular to the cathedral towards the man on the horse.
The best part of Nazaré, apart from the beach, is O Sitio. Hang around near the cliff walk and you´ll be approached to rent rooms, hopefully by Dona Berta, as we were. One knockout bargain two bed apartment (€70) with views, thank you very much. For unforgettable garlic prawns head for Vista A Mar, the first restaurant on the way to the lighthouse (Farol).
Still in O Sitio, visit the tiny chapel called Hermida da Memoria, and then take the funicular down to the beach. Past the restaurant strip at right angles to the sea there are impressive pastelarias. The beach has very photogenic tents in the summer and a large fish drying camp, with some very tolerant local oldies waiting.
We were loving Nazaré, with our enviable apartment and gorgeous weather, so we stayed another night and on the second day did a day trip to Obidos. Obidos is more touristy than most places in Portugal, but it is very cute nonetheless. Get off the main path and you can avoid the bus tour groups. Up on the miradouro is a quiet, leafy and groovy bar.
Day Eight: Caldas da Rainha.
I love Caldas, where the daily main-square market, the park, the Bordalo Pinheiro museum and factory shop are on the agenda. In Caldas I love the Residencial Central and Café Central.
Day Nine: Lisboa to stay, with stops in Sintra and Mafra
The Palaçio Naçional de Mafra showcases the obscene spending of Dom João V. It´s a massive place with some lovely baroque living quarters, an interesting hospital and kitchen for the monks and a stunning royal library. But don´t miss the town of Mafra itself. There are more than a few quality pastelarias and good restaurants.
Then it´s onto Sintra which has a choice of castles to visit. My number one here is the Palaçio de Pena, a mockery of a royal palace designed by the royals themselves who clearly had a sense of humour. It´s camp, disney and delightful but I hope the €12 entry fee doesn´t turn you off. It´s doubled in price in 3 years. I´m all for a tourism-led-economic-recovery but… eek.
Day Ten: Lisboa
Again, it´s difficult to fit this great city into just a day. Three days might start to do it justice. Time to make the visitors commit to a return visit…
Driving around Lisbon will make you swear. Dump the car asap if you have one. Stay in a hotel that has a deal with a carpark.
For an impressive bargain hotel you need to book at least a week ahead. Try the Lisbon Lounge Hostel or look at others in Alfama, the Baixa or Bairro Alto so you´ll have atmosphere at your doorstep.
Things I call must dos: Confeitaria Naçional: coffee and pastries are the priority, naturally. Tram 28 is in all the guide books, but note that the good bit is between Estrela and Alfama. As it doesn´t pass through Praça Figueira anymore then perhaps the short round trip of the 12E is more convenient.
The 15E tram from Praça Figueira will conveniently take you to Belem, where you can have a famous pastel, see Jerónimos for free, visit the Berardo Modern Art Museum and check out the Torre de Belem.
While still on transport, I´ve always wanted to take the ferry from Cais do Sodré to Cacilhas. A relaxing 20 minutes each way and great views of Lisbon. And for more transport-for-fun, take one of the four elevadores in Lisbon and the Santa Justa lift.
I think the Gulbenkian Museum has one of best collections in the world: Calouste Gulbenkian was a fascinating person, the collection is varied, not too big and ends with a stunning Lalique jewellery collection. Or if there are 8 yr olds to impress, go to the Museu dos Coches, (coaches, as in cinderella) which, they say, is the most visited museum in Portugal.
In Lisbon you have a chance to show off some amazing interiors over dinner. We went to Casa do Alentejo and Galeto, which in my mind is the grooviest restaurant in the world. Bairro Alto is the perfect place to window shop for restaurants and bars. Alfama too is dotted with tiny authentic places, and you can’t really go too wrong.
Yeah I know, it´s all over too soon. A month next time. A year. Or the rest of your life…
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This is the first in a series of Day Trips; brief reviews of some worthwhile places to visit…
What’s not to like about Tomar? It’s not too big, but has plenty to keep you busy at least for a day. Tomar is a gentle, medium sized town. It’s not glamorous but it is certainly charming. Tomar has a little bit of kitsch, a little bit of retro, a smidge of fun.
Let’s start with the gob-smacker, bound-to-bowl-you-over UNESCO World Heritage Listed Convento Do Cristo. It was the headquarters of the Knights Templar, aka the Iberian Crusaders. The knights were a religious order, but this place has a certain macho robustness that helps you remember that it was also a serious military base. Built in the 12th Century, the convento is a complex complex of courtyards, chapels and living facilities and there isn’t a single corner that’s not photogenic. My favourite bits are the stone spiral staircases of the Santa Barbara cloister leading to the terrace (where there is a top view of the gaudy and carbuncular pièce de résistance Manueline window) and the refectory; a vast dining room that would make the ultimate location for a debaucherous medieval feast-party, convent and piety notwithstanding. If you can’t get a bit of joy out of this joint then you have no imagination.
Time for a coffee, so we’ll go straight down to the corredore, the cobbled and pedestrianised thoroughfare in the old town. Café Paraiso is a classic, where the story goes that the local ladies had a seating system according to social ranking. Windows, most preferred. Toilets, least preferred. Don’t sit in Mrs Wapnobbles place or you´ll get a pastel in the face…. that sort of thing.
Also in the corredore is one of my favourite hotels in Portugal the Residencial União. It is the type of intimate, family run, character laden place that I want all guest houses to be like. Prim and proper like an English hotel but also cosy like staying at nanna’s. The dining room is so cute that I expect to see Poirot or Miss Marple reading in a corner. And it’s all genuine. They are not trying to be quaint or boutique, it’s just the authentic and stopped-in-time nature of the place. I can’t fault it. And it’s a ridiculous bargain to boot. The last I looked at their rates they hadn’t put them up in 3 years.
And now I’m going to rave about the museu dos fósforos. I would never have gone to a matchbox museum in a pink fit if it wasn’t for two funny Australians who directed me to the breasts in the chapel at Busaco (another sublime little secret of Portugal for another time) and on the strength of this tip, I listened well when they urged me not to miss this museum. And there you are: you might never imagine that the largest matchbox collection in the southern hemisphere could be so fascinating, or hilarious. The collection, belonging to the fabulously named Aquiles Da Mota Lima, is ridiculously vast, a superb snapshot of 20th century graphic arts. It is severely kitsch, and big fun.
What really lights my fire is that it’s the inverse of most museum collections. Your regular art collector wants their good taste, their wealth and their cultured intelligence to be admired through their collections. It can be all rather vulgar and pretentious sometimes. On display here is a plebeian obsession taken to the extreme. It is curious maximus. The first room is cute, the second interesting but after the third room and 20,000 matchboxes, you get the picture. This guy is nutty. The madness of it becomes slightly overwhelming – when there are still another 20,000 matchboxes to go – and the humanity so palpable that you can almost hear Mrs Da Mota Lima nagging Aquiles to get these damn bloody matches out of the house. So, don´t miss it. It’s (unbelievably) free and only open in the afternoons.
The best towns always have more than one historic café and my other hang is Estrelas do Tomar. I rate a place that does its specialities in a specially printed box and at Estrelas you can take home `kiss me quick´- Beija me depressa – little gooey custardy globs that look yummy, but frankly I just want the box. The rest of their pastries are just too darn tempting anyway, and the green tiles and matching dark tables and chairs are totally up my street. AND, very unusually for Portugal, they have a wicked tea selection, like they saw me coming.
Just as well god created the day with morning and afternoon tea. And just as well there’s lunch and dinner too because there is a lot of good food to be had in Tomar. I’m always on the look out for the side alley, small but personality-filled bistro, and the Tomar baixa is full of such treasures. My current favourite is Restaurant Piri-Piri which is a slight cut-above the usual, possible owing to its success with the house made sauce, and a very good wine list. The hosts are even more hospitable than your typical Portuguese restaurateurs. More great hosts and buckets of atmosphere can be found at Casa das Ratas and her sister-across-the-laneway Casa Matreno. They have the same short menu of tasty and satisfying fare with an interesting seasonal special or two, so you’ll just have to choose between the taverna style of the Ratas or the pink and green diner tiles of the Matreno.
Finally, when in Tomar, I never miss a visit to The Princesa. If the time is right and the weather is mild, she may just make herself available. However, The Princesa only conducts visits from her first floor window where she can look down on the people as they crane their necks adoringly. Is she not the most beautiful cat in all of Portugal?
are you talking to me?
Restaurant Piri Piri Rua Moinhos 54 T:249 313 494
Residencial União Rua Serpa Pinto 94 T:249 323 161
Pastelaria Estrelas do Tomar Rua Serpa Pinto 12/Rua Alex Cruz 13B T: 249 313 275
Café Paraiso Rua Serpa Pinto T: 249 312 997
Casa Matreno / Casa Das Ratas Rua Doutor Joaquim Jacinto 7 T: 249 315 882
Museu Dos Fosforos Av General Bernardo Faria, near the train station.
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There is the short story and there is the long story.
The short story is a list of requirements you need to fulfil, and the long story is about the personal process of actually fulfilling them. In any case, I know I’ll have to abbreviate the long story, because it took the best part of a year and is not the sort of uplifting tale that people enjoy reading. It is however, true, and it has a happy ending.
First, some definitions: when I say Australian I mean an Australian citizen travelling on an Australian passport. If your nationality is Australian but you have another passport, this doesn’t apply to you. For some other Non-EU citizens such as US citizens, Canadians & Kiwis the rules are similar as for Australians – but you must check, because the devil is in the detail, and things can change, based on whatever trade agreement might be on the table that week. However, generally speaking, the rules are the same for all members of the “white list”. Then there is a list of “Annex ii countries” otherwise known as the “the black list” whose citizens are apparently considered less desirable friends of the EU and the conditions for them are different, I.E; even more difficult. In case you’re wondering there is no list known as the coffee-coloured list, red list, or even green list, so if you’re from Mars I cannot advise you and nor can wikipedia.
Second: A disclaimer: I will be reflecting on my experiences with the consular, foreign affairs and immigration departments of three countries. At the time, I was learning about the process and it was very difficult and frustrating. I understand now, with hindsight that all the officials involved were just doing their job, and it’s a complicated one where issues of “national security” come before any kind of human issues. Despite my belief that anyone should be allowed to live anywhere they like, I also understand that it isn’t functional. I am grateful to Portugal for permitting me to live here and I respect their rules. Please give me another visa when I need one. Thankyou.
snow on the cherry trees - winter in berlin
The Short Story.
1. Australian citizens are not permitted to live permanently or work in Europe without applying for a visa. Australians are only permitted 90 days visa free in the entire Schengen area (most of western Europe except U.K.).
The application process for stays of more than 90 days varies slightly for each of the Schengen countries and there are variety of visas that you can apply for with varying requirements for documentation.
The first thing you should do is contact the department of immigration/
embassy/consulate/foreign affairs of your destination and have a look at their publications about the visas available. In Portugal it is the Serviço de Estrangeiros e Fronteiras at www.sef.pt. You can also use the internet to read the entire Schengen Agreement legislation, if that’s the kind of over-producing you’re into.
gleimstrasse tunnel, berlin
2. Schengen Area countries are happy to have Australians hang around for more than 90 days if you have
• a satisfactory reason why you want to be there
• proof that you have enough money to support yourself
• good health and/or have health/travel insurance
• somewhere to live or other registration with the police
• proof that you don’t have a criminal record anywhere
and/or
• an employer, and a job that will support your visa application
• engaged in a course of study at a university or other institution
• work in or are researching a highly specialised field (i.e. for scientists or academics)
• family resident in the country who can support you on a family reunion scheme
There’s some info here:
http://www.canberra.diplo.de/Vertretung/canberra/en/01/Visabestimmungen/seite__2__welches__visum.html
http://www.spainexpat.com/spain/information/schengen_visa_spain/
henrich-roller cemetery, prenzlauerberg, berlin
Now, let’s workshop your situation. Let’s say you don’t want to study or work, you don’t work in a specialist field, and you don’t have family connections in Europe. So we’ll focus on the first list of requirements:
• a satisfactory reason why you want to be there
You want to travel and see more of the country. Just bought a house and want to live in it? Always wanted to speak a foreign language. Looking for a husband. Whatever, just so long as you have a plan and it doesn’t involve bombs. Nor do you want to be a burden to the health system, social security or take money out of the country. Supply a harmless little reason for wanting to stay.
• proof that you have enough money to support yourself
The value of “means of subsistence” varies according to the minimum wage, which differs dramatically across the European/Schengen region. In Portugal as of 2009, it is €450/month. You need to show you have more than this to live on, because you are going to need it. Banks statements, share statements, income statements, your credit card limit, whatever you’ve got. Show them the paper and make it convincing. If you’re applying for a Portuguese “Authorisation for Residence” you’ll need to show a year’s worth of money – but then to actually get residency with your authorisation you need another year’s worth – basically I showed them everything I had.
• good health and/or have health/travel insurance
If you’re away from home you should have travel insurance anyway. But they might require of you a doctor’s certificate, or as was in my case, a Gesundheitszeugnis, a legendary certificate that says you’re not a plague carrier. Once you are in Portugal you will be covered by their health system, but if you can afford private cover, get it.
• somewhere to live or registration with the police
In Germany I needed to have a certificate from the police to show I had registered my address with them. For that I needed a signed rental agreement for where I was living. For Portugal I showed a copy of the contract for the house purchase. Another rental agreement would have been the alternative.
• proof that you don’t have a criminal record anywhere
You can request a copy of your criminal record with your local (or state) police at home. The embassy will want a record from the last place you were a resident, or a resident of the last 5 years. I needed one from both Germany and Australia. I mailed the police a form downloaded from the internet along with a fee. They sent me the police record in the mail in a few months. Quite a lot of bother for something that says nothing.
Maybe that sounds all well and good to you. There is one final ‘requirement’ that won’t be listed anywhere but will be critical to convincing the relevant authorities that you do fit their eligible criteria and are a nice person and you mean them no harm. Is it just tenacity they are looking for? I don’t know. All I can tell you is what happened to me.
The Long Story
The Immigration System is an inherently xenophobic one.
In 1999 I returned home to Australia after a couple of years of travelling to find it had turned into a redneck wonderland. People I had previously thought of as intelligent and liberal-minded were mouthing political dogma like neo-nazis. An insidious anti-immigration mood had been introduced by the Howard government who propagated the idea that immigrants, (in particular the most desperate kind, “illegal immigrants”; people who travelled first and delivered paperwork later, mostly economic refugees but also including trafficked people and political refugees) were parasites and terrorists and should preferably be drowned at sea rather than be allowed to set foot on Australian beaches.
“Queue Jumpers” as they were called, were locked up in camps where they invariably went a bit crazy. Many Australians were horrified and ashamed, because as the entire world is aware, 97% of “Australians” are immigrants, at the least 8th generation immigrants. The issue raged on for years, time enough for people and the media to become polarized, and to take sides on the issue against the government. Hundreds of people would visit the detention centres on weekends to give their support person-to-person. The general public got to hear what life was like for these new arrivals, and I don’t think I was the only one who found themselves imagining what it would be like for a whole nation to think you were a criminal just because you were from somewhere else. Xenophobia. Racism, pure and simple.
It was with this frame of reference that I embarked upon the adventure of becoming an outsider myself. I left Australia without planning my final destination. To apply for residency in Portugal you have to be somewhere else other than in Portugal, preferably your country of origin. But in my mind going all the way back to Australia was not an option. Anyway I have a thing for taking the most difficult route possible. I chose to apply from Berlin.
The Portuguese embassy in Berlin would accept my application if I could prove I was a resident there. This started the first phase of my residency process, and introduced me to what a time-consuming and humiliating ordeal it would be. The Ausländerbehörde (immigration office) in Berlin was just out of reach of public transport, which they must have planned on purpose because the rest of the world is accessible by Berlin’s über public transport system. So it took a few hours to get there and I learnt from trial and error that if you weren’t there by 8am you could forget it. Any later and you would not get a place in the queue that would guarantee being attended to that day.
the latte-macchiato, unique to berlin.
ampelmann, unique to east berlinI also learnt from trial and error that “being attended to” didn’t have much meaning anyway. The first time that I got to the desk I was told I had to make an appointment, which I had been told on the phone wasn’t necessary. To make an appointment I had to come back the next day because the computers weren’t working and I couldn’t make an appointment over the phone. Actually I’m making this sound much simpler than it was, because I don’t speak German and NO ONE AT THE FOREIGN AFFAIRS DEPARTMENT SPEAKS ANY OTHER LANGUAGE EXCEPT GERMAN.
Is wasn’t so much that no one spoke English that surprised me, but no one spoke Turkish either. Turks make up the majority of immigrants to Germany and the majority of my queue companeiros whose style I was beginning to admire. I had observed some subtle but crafty tricks a few of them had going on. “Queue jumpers!” I felt like yelling, but of course no one would get the irony. I realised I would need my own secret weapon if I was to conquer the system.
But first, a bomb dropped. I was innocently searching the internet for the small print in the Schengen Agreement that would clear the path between me and a visa. I had discovered an anomaly: the legislation says that Australians are permitted 90 days visa free in a Schengen Country, which had I taken to mean 90 in each Schengen Country, and I had, in fact, discussed this on two separate occasions with passport control coming in and out of the UK. But I had just found a forum discussion to the contrary – 90 days in theentire Schengen Area – which didn’t make sense, because how could your average backpacker fit in 25 countries including France, Italy, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands & Greece, in 3 months? I rang the Australian embassy, where my friendly fellow countryman informed me quite succinctly that I was in Germany ILLEGALLY, and, in fact I’d been illegal in Europe for the last 6 months and I was GOING TO BE DEPORTED. Panic spread from our apartment across Berlin, over the north sea to England and then over to Sweden where it gathered momentum before finally waking up family members in and around Sydney.
Two Berliner mates rang the Foreign Affairs Hotline, pretending not to be me or in any way associated with me, and were independently reassured that despite what that cranky Australian embassy prat had said, “We in Germany just don’t do that sort of thing anymore”.
Hello? What was that last part again?
“We in Germany just don’t do that sort of thing anymore”.
I had used the English word “deported” which my German-speaking friends translated directly into German, where it’s connotation refers to that unfortunate period in Germany’s modern history whose name shall not be spoken aloud. Deportation. Trains. Jews. Translation issues aside I was reassured that I would not be “politely asked would I mind voluntarily departing the country at my earliest convenience by whatever transportation method I deemed appropriate” as my German boyfriend interpreted the modern German terminology. Thank god. Thank Yahweh, I should say.
I then recruited a good German-speaking friend to escort me on my next trip to the Ausländerbehörde. She was a busy person and didn’t have the patience for queuing, plus she was my secret weapon, so somehow got up to the desk fairly early in the day. When Desk-Bitch-Eins gave various pre-prepared excuses as to why my requests for assistance should be denied, my friend simply argued with her so ferociously that she broke her will to live. So then we got moved onto Desk-Bitch-Zwei who confounded us with conflicting information only further riling up my buddy who was in no mood for recalcitrance. We then found ourselves absent-mindedly wandering the halls of the department contemplating our next move. Then we struck gold. We were standing by the office door of Mr Biergarten Doppleganger, whose title my companion deciphered as the Regional Area Chief and before I knew what was happening my friend had burst through the door and was pushing her stupendous breasts in his face. My gutsy girlfriend explained my dilemma with such overwhelming intensity that poor Herr Doppleganger was forced to confess that we would be assisted on the second floor.
Now that we were on such intimate terms with the boss we could use his name as the master key to every door in the department. I found myself in a waiting room next to the only other suited applicant that I had seen so far. He was the ambassador of Nigeria.What are you doing here? I asked. “Oh We have to wait in line like everyone else”, His Honourable Ambassadorship replied, with such grace and humility that I felt like a street urchin. Get a load of that – not only is he an industry insider but also a high ranked official, and the Germans make him wait in the smelly line like everyone else. Crap to that.
Meanwhile my curvaceous chum returned from another whirlwind tour of the halls to find us deeply diverted on the subject of the Nigerian elections. Credit to the BBC World Service for keeping blonde flirts fully briefed on current affairs. Unfortunately my cleavaged comrade had been so successful in her pursuit of satisfaction that we had bumped His Highness of Nigeria (and thus my last hope of ever finding a suitable husband) and it was our turn for an interview.
The moment had come to prove my worthiness and I was at a loss for words. The most excellent thing about my feisty friend was that she wasn’t intimidated by the process, because she had nothing at stake. In my mind, getting this visa was critical to my whole grand plan, and even though I’m hard to subdue even at a funeral, I felt that being any more presumptuous than a field mouse would put everything at risk. But my friend didn’t have her future riding on this moment. She was confident and the people in charge respected that. Feared that.
Desk-Bitch-Drei asked me why I wanted to stay in Germany. We submitted my prepared answer that I wanted to stay so I could study…A language…A Portuguese language. But this did not tick her boxes. You can apply for a student visa, but you have to be studying German or some other respectable subject, not Portuguese. We went through the other possibilities. Did I want to work in Germany…? No, I knew already that this would require sponsorship and a big hassle. “Perhaps I wanted to stay so I could see more of Germany”, Helpful Desk-Person-Three asked. Yeeessss? Bingo! You see, Dear Reader, there are secret (and blaringly simple) answers that you won’t find on the internet or in the legislation. You might be allowed to stay just because you want to. It helps to have the right colour passport and the right answers ready.
So there it was, the visa in the bag. I was given an arbitrary 143 days and a couple of nice stamps in my passport. We went outside for a celebratory latte-macchiato. In the café sat a woman in a headscarf, accompanied by what were unmistakably, her lawyers. It struck me only then that even though it had taken many, many, many hours and a shitload of stress, my experience of the system was nothing compared to what other people must go through. I remembered the Arabs, Persians, Asians and Africans that the Australian government had locked up in camps. It had been educating to experience the system first hand, but I was sure as hell appreciating that stroke of luck of being born white and middle class.
I was thus prepared to engage the Portuguese authorities. I had my list of requirements printed out and I was off to discuss the details at the embassy. This time my secret weapon was my Professora Da Lingua Portuguesa, another feisty young spunk with a similar disregard for diplomatic dress codes.
She outlined my desire to be at one in the Portuguese countryside in her prettiest Paulista accent, but The Porco Da Embaixada, as he was about to become know, wanted to hear none of it. “AND WHAT IS SHE GOING TO LIVE ON?” he spat, in the most frighteningly discourteous way possible for a Portuguese person. “AIR?”
“AIR? AIR?” my teacher repeated, as we relived the horror on the pavement outside. And thus began my war with The Porco Da Embaixada. Clearly I was not going to be taken for a mature, respectably dressed, law abiding woman of independent means, but instead apparently I was a queue jumping, terrorist parasite. At least, that’s how it felt.
As an ex-wannabe filmmaker, I make a mean presentation. My application for residency looked like a pitch for Portugal Tourism’s advertising business. Photos, mood boards, colour spreadsheets, mission statement, graphic data, and high gloss colour reproductions of historical documents presented in a fully bound gold leaf album that sang the national anthem when you opened the cover, that’s how it was.
But it didn’t impress The Porco Da Embaixada.
“ONDE ESTA O GESUNDHEITSZEUGNIS?” He demanded. “The…?” said the field mouse.
“G-E-S-U-N-D-HE-I-T-S-Z-E-U-G-N-I-S????”
I had to get the Professora to get them on the phone, twice, because she had no idea if this word was German, Portuguese or Swahili. It turned out to mean an official health certificate. I asked around my friends. My friends asked their doctors. I went to medical clinics. I looked on the internet. My Berlin mates rang around the immigration and the health departments trying to discover what it was and how to get one. No one knew. Finally we found an elderly neighbour who used to work for the minister of health. There used to be a form, she said, but no one used it any more. So we reported this back to The Porco. Not negotiable, he said. No Gesundheitszeugnis, no visa. No visa, no Portugal.
The Professora raged around her living room (we were having our daily two hour Portuguese personal-problem-solving-workshop) before calling them back, for the third time. She wanted to know why especially a Gesundheitszeugnis and not some other form that certified that I was safe cargo? What diseases were they worried about? Which ones did I have to be tested for? “ALL OF THEM” The Porco replied. “ALL OF THEM”.
dogs in cafes... very berlin
This did not placate the Professora, not one little bit. “WHAT IF YOU HAD AIDS?” THEY CAN’T STOP YOU GOING TO PORTUGAL BECAUSE YOU HAVE AIDS! THAT’S DISCRIMINATION!” I share her passion for human rights, but I was perfectly quiet. Because, with this ludicrous request for indemnity against every infectious organism on planet Earth, I realised that the gloves had come off. This wasn’t about genuine requirements and box ticking: this was about making it as difficult for me as possible. It had just become personal.
It was around about this low point that I received an email from my Swedish brother-in-law. He told me how he had felt while applying for residency in Australia. ‘Like a low life criminal’ he explained. The hyperbole of this was understood between us. He’s not, of course, a criminal, nor even a criminal type, and I would describe the reverence that Australia has for Sweden to be like Portugal has for Our Lady.
The aim of the immigration process is to intimidate you into giving up. I don’t know why. But if the Australians are making it hard for Swedes, then it’s a global conspiracy. It’s not written in the Common Consular Instructions, but their aim is to keep you out.
With this new intelligence I moved things forward. I eventually I found a few antique template Gesundheitszeugnis-es in the bowels of the internet, and my flatmates and I selected the most thoroughly officiously German looking one. As it happens, my Berliner boyfriend was not just a follower of modern German linguistic trends but also a licenced medical physician. So he looked over my Gesundheitszeugnis the next morning over breakfast. “Do you have Tuberculosis?” he asked, without even looking up. “Um…No, I don’t think so,” said the field mouse. He crossed the box. “Polio?” . “No, we all get immunised against polio, don’t we?”. “Good answer” Herr Doktor replied. He crossed the box. And then he crossed another box without asking anything. “What’s that? That box, that I don’t have?”. “That’s for Plague. You don’t have Plague”. “Are you sure?” the field mouse said, getting all the more timid with every box crossing. The Doktor put his pen down gently on the breakfast table. “If you’ve got it, then I’ve got it. And I don’t have Plague.” That was reassuring, no plague in the house. It was some scary Gesundheitszeugnis though. And thus, with a stamp and a squiggle, it was done. I was no Typhoid Mary, nor even a typhoid mousey.
The next day I put on my best outfit and rode my bicycle into town feeling like Audrey Hepburn playing a nun. Sweet, saintly and irrefutable (and free of all infectious diseases). But you should never underestimate your opponent because while I had been gone The Porco Da Embaixada had been thinking up another reason not to accept my application. This time, he said, everything had to be translated – from German to English, from English to German, then to be sure, everything into Portuguese as well. He’s got to be kidding (again), I thought. You reckon between the diplomatic corps in Berlin and Lisbon, that no one is bilingual in either German or English? Just how exactly did they get a job in an embassy? Of course the field mouse said none of this, and went on her little way to spend vast reserves of renovation money on intergalactic translators. And photocopying.
And I had to buy two more folders. The application tripled in size.
Then my mother arrived in Berlin to come between me and my nervous breakdown, and we temporarily deported ourselves to Prague. I left the application-encyclopaedia with my friend with the biggest heart and the biggest boobs to “drop off” at the embassy on her way to work. Seizing the upper hand again The Porco sent my friend away with the instructions that all the certificates had to be notarised. By a notary. So instead of going to work, the kind lady with the twins delivered the package across town to some lawyer mate of The Porco’s. What a rort.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear about this until I got back a week later, because I would’ve gone ahead with the nervous breakdown, mother and Prague notwithstanding. The application was now so huge I couldn’t ride the bike with it anymore. I can faintly recall teetering on the edge of sanity the next time I rolled up at the embassy. The strain must have been visible, because The Porco took the application without argument, and I went home to take some more of those pills that stop people from flying planes into tall buildings.
My visa was processed in record time and I left Berlin on the day that my German residency expired. When I went to collect my passport from The Porco, he was, just as my brother-in-law predicted, my new best friend. He acted like it had all been a silly game and was overflowing with congratulations and well wishes for my life ahead in Portugal.
Incredibly, I was actually still looking forward to it myself.
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In a classic Portuguese-style news item this week TVi reported that Tavira (South-Eastern Algarve) has been awarded 8th position in Maureen Wheeler’s top ten beaches in the latest edition of Lonely Planet’s Travel with Children.
I couldn’t work out if this was considered bad news or good news. 8th? They vox-popped some families on the beach who endorsed the recommendation by saying “it’s not polluted”. (There it is again: trying to say something positive, but it coming out all wrong. One would expect that NO beaches in Portugal are polluted 
). If I was the boss of Portugal Tourism, I’d be asking why isn’t it no. 1? If I was the boss of Portugal Tourism I’d be on the phone to the director of news at TVi giving him an earful, (or rather, I’d be taking him out to a nice long lunch to share my wisdom about tourism related coverage).
What are you looking for in a beach for kids? Shallow sea with no big waves, sand not pebbles, no big crowds, no syringes in the sand or poo in the water, space to park a big shade without irritating anyone…Portugal ticks all those boxes.
It made me curious to see what else was on the list, and how Australia rated. Here it is:
1. COSTA DEL SUD, SARDINIA, ITALY. Interesting no.1 pick. You see how it could be Portugal? And the Atlantic is much nicer than the Mediterranean…
2. COTTESLOE, WA, AUSTRALIA and
3. DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA. These two are very similar. Spot on choices. Safe, calm, lovely.
4. KARON BEACH, THAILAND. Go Maureen for encouraging families to go off the beaten track.
5. KAUAI, HAWAII, USA. Can’t imagine this being very crowd free, but I haven’t been there…
6. AITUTAKI, COOK ISLANDS. Exactly what I would expect to be on the list – I’d say there are plenty more like this in the Pacific Islands… Just watch out for poisonous urchins and other pesky sea creatures…
7. NOOSA, QLD, AUSTRALIA. World’s most boring beach. Expensive, artificial, and perfect for kids. Sorry for the grownups.
8. TAVIRA, PORTUGAL. Hooray! A round of applause!
9. SAYULITA, MEXICO see Thailand.
10. SANUR, BALI, INDONESIA see Cook Islands. Bali is paradise itself. Perfect for the parents too…
And there you are – nothing from Greece, Croatia, Spain or France: Too small, too pebbly, too crowded. Nothing from the USA or UK. Portugal, you could fill up the whole 10 if you could sell yourself … but do we want that? Who wants to invite the seething masses? Let’s just keep Portugal a nice little secret for a bit longer…
Manyana NSW Australia, my favourite beach.
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I consulted the Portuguese pastelaria encyclopedia www.fabricoproprio.net to see where the experts say the best Bolas de Berlim can be found…and my place already has been discovered, and it rates with the Portuguese too. Naturally. (Natário in Viana was where my berlim initiation/problem began. Yes, I agree they are very very good. But I now know better.)
You only have to look at me to know how much I love bolas de berlim. I have been testing the berliners of Portugal since my arrival, so that’s now thousands of them I have put away, so I surely know a good one, especially as I have also tried berliners of Berlin, as some kind of starting point, and can say with some authority that they are crap.
The Leitaria da Quinta do Paço can be found at Praça de Guilherme Gomes, (bit of a mouthful… it’s in ‘Vitória’ up towards the Igreja do Carmo) in Porto. It has recently had a groovy makeover that reflects its own history (as a milk factory) and its commitment to quality. I love this about modern Portugal: more and more it recognises itself in context of history and the wider world. This place says; we were a little milk factory for a hundred years which treated its workers well (check out the photo of the 1959 staff excursion) and took pride in the quality of our milk (there’s a shot of their display at an Expo). Now we are a café with charming old photos on our walls. We have a humble history, we believe in quality, we are proud.
And they have the best bolas de berlim in Portugal.
Google maps link Praça de Guilherme Gomes Fernandes, Oporto 4050, Portugal
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6. Casas do Xisto
This is what I like about travelling. Sometimes you know what a place looks like beforehand, so when you see Santorini in its postcard blue-and-whiteness, the tourist in you is satisfied that you’ve come to the right place. Portugal is a bit more obscure for simple visual snapshots, but the tourist might cling to the same blue-and-white image that is typical for the Alentejo region, just as it is for Greek Islands, the Spanish coastline, villages in Tunis and innumerable other places in the Mediterranean.
But what the traveller is looking for is authenticity, something surprising or “undiscovered”. What is the “authentic” Portugal? Of course it’s a lot of things, and it can’t be reduced to a mere one-shot postcard. The Casas (and Aldeias) do Xisto are a humble and traditional housing style that I’ve never seen anywhere else in the world. I find them curious and charming: often hidden in forest or off the beaten track, they are like little hideouts of a closed community. So simple, and essential, like little caves. I like them so much I bought one.
7. Espigueiros do Minho
They are a bit of a grand statement just for storing corn, hey? Imaging having so much granite lying around that you can use it to build a mini-barn. Cool. The crosses are there to ward off evil locusts. The Minho (far north) landscape is wonderful in itself – a bit other-worldly, windblown and spooky. And then clusters of these funereal sarcophagi appear straight out of the middle ages, or outer space…
8. Elevador de Santa Justa (Lisbon)
It’s just a fancy ironwork folly really, but isn’t she sweet? Who better to inspire a landmark-just-for-the-sake-of-it than Monsieur Gustave Eiffel, of Tower fame. Although this lift was designed by a student of his, Gustave was responsible for three bridges in Portugal, in Porto, Viana and Caminho, and very nice they are too.
Technically speaking it’s not a folly, as the Santa Justa has a practical use: it saves you from the stairs between the Baixa and Chiado districts, and there’s also a café at the top.
9. Palácio Nacional de Pena (Sintra)
The National Palace of Pena is so Disneyland it’s hard to believe it’s a UNESCO world heritage site, and a national monument. It was built in the 19th Century as a summer house for the royal family, and they were personally involved in the design, so I figure they must have been a crazy and creative bunch. The style is called European Romanticism (this castle is considered the finest example of the Romantic Style in the world, in fact) and it certainly has a Bavarian Fairytale Castle feel. Romanticism is a mixture of styles: Manueline, Renaissance, Gothic, but what stands out to me is the Islamic influence. It’s so much fun, so camp, so extraordinary.
10. Azulejos
Probably Portugal’s greatest single contribution to world architecture are Azulejos, traditional Portuguese tiles. At one time Portuguese hand-painted tiles were exported to every corner of the globe and were considered the finest in the world. Certainly the Arabs are pretty keen on tiling too, but the Portuguese design and style is unique. Tiling is prominent all over the country, from delicately painted biblical or historical scenes to graphically coloured glazed and embossed, tiling is used on exteriors and interiors, on floors, walls and ceilings. The varieties are infinite.
OH NO! Already 10?!? But what about the Bolso do Porto, Alvaro Siza’s Museum of Contemporary Art, the Prague-like grand cafés of Lisbon and Porto, the restaurant Galeto, the Palácio do Buçaco…. can we make it a Top 100?
To conclude: Of course, I understand that Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder. Sure. Except the Beholder might need glasses.
MORE PICTURES
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Sometimes someone comes out with an opinion so contrary to your own that it provokes you to revisit the foundations of your beliefs.
I was at a BBQ the other day and was asked to explain my reasons for coming to live in Portugal. The English host took offence that one of my reasons was the “great architecture”. “What architecture?” he blurted, revealing not just a strong opinion, but just how many drinks ahead of us he was.
So, just in case I’ve somehow come to live in Portugal under false pretences, let’s take a tour of those “foundations” I mentioned…
1. Gare do Oriente (Lisbon)
One of the major train stations in Lisbon. Its audaciousness reminds me of the Opera House in Sydney. Part space ship, part electric tree…and if train stations are your thing then feast your eyes on the restored 19th Century Neo-Manueline Rossio Station in Lisbon and the extraordinary tiled history of São Bento in Porto.
2. Avenida Infante Santo (Lisbon)
This particular street is just one example of the juxtaposition of architectural styles in Lisbon. New-Old, Ornate-Modern, Renovated-Dilapidated. It’s a funky, bold, exuberant city. Lisbon was completely flattened by an earthquake in 1755, and much like many modern European cities it’s a mish-mash of styles and additions from the 18th-21st centuries. Lisbon just pumps with character, wherever you go, as every little neighbourhood has it’s own fierce personality.
3. Churches of Bom Jesus de Monte (Braga) and Santa Maria (Obidos).
Yeah I know, it’s two, but they are examples of the same thing. Small, not particularly significant churches with super-sublime decoration. Santa Maria is Baroque and 18th Century, and Bom Jesus Neoclassical and 19th Century. But what they have in common is almost every interior surface is decorated. You might think that the effect would be gaudy but it’s elegant and lovely. Multiple patterns against pattern, it makes me speculate whether the harmony is inspired by genius or created by pure chance.
4. Mosteiro Santa Maria da Vitoria (Batalha)
She rises from a boring landscape like a gigantic hairy spider; this monastery is so much in contrast to the environment that it seems alive. It’s a radical, fantastic building that reminds me of the audacious Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Except Vitoria was built in the 14th and 15th centuries (and the Sagrada still isn’t finished). It’s sharp and scary from the Gothic Style, and it’s curly and knotted in the Manueline Style. The interior is just gob smacking. Full on.
As a whole, it seems an imposing, serious building, but one of the secrets of Portuguese Ecclesial architecture is the funny little details. The stonework is full of cheeky little critters, alien faces and naughty mythical beasties. It’s playful. So un-churchy!
5. Kitchen at Alcobaça
The Mosteiro Santa Maria da Alcobaça is, like Batalha, an UNESCO world heritage site, and is also an awesome piece of work. My favourite bit is the kitchen, very simply finished with grey/white fired glass tiles and trimmed with blue and white azulejos. It has a elegant Moorish quality with long curved lines and an infinite ceiling.
The Cistercian monks who lived in the monastery and were famous for their culinary decadence. A stream from the local river diverts into a pool in the kitchen, providing a water supply but also fresh fish! The massive fireplace and chimney could cook a small herd of cows.
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