I finally relax enough from my flight, listening to Portuguese folk music from the welcoming committee, to go to my hostel. I get to the metro station and there's a gorgeous bouncy teenager, giving me a free metro card. She says "normally it's 60 cents, but today it's free!" I am untrusting, of course, and I say "what's going on? Party in the airport, free metro card? Why?"
She smiles and says, "because we're really nice people!"
And that couldn't be more true. Portugal, hands down, has been the best country to visit as far as tourism purposes. Their hospitality is on point.
I've been to Lisbon twice, and the Algarve, but I've never been to Porto. I was goddamn excited to come to Portugal, and I guess I was still excited to come, but I was really NOT looking forward to living the hostel experience again. Ive done it plenty, but let's be real here... I'm fucking OLD. Yeah, maybe I look about 10 years younger than I am, but I am not trying to be that old weirdo alone in a hostel with college kids and backpackers. I was more than a little resentful of my friend who stuck me in this position, but it would be fine. Even though I have to sleep In a DORM ROOM.
here's the good news: I learned a couple of years ago that Portugal is really serious about their hostels. Portugal takes great pride in its hospitality, as it has a little bit of itself to prove, because it's often treated as France or Spain's back roads cousin. Portugal was one of the poorest countries in the EU, so when they joined the EU, many people left for richer countries to get a better paying job. And often, they do all with work that other people don't want to do.
Anyway, the hostels are clean, cheap, and the staff go out of their way to make you feel at home. So, for usually $20 a night, you're in a clean, central place, that cares about your satisfaction. After doing a little research, I pick the ridiculously named "wine hostel," because the reviews indicate that it's not a big party place. And i spring for the 4-bed dorm, instead of the 8 bed dorm, an extra €2. The fewer the number of beds, the less likely a chance that it will contain a smelly, shitty, backpacker.
I arrive early, and Mia greets me so warmly. She is super sweet and helpful and, when I tell her I decided to extend my stay to four nights instead of two, she works hard to arrange things so that I don't have to move beds during my stay. She apologizes and says, "I'm sorry, I don't have the room with the big windows facing the square,". I ask if it's quiet, and she says yes. Better, I said. It was a mixed dorm, and even though I prefer female-only dorms, there weren't any.
I go to the room and I am the first to arrive. I pick the bottom bunk closest to the bathroom. Later I meet roommate # 1. He's Korean, and by himself, and I'm happy, because CLEARLY I AM A RACIST and I think, "oh good, he's going to be clean and not smelly." I was correct. He was neat and polite and quiet as a mouse. Also, I think I accidentally flashed him my tits sitting in my bed. I think he caught my reflection in the locker mirror on the wall.
Roommate #2, he walks in... Grimy Australian, long haired backpacker. On vacation for the foreseeable future. He quickly says a very polite hello and where are you from, before recoiling from how quickly I peppered my sentence with the f-word, and he excuses himself to shower. Well, at least he knows to shower. Bed #4 doesn't get occupied. Maybe this will be ok after all.
At this point, my greatest concern is the Korean. I was in a hostel in turkey, and i had a couple of Korean roommates. Those assholes kept Turning off the fucking air conditioning in the intense summer heat. They stole a remote control so that they could control the air conditioning when I fell asleep. Evidently, there is a popular myth amongst Koreans called "fan death." Fan death is the superstition that if you're in a room with no windows, and you turn on a fan, it will kill you in the middle of the night. I wish I were making this up. Dicks. Korean dicks. Luckily, it wasn't too hot, so i just didn't turn on the fan. Cultural sensitivity and all.
I tell Mia that I want to go eat, but I want to eat at the kind of place that only really old people go to. She laughs, and says she likes those places too. They're called "tasquinas" and they "look ugly" but are really great. I walk past the really nice places and see a place where there are only old people. It's packed, and their small menu of the day is scribbled on paper and taped to the door. Pro tip: if you see a menu scribbled on paper and the restaurant is full of old people, EAT THERE. it's next to a restaurant called ladeira, and I can't even find the name of the tasquina anywhere. It just has umbrellas outside that say "Christina," which is the name of a brand of coffee. He offers me a choice of stew, chicken, or bacalhau, and even though I'm butchering the Portuguese language he smiles and a couple of minutes later the three portly lunch ladies dressed in matching white caps and aprons arrange my dish: crusted bacalhau, fried potatoes, and rice. It was like Kentucky fried bacalhau, so delightfully salty and crispy. The man is surprised I don't want bread as well.
The couple at the next table is engaged in a long conversation with the man about how he makes the stew. Lucía's Brazilian, he (I forgot his name ughhhhhhh) from Santiago de compostela, Spain. We wind up talking for 2 hours. They are just lovely, and invite me to stay with them the next time I'm in Santiago. The waiter asks me if I want dessert. I don't, but when he says they have flan (they call it pudim here) I start smiling like an idiot. He brings me an enormous piece, with the caramel just a little bit burnt, and it's perfect.
I'm sitting by myself in the hostel living room. The reception doubles as a bar. They sell port wine tastings for €1.50-2.50 a cup, and caipirinhas for €2.50. At home, they're about $12, and I have to stop myself from drinking them cause they're my favorite, but needed one alcohol-free day. So I don't sit at the bar.
My Australian roommate and his friend sidle up to the bar with two German girls, one black, one white. And they proceed to have the most stereotypical hostel experience I've ever witnessed.
1. Everyone's cool. Everyone's laughing. Everyone is trying to charm everyone with their smiles, their accents, their excited and easygoing nature. They're drinking €1.50 port wines.
2. They're explaining to each other who they are, and how they are similar to and different from, their national stereotype.
3. Australian dude with long hair calls himself a hipster, then takes the hostel guitar and tries to impress girls with the 4 chords he learned how to play in the 8th grade. Sad attempt at creating a karaoke version of "wonderwall," the best worst song of all time. In the next four days, I do not see him without this guitar in his hand. He sucks.
4. IMPORTANT ASIDE: at this point, young American dude with good job chastises the guy for playing "wonderwall." I said, "it could be worse, it could be the Beatles." I hate the Beatles. American dude pays me no mind, because clearly to him, talking to these Australian douchebags is better than talking to a fellow American at a hostel. I can't even be mad at him; I usually feel the same way.
5. Brazilian who don't speak English ask to try the guitar, but he can ACTUALLY play, and his friend accompanies him beautifully on the piano. What are they playing? THE BEATLES.
6. Bartender eggs the Australians on, as if Australians ever need egging on, and tells the guys they're pussies for not drinking more. Yes! We all have to drink as much as humanly possible to enjoy ourselves! We're at a hostel!
7. Black girl makes joke about being black that makes everyone uncomfortable, either because they don't know any black people at all, or they know black people and don't know how to explain that they didn't mean the socially unacceptable why they just offended her blackness. She brushes it off, like it doesn't matter, because "she doesn't take herself seriously."
8. Drunk guys start getting touchy feely and girls let them know they are making them mildly uncomfortable. Because they're just not that cool or cute.
9. Girls go out to another bar with them anyway.
10. Everyone comes back, wasted. One girl starts talking shit about how much she doesn't Like French people. I feel really badly for my new French friend, Gwen, who is sitting right in front of them, also disgusted by their behavior.
11. Dude comes into my room at 6am, smelly again. I accidentally walk in on him in the bathroom, naked, taking a shit. He's coughing up a lung. I briefly consider turning on the fan, offering him a cough drop and an inhaler. Instead, I put in earplugs and allow him whatever suffering is coming his way.
Gwen is great and we spend the next day together. She likes these little authentic food experiences, too, so we get lunch at Casa mundo. This tiny place is packed with French people, and she rolls her eyes. These two waiters are busting their behinds. They bring us a soup, a simple but tasty vegetable soup that has potatoes blended in it to give it a little thickness. There is no dish that gets served without some form of potato in it. I get a Portuguese feijoada, much lighter than its Brazilian counterpart and delicious. Gwen gets an enormous veal shank. I get some water, because mine is warm. He brings me warm water. So I try to ask him for ice. I don't know the Portuguese word for ice, so I say it in Spanish, gelo, but I garble the first g to make it sound more Portuguese, as if that's going to be convincing. Zheilo. He doesn't understand me. I say "para fazer mais fria" which i think means "to make it more cold" and I point to inside the glass. He has no idea. Gwen says "glace," French for ice. The guy say "oh, glace!" He smiles, and brings me another water, which he's already opened for me. Great, two warm waters.
5 minutes later, without warning, he brings me a dish of ice. He figured it out.
And that has been my experience EVERYWHERE in Portugal. I have never been to a place that cares more about you. Everyone wants you to have a good time, to enjoy your meal, enjoy your experience, get what you want. Everyone is stupidly warm and wonderful.
The meal is done, and I ask for a "pingu," a Portuguese cortado. Espresso with a tiny drop of milk. He cant believe I don't want a dessert. Total bill for each of us: less than 7€. I can't eat anything til 11 pm, it's so filling. Gwen had to dig deep to finish that veal, too.
Gwen and I walk across the Douro river, to the town that has been the historical home of all of the port wine cellars for some tastings. First we went to Ramos-pintos, where we got a Full tour of the historical facility and two glasses of port for 6€. I really enjoy the white port, which isn't easily found in the US. We are seated next to a tour group where everyone is also stupidly friendly. The group called Porto walkers gives free tours of Porto, two historical ones, one wine tour, and one pub crawl. That's right, free. Everyone is introducing themselves to us and discussing their wine opinions. They were all so nice, Gwen and i joined their tour for the next cave, where instead of the 2 for €5 ports, I chose the most expensive two for €9, and the tour guide looks at me like I just ordered Dom Perignon bottle service. He runs to bring me some dark chocolate to eat with our port to better the taste of both. Why? Because they're nice people.
Well, eating and drinking takes the better part of the day. I get back to the hostel and "Wonderwall," which I'm now calling him, is SITTING ON MY BED and surprise, PLAYING THE FUCKING GUITAR. the German girls were fucking With their phones, looking terribly disinterested. They're not even from this hostel, they're at an Airbnb a half hour outside of town. I look at him and say "get the fuck off my bed!" He smiled and asked how my day was. Really, get off my bed. He thinks I'm kidding. Whatever communicable disease he was coughing up last night has clearly made it onto my sheets. Fuck it, it's not worth it. At least he showered again today. He's actually super nice and friendly so I shouldn't be shitting on him... He's just THAT GUY.
I convince Gwen and a 19 year old German girl sitting next to us to come get some food with me. I'm finally hungry. Mia recommends a place called "museu de avo," grandmas museum. It's adorable, so hip and decorated with old sewing machines, cash registers, and the like. It's a tapas bar, and we order the Porto special, a francesinha. It's a sandwich that has 3 or more different meats inside, made of basic white bread, with an egg on top if you ask for it, drowned in a spicy gravy and cheese. It's the sandwich version of poutine. Truly disgusting, but it had to be tried. They bring out cured ham, bread, olives, and cheese. A lot of each. In Portugal, if they bring you something you didn't ask for, it's not on the house. They charge you for it if you eat it, and don't charge you if you don't. And if you don't, they bring it to another table. This is kind of a gross concept, but since everyone is involved, you know just not to touch it and no one else will. The bread that comes to your table was probably on someone else's beforehand. But it looks so good in this case, we eat it all anyway.
A young guy from two tables away very excitedly comes to our table and says he would like to share his "very nice" bottle of wine with us. Gwen isn't interested. I say sure. Gwen asks if I think he's dosed it with something. He swigs from the bottle. I guess not, I reply. It turns out his "very nice" bottle was vinho verde, a very cheap but very good and refreshing sparking young white wine particular to Portugal. I find himpretty hilarious.
On our way out, they start talking to us... They're three engineers taking their friend out for his birthday. They invite us to sit, but the girls I'm with need to leave early the next day, so they go. I decided to stay. They seem really nice and harmless enough, and I let them know early on that I have a boyfriend. They ask me if I like to dance and take me to a bar/club down the road. It's packed full of people. The STREETS are packed full of people. This one pedestrian area is roped off and the streets are full of people hanging out and drinking. We dance until three, and they're really nice and introduce me to their friends and we're singing shitty American music together including FUCKING WONDERWALL, until i decide at 3 am that I can't stand the smell of myself anymore. I get a bottled water from the bartender, and chug it. She looks at me sideways and comes back a couple of minutes later with a handful of napkins so I can mop away all the sweat and smiles.
Because they're just really nice people.
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