We expected some sort of fanfare when crossing the border from Portugal into Spain at Badajoz as the huge sign celebrating the Euro Cup 2004 which was held earlier this year in Portugal waved us goodbye and asked us to return soon.
Are we in Spain? Barely a sign and no border control. I find this amazing. While I've traveled to Europe extensively I usually stay in one country, then fly to the next. The only border I can remember crossing overland is that between France and Monaco. But then again, isn't Monaco just on a short lease from France? Or is that a leash?
No immigration check, no agricultural inspection, no searching the car for potentially hazards weapons that could do any kind of destruction. Nobody even wanted to know how many bottles of port we had bouncing around in the back seat. Oh, and let's not forget those nifty port glasses that feature a small notch in the stem -- the perfect resting place for your thumb as you swirl, smell and taste.
Nothing. We were free to just jump the border. Nobody knew. Nobody cared.
As Tim peered over his glasses at our map he spotted the perfect route to Jabugo in Northern Andaluscia. Why Jabugo? We were on the trail looking for the legendary Iberian black-hoofed pigs. As I made my way through the winding roads of the Sierra Morena our eyes feasted on gentle rolling hills and the famous oak forests that drop the only food these free range pigs are allowed to eat -- acorns. Like Serrano ham or prosciutto from Italy, Iberico Jamon Bellota is perhaps the ultimate gourmet cured meat.
In every restaurant, cafe and even the homes of the Andaluscian people you will find a leg of pork, hoof and all, resting on a specially designed holder, typically with an oak base, that fixes the leg at the ideal carving position. When they[base ']re not resting on its carving apparatus, these legs complete with their black hooves are hung in open air not unlike pots and pans in a kitchen. These legs were above our heads everywhere; at the bar, in the windows of shops throughout Jabugo and again in the homes of the local people. In the states you might find behind glass in temperature controlled display cases at the better steakhouses sides of beef hanging in full view for that steakhouse ambiance and drooling effect. But this ham is just hanging out. I'm sure the FDA would find some problem with this type of set up. No?
But in Andaluscia no matter where you go the jamon (ham) is always at room temperature and usually hanging. A refrigerator? Nah. The Iberica Jamon Bellota is cured in salt for and then hung to mature for at least two years before it's served. The ham is carved into thinly sliced bite-sized pieces and placed in a symmetrical pattern on a serving platter.
The full flavor of Iberica Bellota Jamon comes from the high fat content of the pig that was feted on acorns for its entire life. Ironically enough, this ham has earned its reputation as one of the healthiest and most nourishing items in the Mediterranean diet. It is rich in iron, magnesium, zinc, calcium, phosphorous, vitamins B1 and B2 and niacin. But enough of the nutrition jargon. Let's get back to the fat.
The primary constituent of the fact in this ham is oleic acid. For those who care, this promotes production of HDL (the GOOD cholesterol) while reducing LDL (the bad cholesterol>.
We squeaked into the tiny town of Jabugo -- which is the jamon capital of Andaluscia -- just before the typical Spanish siesta. As we dined on Jamon Iberica Bellota and a couple of beers the Jamon carver locked the doors. There we sat among dozens of hanging legs of the legendary black hoofed pigs of the Sierra Morena.
Photos: (1) Black hoofed Jamon Iberica Bellota ready for purchase at a local shop in Jabugo, Spain in Northern Andaluscia; (2) Typical bar/cafe in Jabugo and nearly everywhere else we ate in Andaluscia; the delicate jamon hanging out with the crowd and staff.
Situated almost on the Spanish border Marvao with its serpentined walled fortress rests among other medieval hilltop towns in the eastern part of Portugal's Alentejo. Perhaps the least populated region of Portugal, Alentejo means land beyond the Rio Tejo (Tagus River) and stretches from the Atlantic coast to Spain. Rich in agriculture and peppered with oak and cork trees this eastern section could be some of the most scenic of Portugal.
Unfortunately for us as we finished our dinner we could hear the wind whipping and rain pelting the windows of our tiny inn. Nearly midnight and contemplating our day's journey Tim and I grabbed our jackets and a glass of Port and ventured into the fog as we roved the historic cobblestoned streets of Marvao. Eerie, cold the wind whistled and hissed. For a moment I thought I heard a waterfall or a fountain. But it was the wind speaking and with the force fierceness of its presence whipping hanging lanterns and causing strewn branches and leaves to dance hectically through the narrow streets.
We hopped but were disappointed that we couldn't take the full grandeur of Marvao's 360 degree view of the vast Alentejo as we explored the castle/fort that had seen the battles of Romans, Visigoths, Vandals, Christians, Moors and more. Yet that next morning with the cold rain, chilling winds and empty streets Tim and I felt once again alone in new lands tasting history.
I hope to grab a map and trace the route of this journey so you can get a better feel for where we've been and where we're going. So stay tuned.
Photos: both shot by Tim Amos (1) Morning fog, mist and rain while looking into the courtyard at the Castle in Marvao; (2) Nightime walk through the cobbled streets that are lined with whitewashed houses high on a ridge overlooking the Serra de Sao Mamede while enjoying an after dinner glass of Port.
In 1494 just a few years after Ferdinand and Isabella sent Christopher Columbus on a journey to follow his whim and belief that the world was a small sphere and by sailing west he could shortcut his journey to the far East, Spain and Portugal signed the Treaty of Tordesillas that split the non-Christian world between them. To think of Portugal claiming and ruling half the world just 500 years ago is quite ironic considering how small it is today.
When I asked the pretty blonde at the hotel where I might get a map she smiled and confidently pulled out a city map of Porto.
"I mean of Portugal," I explained. "And Spain." She seemed defensive when I told her I'd walk to get it.
"It's very far. You must go to gasoline station to buy."
On the way to the gas station the bookstore she didn't know about was able to fulfill my cartography desires and a dictionary for my linguistic pursuit of the Portuguese language.
"Where you go?" the beautiful blonde back at the hotel asked as we sprawled the map out on the counter.
"Marvao." I proudly pointed to a tiny village that sits literally on the border of Spain and Portugal. "And i want to drive through the Douro." Eager to wind my little Fiat around the vineyards of the Douro Valley.
"You will really get to know Portugal. By driving the small roads you will understand Portugal." Her smile and eyes expressed appreciation and a bit of curiosity. There was no tour bus. No group. No planned itinerary with marked stops for box lunches and souvenir shopping. Nope. Just Time and I and a little $17,000 euro Fiat and a Michelin map. "That's exactly why were going," I enthused while stuffing the map in my back pocket. "You want to come?" She wanted to, or so I wanted to believe. Loyal Portuguese girl -- Dedicated to her employer.
"I must work."
Work. Thankful that Portugal didn't occupy half the world, but even so driving nearly the length of the country would take a little work -- tax our endurance and discipline -- for sure we'd want to stop and taste Port on the way.
As we followed the river out of Porto the hillside scenery transitioned from industry and tightly spaced residential apartments to fertile green agriculturally rich and then to steep terraced vineyards. Trees lining the narrow "N" national roads have turned to orange, yellow and amber. After winding up, down and around these fertile hills seemingly in the middle of nowhere we'd encounter small, round and thick cropped hair women stilling beside a table of nuts, potatoes and fruit. I wondered what the average daily sales were? Where the customers came from and what it took to drag the fruit, nuts and taters out to the road every day. Sometimes these roadside stalls would be crowded with locals sitting in chairs, children staring at the road and into the cars that sped by.
The vineyards here have been farmed for centuries. The oldest vineyards sitting on steep terraced hills while the newer thanks to modern technology that aids farming and harvesting were narrowly spaced and steeply planted.
Our goal was to make it to Marvao by twilight. But the over 300km ride was rather ambitious for a couple of guys who went to sleep at 4am earlier that morning; rather it was afternoon when we finally ventured up the Douro Valley. All we could hope for was to make it at all -- if we're lucky by dinner.
So when we called the tiny inn that's inside the walls of the tiny hilltop medieval village of Marvao we were happy to find rooms available and the kitchen would stay open until 10pm. But getting there by 10pm would prove to be a challenge.
Its not the fact that I learned before boarding the plane to Lisbon that in all of the European Union Portugal had the highest automobile accident and fatality rate. No this didn't scare me. Nor that the roads were narrow, winding and questionably marked with signs. or the fact that like any non-freeway or highway route would take you through both blazingly fast straight aways and then seconds later through sleepy towns where the only thing to do was cruise through at crawling speeds.
But the purpose of this journey was not a race. To dinner, a hilltop town or else. It was to experience the little towns with whitewashed or mustard yellow buildings. In the distance to see farmland that swept up hills dotted with houses and graced at the top by centuries old churches or small cathedrals. Or trying to follow signs through roundabouts and small towns dodging donkey drawn carts and children kicking soccer balls. Yes. We were here to take these moments in, albeit through the windows of our Fiat. But this was Portuguese country. Ours to experience. And ours to take in until we would roll into Marvao where we could mingle and taste the flavors of this town first settle by the Romans and now home to less than 200 people.
At three minutes before 10pm we rolled in -- the kitchen open and servers happily waiting for us. Portuguese country and Portuguese hospitality and commitment to working. The country may be small, but it's huge in its desire to take care of its guests.
Photos: (1) Panarama of Duoro Valley; (2) The vineyards of Fonseca one of the world's leading producers of Port Wine.; (3) Tasting the wines of Fonseca in the Duoro Valley.
Eduardo worked as a server in a local restaurant/bar. About 40 yeas old he was born in Portugal but moved to Angola in Africa as a boy. A Portuguese colony until Portugal granted in full independence in 1975, Angola has struggled with political and economical uncertainty since its independence.
With a small frame, salt and pepper hair and an attractive and angular face he sucked on a Marlboro cigarette while draining a Portuguese beer. As Tim and I struggled to communicate with the four women sitting at the table next to us, Eduardo smiled, caught my eye, nodded and went on to drinking and smoking. This went on for 30 minutes or more until the women left.
The beauty of traveling abroad is the interaction with local people. People of different cultures, people who speak different languages, people different than you in so many ways. We all have stories of people we meet on the road in foreign countries. People who open their homes to you, go out of their way to help you with language, take time out of their day to tour the town or just to simply learn more about you as you learn about them.
His eye contact, smiles and facial expressions were of a casual voyeur and eavesdropper eager to share in the comedy. So when we approached him with inquiry about the conversation and the humor he just smiled and spit out a string of Portuguese words. He didn't speak a bit of English. I tried my best Spanish on him and soon we seemed to be communicating. We offered him a beer but he declined.
There is such a degree of unselfishness in the hospitality and warmth of these people you don't know and chances are may never see again. On the streets of our towns and cities in American I find there to be so much fear, paranoia and simply people too busy in there daily lives. And I wonder if foreign visitors to our country receive the same hospitality? Would you take a day out of your life to take a visitor around your town, to a government office to help in paperwork or into your home for dinner with your family? Think about it. And these are of the experiences my new friends have done to help this foreign visitor.
Eduardo sat there smoking. His beer finished he just sat and waited as Tim and talked and finished our beers. Soon we were the only three left in the cafe/bar with the staff standing around, tapping their toes and waiting for us.
Eduardo was eager to show us his town. To show us where he worked. So we followed him around the corner to the restaurant bar and were greeted with the pulsing beat of rock music and an attractive 20 something group packing the tables and bar of this hip Porto hangout. For the next several hours (this bar closed at 4am) I learned of his wife, his leave from Africa due to economic conditions and his daughter in law school. I also interrupted his observations an judgements of some of the young people that were working in this bar. And all of this without knowing a bit of Portuguese.
To be sure, Portuguese is a difficult language. There are some similarities to Spanish as there are in most romance or Latin-based languages. But Portuguese has a harder edge yet a smooth drawling resonance to it. On the radio at on e moment you could confuse it with German with the harsh angry attack that some speakers give it and at moments Russian with strange sounds. None of the spoken Portuguese I heard had the soft, sensual and seductive quality of Stan Getz & João Gilberto's Girl from Ipanema.
Eduardo both proud and non-chalant gave us a private tour of the dining room upstairs. At once happy to be working as a server but another a look on his face of someone who wanted to do more ut happy to work so hard so his daughter could grow up with a better life than he. Soon we parted our ways and handing us a card the sincerity in his good bye and hugs were felt as he urged us to comeback and have dinner when he worked.
I'm not sure when we'll be back in Porto. But when I do return I'll look up Eduardo and hope to share with him a few more words -- perhaps this time even in Portuguese.
I wonder what Porto would be if it were not for the simple twist of fate caused by a trade disagreement between the French and United Kingdom in the 1500's? Perhaps just another non descript European city surrounded by just yet another wine region. Circumstance, history and good marketing have turned France and Italy into the most well known wine regions in Europe. Even Spain in a distant third place is in the shadows of these behemoth wine producing regions. Yet Portugal, Greece, Hungary and many more produce wine for export.
In 1667 King Louis XIV's minister Colbert in a classic trade protectionist move forbade the import of English cloth into France. England's Charles II retaliated with a ban on French wine. English merchants in both England and Porto saw an opportunity and began importing "Portuguese red" into England. But as demand grew for finer wines a British wine merchant discovered "priests port" in a Lamego monastery up river in the Duoro Valley. While there's some history in question but it was believed that Brandy was added to Port wine so it would travel better. But the art of adding Brandy to wine to arrest fermentation, retain sweetness and raise the alcohol level wasn't practiced until the mid-1800's. So it was the accidental introduction of brandy and a lapse in trade between England and France that put Portugal on the world wine map. Even today the most prominent and sought after port wines are owned by British firms.
As Tim and I followed the roads that tumble down the hill toward the Duoro River here in Porto we caught glimpse of this great river and across it huge signs sitting on the roofs of Port loges or houses. These massive buildings, many of which are tiered as the drop down the hill toward the river, are the trade centers, bottling facilities and administrative offices for the most prominent Port wine producers.
The Port houses occupy a region across from the river and the city commerce center called Vila Nova de Gaia. Several bridges span the Duoro but by far the most famous is the huge double-deckered Ponte Dom Luis I bridge which carries both pedestrians and automobiles to and from Vila Nova de Gaia. Today it was obscured by massive scaffolding with the top deck closed to both cars and pedestrians.
As we walked across we peered through the scaffolding at the river below where replica and perhaps some original boats that used to carry casks of wine to Porto and Gaia from the Duoro Valley 25-50 miles up river where the grand terraced vineyards where the great grapes of Port are grown. Relishing in its history Port producers proudly fly the sails or stack the boats with logo stamped barrels -- which create a mood of history and tradition.
I had my eyes and pallet set on Taylor. Because my first experience with a truly great Vintage Port happened many years ago at a friend's birthday party. Impromptu and perhaps a bit nutty, it's often said mornings after of great food, wine sharing and indulging in the good life, that one might have been better served had he or she "gone home" when the Port came out. Sometimes synonymous with cigars, chocolate, nuts and stinky cheese, when Port is opened typically you can expect the evening to go on until that bottle is drained and the accompanying goodies resting happily in the bellies of everyone.
It was a 1977 Taylor served with a brilliant selection of unsalted nuts, cheese and truffles that caused the light to go for me. And this light was screaming bright and beautifully colored and faceted. Vintage Port is perhaps the wine that benefits the most from aging. This wine was more than 30 years old when it was decanted and put in front of me. Exploding with flavors of nuts, dates, caramel and butterscotch and its viscosity coated my mouth and slowly down my throat with a finish that went on for minutes. Purely sensual and seductive.
Yes. I was committed to finding Taylor. Based on a loosely drawn map and the proximity of the sign we noted when walking across the bridge we headed up the hills of Gaia. And these hills would fair well in a competition with San Francisco's steepest. So as we climbed past residences where women were hanging out laundry to dry or hanging precariously out windows batting dusty rugs we kept looking at our map and scratching our heads. The last thing we really wanted was to make a wrong turn. Going down these steep hills is just as physically demanding as going up. Happy with our cardio exercise but concerned that we were lost we finally were pointed in the direction of Taylor -- down the hill.
We followed the cobblestoned road as is winded around until we were greeted with a tiny dusty and faded sign emblazoned in a stone embankment. When we found the entrance we turned to the right to see the roof of one of Taylor's buildings and the huge sign we had seen across the River.
We joined a tour and walked through the barrels and casks of history and learned of the differences of Port Wine and Taylor's legacy, which started in 1692, in the world of Port Wine.
For those curious, here is a quick overview of Port wine types:
Ruby or Red Port - cheaper port made from a blend of lower quality grapes meant to be consumed within 2 or 3 years
Tawny Ports - made from a blend of aged ports and bottle in 10, 20, 30 or 40 years indicating the average year of the wines blended in the bottle. Because they are filtered and fined during the bottling process these wines require no decanting and once opened they retain their aroma and flavor for nearly two months
Vintage Port - the highest quality and most expensive Port and made only when a vintage is spectacular and declared a "Vintage" by the Port wine regulatory group. Aged two years in cask then at least two years in the bottle before release. This wine does best with many years of aging.
Late bottle vintage port (LBV) - made from a single harvest and aged 4-6 years in cask prior to bottling.
Coheita - a single vintage tawny made from high quality wines and aged at least 7 years before bottling.
Tomorrow we'll drive up the River to the Duoro Valley and gaze up upon the vineyards that produce the grapes for great Port wines as we head south to Marvou a small hilltop medieval village near the Spanish border.
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As I sit waiting in our hotel room for room service to deliver us a bottle of 20 year old tawny port, Tim and I reflect on our first two days in Portugal. Yesterday after leaving Lisbon we ventured North in the direction of Porto. With no map nor the basics of the Portuguese language we ventured on.
To be sure, we hoped to find the coastal road so we could ride it to Porto. Using our intuition, the sun and a few inset maps we uncovered after finally cracking the binding of our tour book we figured we had a grip on the back roads of Portugal.
With Tim nodding in and out of consciousness and me doing the best I can to understand the Portuguese road signs soon I found us in the small village of Monsanto. Some travel writers named this quaint town to be the most traditional of all small towns in Portugal. As we explored the area around this medieval town we tried to figure out exactly where we were.
Soon we found ourselves riding through vast open fields dotted with olive trees and strewn with boulders of limestone. This rocky wasteland atop Portugal's highest mountain range carved by glaciers perhaps was the line of demarcation between northern and southern Portugal. Meticulously placed stones formed a fascinating grid or patchwork of land plots that went on as far as we could see. Sometimes we'd see what looked like a huts or buildings shaped like igloos made of this soft and porous stone.
We had stumbled onto Parque Natural das Serras de Aire E Candeeiros. We'd soon discover this area is the largest limestone range in Portugal and home to spectacular caves carved by underwater lakes and aquafirs. As we wound our way through this desolate and rocky landscape the only sign of life was the sheep and cattle that dotted the landscape.
The beauty of traveling in Europe this time of year is the blatant lack of tourists or Europeans on holiday. So when we passed a few massive parking areas we couldn't help but think of busier times where tourists would outnumber the sheep, cattle and limestone rocks of this glacier strewn land.
The Grutas de Alvados was discovered in 1947 by sheep ranchers and opened to the public in 1971. Walking into the modest ticket office, tourist shop and cafe we were greeted by Philip who took us on a 30 minute walk through the precious caves. A tall thick haired man in his late twenties he simply pointed North and said just over there when asked where he was from. With dark eyes and a charming smile marked by dying teeth he spoke fair English and seemed passionate about the caves that gave character to his homeland.
We continued our path through the villages of Port de Mas, Batalha and Alcabaco where visited medieval castles, monasteries, a winemaking museum and the largest church in Portugal. Clearly off the beaten track, Tim and I tried to make sense of the patchwork of regional maps that dotted our guidebook to forge a route that would take us to the coast.
Soon we were walking along the beach at Nazare that according to our book "had ceased to be the most quaint and picturesque fishing village in Portugal" due to the influx of tourism and modernization. With the breeze sending a mild chill down my shirt the sandy crescent beach was barren save a few lovers walking along its boardwalk and the old women dressed in traditional garb hawking peanuts, pistachios and dried fruit.
Up to this point the lack of sleep, food and miles of driving had taken its toll on me and my ability to stay alert. So I powered a quick espresso while Tim drained a Coca Light we beelined it to Porto on the A8, an "expressway" where we passed convoy of a dozen of the Portuguese's army's tanks and armored vehicles. Hmmm. Must be moving at night to protect the Northern border.
The last half hour was the toughest. My head nodding and eyes watering from yawning, I needed to rest and get out of the car. The last thing I wanted was to appease Myrah so she could cash in on my "cash deposit" for our Italian car.
As we checked in at the hotel we were greeted by two lasses of Port wine. Ahhhh. Porto at last.
Photos: (1) The Santa Maria da Vitoria monastary in Batalha, Portugal; (2) Grutas de Alvados in Parque das Serras de Aire E Candeeiros; (3) The beach at Nazare; (4) Porto at night looking across the Duoro River.
One of the best ways to counter jet lag and ensure you don't waste the first day of any journey across multiple time zones is to plan to arrive at your destination in the morning. If it's possible and you have the energy to start your day running you'll get the most out of your trip and you'll virtually slaughter jet lag in its tracks.
Myrah at the rental car counter in Lisbon was blunt and to the point. "What are my options?" I enquired about cars available. About 25, thick dark hair and a long face explained, "you've got a mid-sized car. You ordered a smaller car. This is what you have." I see. That's my option. One car.
But I did have options. Insurance options, that is. With the collision insurance I will only be responsible for up to $750 Euros she explained while showing me a line drawing of my car option marking hash marks where previous renters have had run ins with other cars or walls or whatever. "With the super coverage you only responsible for $150 Euros." I explained that my platinum American Express card covered these things for me and I'd prefer to decline paying for the additional coverage.
"Then you'll be responsible for up to $17,000 Euro if anything happens." I agreed and initialed the paperwork.
"I will have to charge your credit card $17,000 Euros, then." Thinking this is a scare tactic, coercion or just hard sell, I stammered turned to Tim and shook my head.
"Okay. Charge my credit card." Ah. The beauty of having a credit card with no limit. You gotta love American Express. Though in these parts perhaps our president has caused a bit of a stir and the word American may have certain less than favorable connotations.
Soon Tim and I were traveling north on Portugal's A-1 toll road. With no map, no itinerary and no preliminary research completed we only knew we wanted to be in Porto, about 300km north of Lisbon, by dinner.
Screaming 120 kph in a Fiat Spiro without a map, zero command of the Portuguese language nor an idea of what we might find between Lisbon and Portugal, Tim and I laughed, grinned and motored on. After all, we were in Portugal and Spain. We'll figure it out.
Up to the time we rolled into Santarem the Portuguese people had been friendly, smiling and eager to help anyone who asked. Famous for its bullfights and fairs which by this time in October have gone into hibernation for the winter, Santerem is home to a number of interesting churches. We decided to take a quick look at the Igresa de Nossa Senhora de Conceicao which commands a strong presence of the city's main square. Parking along other cards on a curb that bordered a fence that marked a construction zone for the square, we quickly explored this 17th century baroque-styled Jesuit Seminary. Less than 15 minutes later we came back to our Fiat Stilo that Myrah so proudly offered us as our "best" option to find that someone had spit on our drivers window.
Damn. Only a couple hours in Portugal and we're making enemies?
We soon realized this was an anomaly, but our tour today along the Atlantic coast and up through a National Park was spectacular. It's 4am. And I've got to get some sleep.
Glad to have high-speed internet here in our Porto hotel. We managed to find Tim's partner Charlie online and ready with his iSight camera. Charlie delivered Tim the news that Boston continued its history making run toward the 2004 World Series. He's a bit bummed. But I couldn't be happier.
I'll fill you in more tomorrow.
Photo: A screen captured sent to us by Charlie (inset) while Tim (r) and I (l) chatted with him about the Yankees and Port wine -- yes, here we are with less than 2 hours sleep in 48 hours chatting live over Apple iChat with the iSight camera -- Portugal to New York City.
Groggy and with eyes refusing to focus after a pitiful two and a half hour sleep, I dragged myself into the bathroom and cranked on the show. As the water pounded the tile I realized that the pouring rain outside was louder than the fogging shower I hoped would wake me.
John Wayne Airport first thing in the morning is nothing less than a nightmare for anyone who fails to understand the concept of "morning person" and who has yet to taste the warm nectar or a strong cup of coffee. No planes can take off from this airport before 7am. So at 7am no less than 16 planes itch to have their belly's filled with passengers and to be let loose into the atmosphere. You can imagine passengers of 16 planes trying to get through only two security doors. The mass of people create a line that is so damn assuming to this groggy eyed sleeper it's enough to make you want to turnaround and go back to bed. Or find a curb.
But as I sit here at Liberty International Airport in Newark, I wait for by buddy Tim to show up so we can both board another plane for Lisbon, Portugal. Not sure where Liberty came from, but maybe this is new. Maybe not. New to me. Liberty. Hah. I kinda like that. Freedom.
I've got a few hours layover until Tim shows up and the plane takes off. These are times you really appreciate airline "clubs". Continental's Presidents Club now has free wireless.
So last night the underdogs from Boston added a page to the history books. I wonder if in early November another Bostonian will surprise the world and win the lucky key to the White House. I guess that'd be history too. The only father and son to both be poor ole one term presidents.
Tonight I washed my wallet. Not that this was my intention. No. But pulling the garments from the washer and tossing them into the dryer I heard a deadening thud. Hmmmm. I wondered. Wet jeans perhaps? Yeah, must be. Then I re-evaluated. Clawing through the crumpled up wads of clothes I found the black bugger. So now it air dries.
Laundry. I hate it. I'd rather vacuum, wash dishes, do yard work or sweep. But laundry kills me. But I gotta do it. Next week is going to be a bit crazy. I've got my last "speed Spanish" class on Tuesday evening. Then as the sun breaks through I'll be waddling through the security lines at John Wayne Airport. Time to take another trip. This time I head to Portugal and Andaluscia in Spain. I'll fly to Newark where my buddy Tim will meet me at the Continental Lounge and we'll both board a big bird and head to Lisbon.
Why?
Do I really dare answer? Sure. For me it's wine, food, art, architecture surrounding a solid core of history. Never the destination. Always the journey.
Stay tuned as I'll fire up the Travelogue portion of the Digital Tavern as we make our way around the Iberian Peninsula. And for those fond of trivia, I discovered that Portugal has the highest accident and traffic mortality rate of all of Europe. Glad I rented a car.
But in Andaluscia no matter where you go the jamon (ham) is always at room temperature and usually hanging. A refrigerator? Nah. The Iberica Jamon Bellota is cured in salt for and then hung to mature for at least two years before it's served. The ham is carved into thinly sliced bite-sized pieces and placed in a symmetrical pattern on a serving platter. 
Unfortunately for us as we finished our dinner we could hear the wind whipping and rain pelting the windows of our tiny inn. Nearly midnight and contemplating our day's journey Tim and I grabbed our jackets and a glass of Port and ventured into the fog as we roved the historic cobblestoned streets of Marvao. Eerie, cold the wind whistled and hissed. For a moment I thought I heard a waterfall or a fountain. But it was the wind speaking and with the force fierceness of its presence whipping hanging lanterns and causing strewn branches and leaves to dance hectically through the narrow streets.
The vineyards here have been farmed for centuries. The oldest vineyards sitting on steep terraced hills while the newer thanks to modern technology that aids farming and harvesting were narrowly spaced and steeply planted. 
As we walked across we peered through the scaffolding at the river below where replica and perhaps some original boats that used to carry casks of wine to Porto and Gaia from the Duoro Valley 25-50 miles up river where the grand terraced vineyards where the great grapes of Port are grown. Relishing in its history Port producers proudly fly the sails or stack the boats with logo stamped barrels -- which create a mood of history and tradition. 
It was a 1977 Taylor served with a brilliant selection of unsalted nuts, cheese and truffles that caused the light to go for me. And this light was screaming bright and beautifully colored and faceted. Vintage Port is perhaps the wine that benefits the most from aging. This wine was more than 30 years old when it was decanted and put in front of me. Exploding with flavors of nuts, dates, caramel and butterscotch and its viscosity coated my mouth and slowly down my throat with a finish that went on for minutes. Purely sensual and seductive.
out laundry to dry or hanging precariously out windows batting dusty rugs we kept looking at our map and scratching our heads. The last thing we really wanted was to make a wrong turn. Going down these steep hills is just as physically demanding as going up. Happy with our cardio exercise but concerned that we were lost we finally were pointed in the direction of Taylor -- down the hill. 
With Tim nodding in and out of consciousness and me doing the best I can to understand the Portuguese road signs soon I found us in the small village of Monsanto. Some travel writers named this quaint town to be the most traditional of all small towns in Portugal. As we explored the area around this medieval town we tried to figure out exactly where we were. 
Screaming 120 kph in a Fiat Spiro without a map, zero command of the Portuguese language nor an idea of what we might find between Lisbon and Portugal, Tim and I laughed, grinned and motored on. After all, we were in Portugal and Spain. We'll figure it out.
