1) Who knows why I had such an unhappy night? Was it the second manhattan, the wait for the first? Was it the full moon? Was it lingering jet lag? Whatever the cause, part of the night was spent with an unbeatable headache. Then about six o’clock, rolling over — BOOM, my right calf cramped. Result: I slept in until after 10 AM.
1a) I managed to coax a small puddle of coffee out of the machine in my room — I did at least look it over the night before so I sort of had an idea how to work it, but I am not mechanical — wrote my pages, luxuriated in the amazing white marble shower, and dashed into the breakfast room just as the kitchen closed, but the buffet was still open, and that was all I wanted anyway. And they brought me beautiful, beautiful coffee.
It’s intense.
2) From ye Ryck Styvyes guide I knew that the Clérigos Church (with its famous tower) offered a free organ recital at noon, and I was close enough to amble over in plenty of time. For such a large building, the space for the congregation in the church is very small. And the altarpiece and organ bays — my goodness! I half expected an enormous staircase to pop out like a lolling tongue for the Ziegfeld Follies.
2a) In Venice and in Spain the churches came with instructional signs about how to dress properly in a church. I didn’t see such a sign here, but I did see about three young men wearing baseball caps.
Thou shalt not clap on one and three.
2b) The recital was lovely and expertly played, though I couldn’t tell you what the music was. Indeed, I think a lot of people got up and left after five minutes when they realized the organist wasn’t going to play Pachelbel’s Canon, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, “Amazing Grace,” or something from the Praise Hymnal. I stayed through the whole thing and was glad to.
3) Next I thought I’d tour the stock exchange, the Bolsa, which was right there by the hotel. Strangely, there wasn’t any sign of a ticket booth in this grand civic lobby — and I got shooed out by a guard when I went down a wrong corridor. Well, whoopsie-doo, it’s really City Hall. The Bolsa is someplace else entirely.
A very civic-looking vase.
4) Well . . . something had to be done. I leave here on Saturday, and I’d already slept the morning away. One comes to Porto for port, and I impulsively booked at tasting at Niepoort across the river in Gaia. I had two hours to get there, and could do so easily on the metro and on foot. If you know me well, you know I gave myself plenty of time to get lost!
Porto seen from Vila Nova de Gaia. Notice all the smoke.
4a) To travel on the Porto metro, you have to buy an Andante card and stock it up on your trips on a machine in the station lobby. I got thrown by the “Portuguese tax number” prompt, but somehow I managed to get a card. But then . . . there is no obvious place to use it, in the lobby or on the train. I fear I have unwillingly defrauded the city of Porto €1.60 or something. (This is the sort of thing that would bother Mother inordinately.)
4b) The metro crosses the Douro River from a high bridge. The evidence of the wildfires was still quite evident in the smoky pall that hung over and around the river.
4c) I disembarked by a popular little garden park full of people and a little café, and I began my walk to the Niepoort winery. Here is where we learn that Gyygle Myps cannot communicate how steep the terrain is. All I can say is what Marlene Dietrich is supposed to have said: “Cosmetics may take off 20 years, but you can’t fool a flight of stairs.”
There’s nothing here that would suggest I was in the right place, but I was.
4d) A memory came back to me on my walk there. On my last day at the Ballet (September 19, 2003), a Friend Who Is No Longer With Us included me in a small party attending a wine dinner at the Federalist. At that dinner we sampled a Niepoort port with the last course. To my surprise I was given a bottle of it as a gift! Subconsciously that must be why I chose this winery.
4e) In spite of one steep wrong turn, it will not surprise you to learn that I was half an hour early. But for awhile I couldn’t be sure I was in the right place. Niepoort doesn’t exactly swathe their headquarters with signage; in fact, there’s just a very small bright yellow doorbell with their name on it. I wasn’t going to ring the bell that early, so I stood there in the corner with The Grand Affair, alternately reading and watching what little traffic there was on this steep, bleak, and barren street.
It was actually much darker than this photo lets on.
4f) A delivery man did ring the bell, and it was eventually answered by a handsome vintner. Seeing me, he realized I was ridiculously early and invited me in anyway, and then handled his business with the delivery man. I waited for him just inside the winery, flanked on either side by enormous and very dusty casks stretching into the black infinity of the room, the sweet smell of wine and wood and dust and time gently making itself known.
4g) Eventually I was escorted through all this far into the back, where a corner has been turned into a reasonably lit and very clean shop area with a high bar and two large tables for tastings. The previous tasting was still going on, so I was invited to sit at the bar for a glass of 20-year-old port until the others arrived.
Not a great photo, but I like its mood.
4h) An intimate party of four assembled for the 5 PM tour and tasting: a couple from Chile, a woman from Hawaii, and myself. So we got it all in Spanish and English from another handsome young vintner. He did a commendable job in both languages, much better than I could have done.
4i) Dark, dusty, picturesque, historic — and the port we were offered to sample was succulent and substantive. Downstairs our guide unlocked first a set of old doors of solid metal, and then a gate of prison bars. Of course The Cask of Amontillado flashed through my mind — “For the love of God, Montresor!” — but instead we had learned bilingual chat on port and some particularly valuable old bottles — including one by Lalique.
The most picturesque flight of stairs on my way back, covered with murals of ruined buildings and garbage collectors.
5) After the tour, it was a matter of retracing my steps — I tend to do that very well — seeing different views of the river and the funicular railway, and underneath the bridge I’d be taking back over the river to Porto.
The smoky evening sun over Gaia.
6) By this time “I was perishin’ for real vittles,” and I chose a restaurant a block from my hotel. Old-fashioned: square white marble tables, high ceilings with unworking Art Deco fluorescent fixtures, mirrors, and waiters in smart white coats. And I had a good dinner: cod fritters, a franceschina (sp?), which is the French onion soup of sandwiches — savory, delicious, and embarrassing — chocolate gelato and a glass of port — and a half-hour wait for the check. And then an even longer wait for someone to take my card. I finally just paid in cash and left. I get it — I’m an American who doesn’t speak Portuguese. I don’t know how I rubbed you the wrong way, guys, but . . . it’s not OK.
7) Tomorrow I am scheduled to have lunch with the friend of a friend who has retired here, and I expect we’ll go someplace where the service is better. In the meantime, I may go find the Actual Bolsa in the morning.