Travel, 50+, Portugal

My neighbors went to Portugal back in the nineties. Probably Albufeira, which was in fashion at the time. They almost lost one of their children to the Ocean as the waves can be brutal out there. Some of my relatives went to other parts of continental Portugal back in the late seventies or early eighties and told it was poor, miserable, shoddy and full of pickpockets who can fish a wallet out of a tight front pocket of your jeans. Without being noticed. I was warned never to go to Portugal! So, anyway, as I arrived to Portugal...

Like any common bonehead, I started my journey from Porto. Arriving on a flight that was just late enough for me to miss the very last train out of the airport by less than a minute. With a ticket in my hand, I could see it start while the driver was probably flipping the bird via the mirror. There is no freude like schadenfreude. And there I was ... bound for a taxi. Who refused to take a train ticket for compensation out of healthy pity. He, in fact (jokingly) threatened to fine me, if I left it in his car. First impressions are everything and this was mine.

Local gray buildings and hills lifted my spirits like Nordic happiness that can be witnessed in Finnish suicide statistics and Norwegian black metal from the 1990s. At least I got my steps in before it became a fashion. And then it was time to move on towards the most surprising second choice location of Lisbon.

The capital was a whole different world. This was around the beginning of the tsunami of digital nomads, before every Alfacinha hated what their friendly local property owners had allowed the place to become. There was buzz and color everywhere. Also, in the buildings. Young, foreign helpline workers for facialbookings and microlimp tech support showing off how they could curse in local, North African looking entrepreneurs lining the streets with hash for cash. And oh boy did they want to get my spirits and physique high. Seeing a young fellow in distress, every five steps, they offered to alleviate it with magic powders, pills and whatever would sativate my desires. I said no thanks, did the jaw lift thing of Morocco and it did nothing. I finally ended trolling them with claims of wanting to get psychedelic, high and low the following day. Some of them had their eyes glimmer (bad day at business? the market was way oversaturated) as they agreed "same place, same time tomorrow". I think I did some good and brought some joy to the world. Like a Christmas to the North Africans who would a day later realize they don't actually celebrate it.

While each pusherman was functioning without a glitch, you cannot say the same for the local locomotive transportation. While the first ride went just fine, soon enough I got to learn a lesson. Trains tend to break over here. The conductor conducts the notifying briefing in local, only. But at the very least the locals are amicable and help a man in need. They taught me the joys of train to train sprinting for which I am forever grateful.

While I've visited a handful of places in Portugal at this point, I have to give a special recommendation to Sintra. While the high amount of tourism blocks the place from reaching my most favored places, it's no doubt in top twenty. Most people, I reckon, know the colorful architecture you see in all of the pictures of travel publications and agents and whatnot. I, even more, enjoyed the nature. It is not often you can experience (as close as you can get) tropics in continental Europe. Here you can. Also, you can see tropical summer turn to foliage of the fall to stumbling upon things of all sorts left in time. You could see an adventurous architect pictures being filmed here. The farther away from the touristy area you get, the more you can almost feel like you are one yourself. (warning! not for poor of fitness) And most importantly, when it's scorching hot in the capital, it's somewhat cool in Sintra, so you don't have to go up in flames like Romanian bluebloods at dawn.

The Judgment:
Portugal is a bit like Columbus finding India. You go west, but you end up "east", if you know what I mean. It's like visiting the tropics in East Europe, but not. The upkeep of a whole lot of the architecture is on the same level, the prices and life quality are not too far from on par and both directions have once greats. Which, of course, is ideal for a broke tourist. You get a good bang for your buck that you can (excluding the diva-esque immediate capital area) stretch like a rubber band. Compared to a good a little over half of Europe, at least.

While people down south are more often warm to hot, the Portuguese are more chill. Which is a good thing. We have had good times together. The country is mostly safe and you can take your newborn and your granny on the trip with you. Unless you go tripping, then maybe not. Unless your nana is a veteran hippie, I guess. This is to say the drugs are more of an illness rather than a crime in Portugal, which makes a lot of entrepreneurs offer a choice (whether you seek it or not, as suggested above).

Despite being a tourist target forever, I dare say, Portugal is relatively "virgin" sans a few locations. You can elevate your elitist traveler (aka not a tourist, eww) status by popping here and there, almost everywhere. Even the UNESCO sites are largely relatively untouched. Mind you, some of those definitely need some touching. Like right now.

In brief, I like Portugal and you will like it, too. There's something for almost everyone (megalopolis fans will be let down).

Would I go again? Glad that you asked. I'm actually going again this year. You coming or what?