The City that Enjoys Life

Yesterday, I went on another of my little, by-myself trips. It was probably the last one until spring vacation. Again, I revisited Porto, which is fast becoming my favorite Portuguese city. It wears a different face every time I visit. Yeterday, it felt alive and resilient. It seemed to be simply tolerating the hordes of tourists, stubbornly continuing life as it has always been, while making allowance for visitors. The waterfront used to be the mainstay of the local economy, with port wine once being bottled and shipped by boat from the sheltered riverside docks of Vila Nova de Gaia and Porto itself. Matosinhos, north of Porto, is now the working port with containers from all over the world stacked, awaiting transport. Now, replicas of the old cask-carrying boats transport tourists up and down the river, up from the vineyards, and out to the mouth of the Douro. 

But that's one of the few concessions Porto has made to tourists. Elsewhere, houses with broken tiles, ancient windows that must let in every breeze, uninhabited houses and ruins, sit cheek by jowl with buldings that have been renovated to their former glory or have merely had a fresh coat of paint applied. Wash hangs from windows even on main streets. People live here and do what they can with what they have. Some have more, some have less. Their

houses reflect their bank accounts. Not like in Spain, where many cities and towns have published edicts against wash hanging from front windows, and where houses must have a measure of cleanliness and fresh paint unless the owners care to receive a remonstrance first, and a fine afterwards. Some Spanish towns in touristy areas look like they've been fixed up for a movie set. They're pretty, but one wonders whether it's all true. 

The Portuguese and the Spanish are similar, but different. People tend to make the mistake of thinking both nationalities are almost the same. History feeds the error. Portugal was once a Spanish territory. Our languages are similar. We're both on the same peninsula, Portugal even further away from the rest of Europe. We've both had crippling dictatorships. But that's about it. The Portuguese are not as individualistic as the Spanish. They are more apt to get together to get something done. They overthrew their dictatorship in 1975 with almost no bloodshed. Yes, the army began it, but the public joined in. We let our dictator die in his bed. They have opened themselves up to the world; many speak at least one foreign language, sometimes more. I was asked yesterday more than once if I preferred to be addressed in Spanish, English or French, when they saw my questioning look at their Portuguese. With a little luck, an English-speaking waiter or shop assistant can be found in Madrid or Barcelona. That luck runs out in rural areas like this, where maybe someone might remember a word or two from school English. Forget French. Don't even touch German. 

Different languages could be heard yesterday as I went on the trolley, the cable car, and the funicular. Many tourists take advantage of these means of transport, which definitely don't exist in every city, but they are also used by the locals. Perhaps the person who thought these up first thought about tourists, but the locals decided it's their city and their tax money, so they use these, also. The trolleys are old, renovated trolleys from a hundred years ago. They make more noise than the old Green Line trolleys I used to take to school in Boston. There's no air conditioning, so the windows are open in summer, and give you the impression you might fall out the window on a sharp turn. There are different lines across the city, and residents can buy a monthly pass for a specified number of trips. Tourists pay full price. 

The cable car goes up a steep hill from the waterfront along the remains of the Muralla Fernandina, a wall with towers that was built in the 14th century to protect the growing city. It just so happened that earlier, I had walked down the labyrinth of stone steps from the parking garage (actually an open area beneath an overpass) where I had left my car. When I reached the waterfront I pitied the residents who had to walk up those stairs. And then I saw the cable car. Since I had no plans, I got on and it took me up to right next to the parking garage. Residents of the area only need walk down the steps, if they choose. They just take the cable car up.

The funicular is on the other side of the river, in Vila Nova de Gaia. There is a steel bridge, the Ponte Dom Luis I, that crosses the Douro since the partner of Gustave Eiffel, Théophile Seyrig, built it in the 1890's. The bottom platform is for vehicles, and the top platform is for the subway train, much like the Red Line comes above ground in Boston to cross the Charles River. Pedestrians can walk along both on the top and the bottom platforms. There are no protections, so the trains honk their horns loudly as they come out of the tunnel, and as they approach the bridge from the other side. It's a beautiful spot to watch the river and both

shores. The platform with the train is high up, so on the side of Vila Nova, there is a funicular one can take down to the waterfront. This is used mostly by tourists, but there are still residents who take it at times. It's useful and fast. And much more comfortable than walking down and then up all those streets. 

To me, Porto is a placid city, which has accepted what it has received in each era and has made and continues to make the best of it. It adapts, but its essence doesn't change. It accepts itself as it is and does not want to change for others, only for its own needs. It has learned to live with the past and look toward the future.

A man walking on the 19th century bridge, before a tower of the old wall and a 20th century bridge in the distance.