Estação Ferroviária de Campanha

180 minutes of possibility

When in travel mode, I find I have to quell that inner voice which is trying to maximize my journey in terms of quantity. If we could just check off that one thing before we leave – you know, the one that got 4.8 stars on Google, and that couple from Thingystan said was amazing! Maybe you only have 3 hours to play with, but those 3 hours feel so precious – that’s 180 minutes of life-changing experience. I mean, the heavens were created in less time.

Such was the case with our exit from Porto. From checkout to departure was a void, and my inner crazy went to work trying to find that perfect activity, mini-adventure, off-the-path excursion… something… for chrissakes, there is an empty space staring at us and it must be filled. Ideas were at the ready – an Uber to the Parque de Serralves for that Art Deco House tour, or maybe a visit to the Press Cartoon Museum, how about getting one of those Francesinha’s that Nuno told us about – Anthony Bourdain loved them… oh I know – let’s get massages!

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Somewhere else is right here

These are all wonderful ideas and thankfully we didn’t do any of them. It just didn’t fit with our mindset, which was not to be halfway across town worrying about if we’ll make it back in time for our train. And, why do we need to be somewhere else anyways? There’s something desperate about that mindset – the assumption is suspect and smacks of not seeing the forest for all the trees. Let’s work on the canvas in front of us – this seemingly dingy corridor adjacent to the rail station.

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Armazéns do Porto

There doesn’t appear to be much there, but a short perambulation reveals a tiny art gallery and we step in. It’s a surprisingly eclectic collection of paint and sculpture from emerging artists.

We speak with the owner Maria and here comes the reason we didn’t need to run around. She shares a piece of her story, which is also our story, which is the story of being a human being. She’s a middle-aged artist who never sold anything but loves her own work. She’s put her energy into supporting local artists and just opened up this lovely, clean space in an unlikely (and probably inexpensive) area. She loves some of her inventory and dislikes others, but keeps them all the same for variety and texture. We spend an hour talking art and which masters of the past are referenced in her collection. Stasia briefly shares her own paintings, Maria says they’re beautiful. After making a personal connection, we want to support her and purchase something but nothing speaks to us until, at the end, Stasia finds a small, unframed watercolor, a memento of Porto and Maria.

After trading contact info, we depart, recommending she increase the ambiente by adding some background music, which might help people linger longer.

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Starting to like Brazil

It’s always time for a beer and a bite which is a coincidence because it happens to be a time right now. But where to go? There is a line of eateries over there which from a distance look very similar. The one blasting reggae with the waitress bobbing her head to the music is the obvious choice. She reminds me of Stasia – all smiles and seems to be having her own party, dancing with every motion of handing us menus and taking our orders. We learn the beats are courtesy of Natiroots – a Brazillian reggae outfit which sounds perfect through that boombox, the low bassline fuzzing out the cheap speakers. Our island-party lunch is catered with cabbage and chouriço soup, piri-piri beans and rice and goat cheese sandwiches, all washed down with a couple SuperBocks. We passed on the Cod handjob, maybe another time when we’re not so rushed.

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Love poetry

Back at the station but with still 45 minutes to spare, we get an espresso in the cafe and read each other a page from this truly fantastic book Stasia brought comprised of short, single-page love poems. Some romantic, some not, but all uplifting. I would tell you the name, but we want to give everyone a copy for Christmas so just be patient. She recites one to me – a beautiful passage between a mother and child. We’re both teary-eyed and now it’s my turn to read but this one is also about a child and I can’t get through the first sentence without the waterworks. Moments like that are a bath for the soul.

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Precious moments of panic

It’s not at all clear which train or platform is ours since none of them have our departure time or train number. After a few false starts, it’s agreed that Stasia will watch our luggage down in the transit area and I will run back to the ticket window to get the 411. We’ve had plenty of time but somehow are now in a mad rush.

I fly back and there’s a line that I don’t want to wait in so I pop into the tiny convenience shop next door, show them my ticket, and ask which platform we should go to. English is a stranger here but I have the power of the Google and upon looking at the translator app, I see their answer is “Cancelled – they are on strike“.

Panic is knocking at the door but I don’t want to let it in.. yet. It’s not a crisis per se, but an uncomfortable peek behind the curtain of the dependence we feel despite our free-wheeling modus operandi, our vulnerability. I ricochet off this troubling report to the ticket window, now available, and try to get the lady’s attention. “Desculpe…”, I offer, keeping my cool and trying to not betray a growing sense of dread. She shows no signs of hearing me and I observe she is picking up tiny squares of paper and dropping them one by one into a tiny envelope. I try again, a little louder and with emphasis. “De-sculpe“, and now I can’t hide my consternation. Unphased, she continues – filling her business-card-sized envelope, and I’m glad one of us is relaxed. Time to try a little wheedling – my “Por favor” is accentuated with some alarm and raising my printed ticket I add some agitated paper-crinkling. Doesn’t she realize I sacrificed an Anthony Bourdain-endorsed sandwich to be here on time? She’s a real trooper, this one, and will not be rushed along by my comparatively insignificant request, but she’s done now and turns out to be a most helpful aide – refunding my tickets and issuing new ones (cheaper even) for a train leaving in 10 minutes.

As I hurriedly get back to Stasia, I reflect that it’s not the train cancelation that worried me, it was some fear of the unknown. A long-standing motto surfaces that I’ve believed in for so many decades, “Trust the Universe”.

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The work train

Our train ride is uneventful and chill. There is a small group of people behind us who are chatting the whole trip about work. I don’t mean to eavesdrop but I do mean to eavesdrop and am soon trying to understand what it is about the drudgery of tech work that can be so interesting as to speak about call centers and team leading for an hour. Plus they’re speaking in English with heavy accents – why not just speak in the native tongue? I’m trying to determine if they’re all different nationalities with English as the common language or maybe just getting in more practice as they have to use it professionally. I don’t figure any of it out and it’s really none of my business anyhoos.

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Next Stop, Coimbra

We exit the train at Coimbra-B and wait for a ride – we’re about to begin an exciting new chapter in our journey – renting a car. I was excited in the planning stage for this – really excited. What a new, free world of opportunity awaits when one has their own wheels! That excitement was tempered – then nearly obliviated – after spending a week in the Lisboa/Porto Ubers. Those tiny single-lane roads (with 2 way traffic, oblivious pedestrian tourists, electric trams, and honking tuk-tuks) cured any ambitions we may have had in that direction. But now we’re in Coimbra and while it’s very old (it is the original capital of Portugal and home to the world’s oldest university), it appears to be more accessible for the pro-wheeled.

It is a comical exercise in couples therapy driving the 3/4 mile from the rental place to our VRBO. Me behind the wheel trying to look in control as I reacquaint myself with the stick shift, which involves revving the engine and sounding like I’m going to lay rubber but I’m just finding the catch. Now I’m backing out like a pro, feeling manly and in control, until I hit the brakes too hard and nearly give my passenger whiplash. Now in traffic, it’s like we’re 13-year-olds who just stole the parents car and hope no one notices we have no idea what we’re doing. Stasia the navigator is trying not to tell me how to drive but telling me how to drive all the same, holding back a stream of warnings and concerns with only a few leaking out. We arrive in one piece and marvel at our competence – we didn’t mow down a single pedestrian.

Tomorrow, it’s her turn 🙂