Portugal's a Party

Albufeira, Portugal

            Just before heading back to the US, I decided my remaining time in Europe would be best spent killing two birds with one stone: i.e. going somewhere I’ve never been before and getting tan. I’ve explained the tanning phenomenon here before haven’t I? Well let’s just say that after a year of Alsatian snow storms, perpetually grey skies and an inordinate amount of rain (I went to London a bunch), I was ready for a sunny, sandy week at the beach, catching some much-needed rays.

            And who better to accompany me on this journey than my friend Colleen? Studying for her masters at University of Manchester, she’d seen less sun than I, and was ready to plop poolside for a few days. So, we pulled out the proverbial map of the world (and by this I mean list of destinations RyanAir flies to), nixed the cold-weather locations (everything not on the Mediterranean), and settled on the southern coast of Portugal, an area known as the Algarve. Neither of us had been before, but we heard the weather was flawless and the scenery breathtaking, so we booked.

Monday, May 16^th: We arrived. It was raining. All day. We stayed in the room watching German sitcoms on TV.

At the beach

Tuesday, May 17^th: I awoke in the morning surprised to see sunny skies and open beach chairs. We made a mad dash for the pool.

Tuesday, May 17^th, 4pm: Burned to a crisp. Reasons why: A) Portuguese sun is much stronger than it appears. Somewhat like a Long Island Iced Tea. B) Portuguese sunscreen does not work. Somewhat like chugging water trying to cure a hangover from said Long Island Iced Teas.

Wednesday, May 18^th: It rained.

All day.

Albufeira Old Town

But instead of hiding inside, we roamed the area outside our hotel, the lovely city of Albufeira, Portugal. And possibly the largest tourist trap I have ever laid eyes on. Every second establishment on the street is a bar, generally with the same kinds of names and catering to the overwhelmingly British clientele. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. Everyone here is British. Few exceptions. So, most bars have giant Union Jack flags, restaurants serve a full English breakfast, and souvenir shops sell British license plates with children’s names on them instead of Portuguese license plates. Absurdity. I felt like I had entered some sort of alternate British universe. To be honest it reminded me a bit of all those college spring break hangouts – full of bars that offer you free shots to enter (and that are filled with seedy people) and restaurants that serve the same food at the same price everywhere you go.

Typical bar

Needless to say, I bought nothing. I don’t need anymore shot glasses, British flags, mugs, tea cozies or t-shirts with bikini-clad women on them. I did, however, sample the local beers. They were delightful.

Thursday, May 19^th: Thankfully sunny. We spent much of the day by the beach (putting on sun tan lotion every 15 minutes or so), and then prepped to go out because at midnight, I would be turning 23.

So we went out. And for dinner I had the chicken piri-piri, which I was told I had to have while in Portugal (it’s a specialty), which was essentially lots of chicken bones and a few pieces of chicken meat covered in a blend of spices. But it was good.

Lagos, Portugal

At night we ran into, and I kid you not, probably 50 stag and hen parties. Like I said, every person in this town was British. They all came to celebrate the bachelor or bachelorette party of one of their friends, and they were all obscenely drunk.

At midnight I turned 23 with a shot of Medronho, a Portuguese liquor akin to brandy. Yum!

Rock Outcroppings

Friday, May 20^th: Otherwise known as my birthday. We decided to add a bit of culture into our itinerary and went east as we explored the southern coast of Portugal and the rest of the Algarve. We first went to Lagos, home to the first European slave market, and one the cuter towns in the Algarve. With winding streets, whitewashed buildings, and little boutiques selling pottery and handicrafts, I could tell it catered to a more sophisticated clientele. From there we went to a point overlooking the ocean, with the famous Algarvian outcroppings of rock that give the destination some of its beauty. Our final stop was the so-called “End of the World”, the most southwesterly point of Europe, equipped with one of the most powerful lighthouses in the world. It was beautiful.

Cataplana

Saturday, May 21^st: We decided this night would be the night to sample the most famous dish of the Algarve, the Cataplana. Named for the type of cookware it is made in, which is generally made of copper and resembles two clam shells hinged together at one end, the cataplana is essentially a seafood stew. Made of big chunks of white fish, clams, mussels, and shrimp all cooked with onions, potatoes, tomatoes, and white wine. The food is steamed within the giant clam-shell contraption and served into bowls piping hot right at the table. 

All-in-all I would say Portugal was interesting. I think if I had gone to Lisbon I would have been face-to-face with a little more Portuguese (rather than British) culture. But I must admit, I worship the sun, and 5 days on the beautiful, white sandy beaches of Portugal won’t do anyone harm. NOTE: If you don’t want to be accosted by people selling you shots on the streets or useless British trinkets in stores, stay in a nice, secluded hotel far from civilization. 

An Eastern European Adventure, Part III: Romania

I’m not quite sure I remember getting into Romania. Too concerned with finding somewhere to sleep after a 16-hour overnight train ride on the worst train ever constructed, I had blinders on walking through Bucharest station, boarding the metro trains, and navigating the streets to our hostel. Upon arrival at Doors Hostel we were informed that our beds would not be ready until noon. Horrified at the fact that I had another 5 hours to go until I could possibly catch some shuteye, my face fell as I pondered a miserable morning of much-too-early sightseeing. Seeing this, the girl working behind the desk felt bad for me, and showed us to a common area with couches where we could sleep until the beds were ready. I fell asleep almost immediately.

See what I mean?

Five or six hours later I woke up refreshed and ready to explore the capital of a country I had only really ever heard discussed during the gymnastics exhibitions of the summer Olympics. But before we could even leave the hostel, we were invited to lunch with the all-Romanian staff working there. As it turns out, the mother of one of the guys had cooked a traditional Romanian meal for all the hostel employees, and there was plenty to go around. What we ended up eating was called sarmale, a mixture of pork and rice rolled in cabbage leaves and heated over the stove in some kind of broth. Pile it onto a piece of bread and top it with sour cream, and you’re good to go. I guess that’s the good thing about getting a late start to our day – we got a free, home-cooked Romanian meal, and were the only non-Romanians there!

We walked from our hostel to the nearby Bulevard Unirii, Bucharest’s copy of Paris’s Champs-Elysées. Not nearly as majestic as the Parisian original, the city’s main thoroughfare was dotted with dried-up fountains, enormous billboards, and dilapidated buildings. However, it boasts a width of one meter more than the Champs. Well, let me tell you, width is not everything, folks.

A statue we liked

Overall I would say the city is underwhelming, as far as capitals go. It has the potential to be really beautiful, with large buildings and good infrastructure, but it just looks run-down and forgotten. After roaming around a bit, we grabbed a few beers and headed to Revolution Piazza, where the first shots of the 1989 revolution were fired. Now it is home to a statue of Carol the First, the first Romanian king, the National Art Museum, and the University Library. Their version of the Plaza Athenée, a famous Parisian hotel, (remember the final episodes of Sex and the City?) is also there, as the city’s Hilton Hotel. Fun fact: during WWII, the Plaza Athenée was once home to both British spies and the Gestapo.

For dinner we stopped at Caru’ Cu Bere, Romania’s oldest beer hall. With stained glass windows filtering the light into the impressively painted interior, intricate embellishments decorating the banisters, and traditional dancers crowding the central dance floor, diners really get the feel of a traditional Romania that has long-since disappeared in the cities. For dinner, Brad paid heed to the old-style Romania, eating tripe soup followed by potatoes and minced meat topped with a generous portion of Romanian sheep’s cheese. My salad and meat skewers hardly compared.

Dancers at Caru' cu Bere

The next morning Brad and I awoke before dawn to catch a train to Transylvania. Firmly ensconced in Brahm Stoker’s Dracula, the two-and-a-half hour ride seemed to fly by for me. Cliché, sure, but when is there a better time to read the horror story than when on the way to the famed character’s supposed home? Once out of the city, we noticed how beautiful the Romanian countryside truly is. Snow capped mountains and rolling green hills are interrupted by wide, flowing rivers and unpaved roads sprinkled with horse-drawn carts loaded down with local goods.

We met our guide at the train station in Bran, and set off by car to explore two of area’s most famous castles and the Rasnov fortress. The first of our many stops was Bran Castle, built in 1369 by a German merchant. In the 15^th century the family’s descendents were killed and the castle was taken by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, then ruling the region. Made famous from the 1920 movie Dracula, the castle is said to have housed the Wallachian king who inspired the character in Stoker’s novel, Vlad the Impaler. Apparently he killed everyone around who did not obey his rules and was called “the Impaler” because he killed his victims by impaling them on large wooden stakes. Over time, he killed 50% of the area’s population, including over 600 nobles in one night. Dracula, which many people called him, mean’s “devil’s son” in Slavonian.

Transylvania

Many legends surround the castle, and strange traditions regarding death in the area lend some credence to Stoker’s novel. In the region, when a person dies and comes back to haunt the dreams of a family member, it means that the dead person has become a ghost. In order to kill the ghost, you must put a stake through the person’s heart. This often requires exhuming the coffin from the ground, opening the coffin, and then staking the heart. While this is not entirely legal, it continues to happen in the countryside of Romania, including as recently as last year. Dracula fans, does this ring any bells?

Bran Castle

Outside the castle resembled a small carnival, with shops selling everything from multicolored wigs to giant wheels of cheese. Of course every souvenir imaginable is also available, but in my opinion, there are none worth buying. Famous for their cheese, Bran’s fromagiers set up stalls and allow customers to sample their goods before buying. Impressed with the selection and the taste, Brad and I decided to purchase a sheep’s milk cheese that was soft, almost like a goat’s cheese, and aged in a casing of tree bark. Note: very earthy. We did eventually get up to tour the castle, but as this was not the primary residence of Vlad the Impaler, there was not much to see, apart from what was left by the rich German family.

After the castle we trundled off to Rasnov fortress, which the Romanians attempted to make infinitely cooler by placing a large Hollywood-esque sign of “RASNOV” in the hillside below it. Built in 1335, the fortress has never been entered by force in all of it’s over 800-year history. Originally built to protect the poor who had trouble with the nobles, the fortress had two main squares, a dorm for the people living there, and a second for the animals. In the 17^th century the fortress was abandoned, and now it had been turned into a giant tourist trap. With really nothing inside and nothing to see, shopkeepers and trinket-sellers have set up shop inside the fortress selling ice cream and other useless things like magnets and beer mugs. In my opinion, the fortress is not worth the entrance fee, or the strenuous hike up the mountain to reach it, but the views from the top are quite breathtaking.

So Hollywood right now.

 From the castle we drove over the mountains to Sinai, the location of Peles Castle, the summer home of the first king of Romania, Carol the First. Built from 1873-1913 by a team of engineers from all over the world, it was the first-ever castle built with an elevator, central heating, electricity, and running water. Inside there is much to see, as each room represents a different part of the world, including Italy, France, Turkey, and Moorish Spain. In the Hall of Honor, the highest room of the castle, the stained glass ceiling can be opened electronically. The Weapons Hall is home to over 3700 different pieces of both ceremonial and wartime weapons, including a 300-year old executioner’s sword that was used to behead nobles. The castle also has several secret doors that lead to hidden passageways and staircases throughout. In the Italian room, used for receptions, there are gold-plated ceilings, Vasari paintings, Venetian mirrors decorated with Murano glass, and 14 different types of marble inlay. In the Moorish hall, inspired by the Alhambra palace in Grenada, there is a crying fountain of Carrera marble. In sum the castle spans three levels and has more than 160 rooms. Fun fact: it even has a French-style movie theater.

Peles Castle

 Here is one thing I probably should have mentioned before about Romania: it has the largest number of wild dogs in Europe, with numbers in Bucharest alone topping 200,000. I must admit, it made me a little apprehensive to walk around the streets in the early morning hours or at night because they are literally everywhere. And they do not like when you enter their territory. Coming home from dinner on Saturday night, Brad and I sprinted through the suburban streets near our hostel to avoid getting bitten by what looked like a pack of giant, rabid, man-eating dogs. Note: those who fear large dogs, or dogs at all rather, don’t go to Bucharest.

On Sunday we had the first “relaxed” day of our trip, sleeping late, eating leisurely meals, and fitting in the final things on our sightseeing to-do list. We finished with Romania’s answer to Paris’s Arc de Triomphe (noticing a theme here?), which looks almost exactly like the real thing except that it’s in the middle of nowhere outside the city and does not give way to any large or imposing thoroughfares. We eventually tromped back to the hostel in the pouring rain for a lazy afternoon and evening.

Monday morning came early with a 5am taxi to the “airport”. If you can even call it that. Bucharest Banesa Airport is by far the WORST airport I have ever been to in my life. It is essentially the size of a small grocery store, has no chairs, nothing to eat, and has probably never been cleaned. I wasn’t entirely thrilled to be boarding another terrifying WizzAir flight, but was pretty pleased to return to be returning to western civilization.

That concludes my trip to Eastern Europe, but stay tuned for more from Spain, Portugal, and more!