It was 26 years ago when I was last in Portugal – that time Jo and I hung out in Amarante, a small town in the north where Jo had volunteered as a physio for a year in the late 80s. Lisbon is relatively small for a European capital – between half a million and 3 million depending on what definition you use for the city limits. Apparently Lisbon is recognised as an alpha-level global city by the Globalization and World Cities (GaWC) Study Group. For goodness sake – who pays these groups to come up with tosh like this? Whatever “alpha-level” might mean anyone, I personally found Lisbon a seriously cool and laid back little city. The people are friendly but not in your face, many of the old buildings on the cobbled streets are bedecked with azulejo (ceramic tiles) in a variety of colours, the food is cheap and delicious and the pace of life relaxed. We are staying in an apartment in the Alfama – the oldest district in Lisbon. Traditionally the area where the fishermen and poor lived, the place has been slowly touristified (try looking that word up by the way) over recent years. Cafes are everywhere, with the more popular hosting fados in the evenings. The fado, a form of singing, comes from Lisbon and typically has a mournful ring to it. The lyrics are often about the sea or the life of the poor and the mood melancholic. So not exactly dancing on tables stuff . . . but definitely atmospheric. Our apartment is on the second floor, overlooking a bustling street and square. A couple of interesting characters on the street have appointed themselves as honorary parking wardens, which essentially involves assisting cars to park when one of the many street parking spots is vacated. The service is usually accompanied by much shouting and gesticulating – the latter made problematic when one or both of them is clutching a beer. Why this service is considered necessary is beyond me – I never saw any money changing hands . . . In the 15th and 16th centuries, Portugal was at the forefront of maritime discovery. Bartolomeu Dias reached the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, Vasco de Gama ten years later continued on to India. The Portuguese were the first from Europe to discover Brazil (Brazil still maintaining the Portuguese language to this day) and then later Japan. During the renaissance Portugal became the world’s main economic power with established international trading routes. Things were sweet . . . Today the Portuguese economy is very different. Things aren’t as dire as they were in 2009 following the world financial crisis when Portugal was unable to raise further international funding and essentially was put on life support. Economic growth has continued, albeit slowly since then. Jo got talking to her neighbour on the flight from Amsterdam, a girl from Lisbon with a reasonable job in a bank getting paid just 900 euros per month. Paying the 500 Euros required to rent in Lisbon was impossible for her so her commute from the family home was over an hour each way. She said it was common for younger people to work elsewhere in Europe and send the higher wages back home. While in Lisbon we caught up with Danielle’s old mate Frances – great to see her and catch up with all the goss over a beer or two. Off to the south coast tomorrow . . .
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One of our key reasons for staying in the Netherlands into the autumn month of September was to celebrate the wedding of Lizette and Johan. Lizette is Jolanda’s niece – an accomplished violinist and music teacher, living in Utrecht. Lizette and Johan have been an item for some time now – and it was wonderful to hear, earlier this year, of their intended marriage. Utrecht is a great little city in the eastern corner of the Randstad (basically the area capturing Holland’s four largest cities – the others being the Hague, Amsterdam and Rotterdam). It’s hard not to love Utrecht with its picture perfect canals, cobbled streets, daggy cafes and old buildings, some dating back to the middle ages. It’s also a place, which busts with students – Utrecht hosting the Netherlands’ largest university – which creates a youthful vibe to the place. Danielle and Vivien were asked to be bridesmaids. And what a couple of rascally bridesmaids they turned out to be . . . they had a whale of a time and looked absolutely beautiful. It was 24 years and 360 days ago that Jolanda and I were married in Wassener at the Raadhuis de Paauw (or the “Rat House” as referred to by my kiwi mates trying to find their way there by taxi). The general order of play hasn’t changed much. The formal ceremony conducted by an ambtenaar (a civil servant who, among other things, officiates weddings) is followed by cake, coffee and champers. Then a smaller party (usually close family and friends) go for dinner before meeting up again with all the other guests at a big knees-up in the evening. It was a magic day. Rained the whole time but I don’t think anyone really noticed or cared. The formal ceremony was conducted in the Paushuize – built by the only Dutch pope in the early 1500s but who curiously never lived there. Dinner (yes we were “A list” guests, just quietly) was in the Podium onder de Dom – the Dom being a wonderful old church with the tallest tower in the Netherlands – and the party in the evening was in the well-known (well in Utrecht anyway) Winkel van Sinkel. Felt a bit dusty the next morning . . . It was of some comfort to learn that Nostradamus predicted that Ibiza is the place to be when the world ends. If anyone is reading this, Kim Jong Un hopefully hasn’t yet provoked a global nuclear war and you are all ok. Scary stuff alright . . . In any case, the majority of tourists who come to Ibiza are probably more concerned with which club they will party in and who they will score with. There are a lot of “roided up” boys (as Danielle describes them) and tanned girls here – after all, Ibiza has long been the Mediterranean’s party island. Interestingly an article in the UK Express just yesterday suggests Ibiza is losing its young reputation as a party island to the Greek islands while older travellers are taking over Ibiza. Ha . . . ! Flights to Ibiza roll in everyday from European cities. Our flight from Amsterdam took 2 and a half hours and we landed late afternoon to a balmy 28 degrees. Seven million tourists a year come to Ibiza – which seems a huge amount for such a small island. In comparison, New Zealand welcomes 3-4 million tourists per year with that number projected to reach Ibiza proportions by 2030. Our villa for the week was just your quintessential Spanish design – lots of white plaster and stone, set in the midst of pine trees overlooking the Mediterranean. Just a beautiful and relaxing place to be. We decided to eat at home for the majority of our stay, and who wouldn’t with the views we enjoyed over breakfast, lunch and dinner. The local supermarkets are pretty good with reasonable choice but bugger all in the organic department. Ibiza isn’t a big island – drive 40 minutes and you are in the ocean on the other side. We hired a car and everyone put on a brave face when I got behind the wheel – first time for a while driving a manual on the right hand side of the road. In my opinion I did pretty well as evidenced by the fact I didn’t hit anything (although I might have noticed a couple of sharp intakes of breath from the passenger seat) . . . I must say drivers in Ibiza are easy going – nobody seems in a hurry and the roads are well maintained and straight forward to navigate. Highlights . . . well this place doesn’t want for good beaches, it’s just a case of finding one that isn’t packed. Our first try was Cala Salada – 5 minutes drive from our place. Well its 5 minutes drive if the road isn’t blocked which meant we had to park about 1.5km away and walk. In fairness this tiny beach is rated one of the best in Ibiza and it really lived up to its billing – beauty wise. Crystal clear waters, white sand and loads of rocks to jump off. Jo and I were sooo far over the average age – it was almost like a beauty contest for tanned twenty somethings. Much more our style was Cala Xarraca on the northeastern tip of the island. Just as beautiful, warm clear water, a small rocky island in the bay to jump off and, most importantly, a few more fat older people to make us feel more at home. The main town in Ibiza is named – wait for it – Ibiza. Well it’s actually “Eivissa” on the Spanish road signs – a confusion we quickly worked our way through. To be honest the town is a bit ho-hum, with the exception of the smaller older section of the city, which is built on a small steep hill. We wound our way up on foot, through cobble stoned, car-free, streets lined with a combination of local houses, cafes and shops selling tourist tat. The view at the top over the town and harbour was well worth it – especially the very welcome breeze. Man it was a hot day to be climbing steep streets . . . The “world famous” hippy market on the southeastern side of Ibiza runs every Wednesday. I wouldn’t have described it as hippy – not much in the way of alternative stuff like yoga and free love (well if it was there I must have missed it). There is your usual touristy mass-produced stuff but also some really cool and unique offerings such as a range of clothes made out of recycled garment offcuts (all re-threaded) that would otherwise have been thrown out. I was determined to enter into the hippy spirit and so bought myself a sarong for the beach – which Jo later pointed out was actually more of a tablecloth. A cautionary note here for those travelling with any children under 25. Don’t ever assume that when you pack the car, lock the house, deposit the key in a secure letterbox and start driving to the airport that your darlings will have actually thought about checking for their passports. Danielle as usual . . . After unpacking all our bags on the side of the road, dashing back to the house, borrowing a fork from the neighbours to pry the letter box open and then finding the missing passport underneath a duvet on some random shelf (oh yes that’s a sensible place to leave it) we took off again with some degree of agitation (and frosty silence as far as Danielle was concerned) and made our flight.
Now in the plane heading back to the Netherlands where apparently it is pissing down. Looks like I will have to wait a bit before parading my new tablecloth at Scheveningen beach . . . |
Richard and JolandaJo and I have decided to give up our work, our house and our lives in Wellington NZ to see the world. Our big adventure started on April 6th 2017 . . . Archives
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