Coming into England was a breeze. We scanned our passports, walked through a few gates, but never declared anything. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Leaving was another matter. Standing in the queue, and they gave us a small plastic bag.
If we have any liquids or aerosols, they must go in the small plastic bag. I have all my pills in the original containers, the new shave cream I bought in London to replace the one confiscated by the Canadians, a sample size bottle of maple syrup filled with Listerine, various hair products- all too much fit in a small bag. They are already packed in clear bags. No, must be in the small bag that was given.
I am unpacking in the line trying to get this together, grumbling that all I have is already in clear bags, why and how do I fit them in a smaller bag? A women of Indian extraction is ahead of me and they make her take off her plastic sandals, while leaving on countless metal bracelets. It is a serpentine maze of officious obligations, and we are at the mercy of youthful authority with no discernible intelligence or common sense.
Welcome to the old In/Out. You are in the country, now you are out of the country. Some people have to take off shoes and belts, most do not. Some have masks on (very few, as the mask thing seems to be a dedicated “Canadian “ thing now. People are asked to remove their hats, masks, water bottles. I am not one for crossing borders at the best of times, or being interviewed by authorities, but in the end it is always fine, what with the silver hair and the silver spoon privilege. But still, this old In/out is not my cuppa tea.
Now the other old In/Out is always welcome in my inbox. After clearing security at the airport we survey the duty free and hear there will be a one minute of silence for the Queen.
Remember her? How could we forget. The airport announcer sounding like a British version of Charlie Brown’s teacher,” Wah wah? Brrrz Wah wah wah. One minute of brzzzzzz Wah wah wah. Collect your thoughts of her majesty, and wah wah wah.”
After the silence, order and volume are returned, all resulting in a 90 minute delay. The captain is late on another flight. Our phones batteries are running out, and our adapter is only good for the EU, and not so good in the UK. We need to be able to communicate that we will be much later with the driver who is picking us up from the airport to drive us to the Air B&B.
A message on What’s App from the hostess. Arriving in Porto looking for someone we don’t know with one of our names on a sign. Finally, we see them. All is saved. We get to the apt, and are thoroughly entertained by our driver, telling us jokes about the city across the river. He drives down a narrow street of stones. The door number, which is 13, is almost blacked out above the door. There seems to be no one here, and then the door to 13 opens. Our hostess is there and leads us up to the room. She had left us a small pitcher of port wine and two glasses. Suddenly I feel welcome, and glad to be in Porto and Portugal.
In the morning we are awakened by the sounds of renovation. Random man sounds and dropping pieces of metal and wood. CLANG!
The hills are steep, the roads cobbled but we are in Porto. Old buildings and statues tower above us. We are surrounded by a new history to us. It is old history to the Portuguese, but new to us.
Eggs left on a ledge. Egg tarts fill the shelves. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. A man dances with a woman wearing a mask, her high heels almost joined to his, until we realize that this is no woman, but a Doll and her shoes are attached to his.
We walk up and down the many hills, soaking in the sun, and the colours, and the sights and smells.
An attendant in the pharmacy stands on a shelf, and opens drawers of back stock.
Portuguese tarts as far as the eye can see.
What is this? Isabella II. OMG- more banners for the Queen of England!
We learned from the driver from the airport that Portugal ( in the North) was settled by the Celts. In the south, every name that starts with Al is evidence of its Arabic roots. Welcome to Porto.
Abrigado!