accents of blue marble

Commissioned by King D. João V, the Palácio Nacional de Mafra is a masterpiece of Baroque architecture built in the 18th Century, after the king vowed to build a convent if he were blessed with an heir. The convent is part of a massive palace complex covering nearly four hectares, and constructed with limestone and marble in all colours from the region. Financed with Brazilian gold, the grandeur of the palace and its central basilica is simply awesome. The basilica's 65 metre high dome is reportedly the first dome built in Portugal, and when I stood beneath the pink and blue radiating from its glowing white dove, I felt the breath leave my chest.



It seems that Portugal's kings had a tendency to build magnificent things in exchange for what they wanted in life— well two that I know of. But then again, we all try to bargain for our wishes.

the one who got away

Years ago, I had this dream. The night was cool and silver, and I walked barefoot along tide pools carved into rocks rough with barnacles. The pools were a deep phthalo green, and nestled in each centre was a fiery red octopus. The dream haunted me for days, and every time it resurfaced in my thoughts, I could feel the sharp sensation of the barnacle shells on the soles of my feet. I tried to capture it all in a drawing, but was unsuccessful.

While walking along the beach in Parede, the dream bubbled up again as I photographed urchins in the tide pools. Secretly I hoped I would find an eight-legged friend in one, but judging by the number of octopus hunters wandering the rocks, I was doubtful— and yet, there's always the one who got away.

tide pools

the sky turned pink

bird feet

the badalhoca

Pedro was hell-bent on finding a specific little sandwich joint on our way out of Porto, and I certainly wasn't about to get in the way of this— especially when he mentioned that the ceiling was lost above a forest of hanging legs of ham. But it was the name that excited me most: Tasca da Badalhoca, which roughly translates to "Tavern of the Dirty Lady". Who was this Badalhoca? Would she be there? Would she serve her sandwiches with a salty comment and a sneer? That was a lot of alliteration.

As we stepped into the tight, dark entrance of the tasca, a greasy ham leg smacked Pedro on the head— he wasn't exaggerating about the ceiling. We walked up to a counter crammed with all manner of pork, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that the only other female in the joint was the Badalhoca herself, who was busy at work stirring a pot of something which smelled of pepper and garlic. Burly men on their lunch breaks hunched over plates piled with sandwiches, and swigged what appeared to be fizzy rosé from glass mugs.  

"I want that", I whispered in Pedro's ear.

We started with an innocent presunto sandwich and a couple of pasteis de bacalhau, but inevitably descended into the piglet and blood sausage. There was an egg involved too, but my goodness, that blood sausage...



Sure, we were guilty of a touch of gluttony and received a snickering from the Badalhoca as we kept popping back up to the counter, but she understood. She knows. These are the best damn sandwiches I have ever had. I told her so, and got a great smile.

laundry

Towels and sheets snapped in the breeze like prayer flags, from a taut web of twine held up by sticks tethered into many long-legged X's.

follow your nose

As we were studying the gulls at the marina in Vila Nova de Gaia, I suddenly became distracted by the scent of something delicious on the breeze. It was charcoal and fish, and my stomach began to nag me. While Pedro furiously photographed a gull that intrigued him, I began to search the sky above the nearby houses for any trace of smoke. I tried dropping some subtle hints about lunch, but the gull was far too interesting, and all Pedro gave me was an unenthusiastic "mm-hmm".

The idea of barbecued seafood got stuck in my brain, and eventually I declared it was time to eat. The scent had now found its way to Pedro's nose, and off we went in search of its origin.



Though I have a keen sense of smell, it was the smoke that brought us to an unassuming street corner tavern with a grill on the sidewalk and a line of people waiting to get in. With a nod of acknowledgement from a waiter who flew in and out of the building with plates and chilled bottles of wine, we took our place with the other hopefuls, leaning against a pole on the opposite side of the street. It was not long before a table for two opened up inside, and we were crammed in between a jovial group of thirty-somethings and a couple of intimidated Spaniards.

Would we like a salad? Of course. And some wine? Yes please. Yes to the cuttlefish, and yes to the skewers of assorted seafood.



I toyed with the idea of posting an unflattering photo from a series that Pedro took of my happy grin all coated in cuttlefish ink, but I will spare you the horror. It is pretty awesome though, and needless to say, the meal was incredible.



And we weren't done! There was dessert, coffee, and a mysterious xiripiti that the waiter was gleefully pouring into tiny glasses from a three legged can with a spout...



We joyfully swaggered out of the tasca, leaving behind a speedy portrait of the girl at the register, and Pedro's cartoon drawing of me with ink-stained teeth (which you can see in the above photo of the cake). The light was changing, and there were more birds to see.