Because it’s Summer in Portugal

August 9, 2017 by Kristin Winet Leave a Comment

A lot has happened since I last updated my blog. I know, I know, writers always say that, don’t we? There’s always something happening, like another cross-country move, a new job, a bunch of new classes to prepare, a few weeks in South Africa, that scholarly article I swore I’d finally revise…. (I’m only kidding–these are all very important somethings). What I mean, I think, is that I’ve spent so much of my time pouring all of my energies into my other life this past year – the Dr. Winet life – that I promised myself I’d do one thing for me, Kristin, humble writer and hopeful photographer, this summer.

What’s that one thing?

I’m going to Portugal.

Why Portugal? Well, other than its close proximity to the first place I ever traveled when I was 21 years old and the country that stole my heart almost immediately (hi, Spain!), Portugal has always, always, always been on my lifelong hope-to-travel-to-someday list. It’s on there with places like Cuba, Egypt, Japan, and Nepal, places I’ve never been but long, someday, to see with my very own eyes. (And, actually, there are a lot of places on that list, let me tell you). But to be perfectly honest, I don’t know exactly why Portugal. As in, what exactly has enraptured me. I can pinpoint why I want to visit a place like Cuba: it was off-limits for so long! Or Egypt: those pyramids! Or Japan: that sushi! Or Nepal: those mountains! And yet, Portugal has always been on that list, too, so much so that when I initiated the idea of doing another trip with Viking River Cruises and they asked me where I’d like to go and I immediately said to myself, “Oh, that’s easy – Portugal!”, I realized that I had some work to do. What was it about Portugal?

In European terms, Portugal is, well…it’s kind of remote. It’s not Mediterranean, although it seems like it should be. It’s not connected to five other little countries like so many other countries in Europe, although it really isn’t that far from the rest of the continent. It’s not Spanish-speaking, although I suspect I’ll be able to fumble my way through at least 45% of the time (Ryan is gunning for 60% since he maintains, erroneously, that Portuguese and Spanish are basically dialects of each other…we’ll see how that pans out).

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the reason this little country has always held my attention is because I’m simply curious about it. I’m curious because although I’m familiar with it, there’s so much I just don’t know about it. It’s always been just out of reach.

For instance: I am fascinated by the language of Portuguese, but can’t really speak it. I know people probably eat a lot of sausages and seafood there, but I don’t know that much about the cuisine. I have heard fado music through its descendant the bossa nova, but I’ve never actually heard the guitarra in its original form. I can recite some of the history of the Iberian Peninsula (thanks to my undergraduate degree in Spanish Literature), but I don’t know a whole lot about contemporary Portugal or its politics or recent history. I’ve read a ton of poetry and plays from the Iberian Middle Ages, but never a Portuguese author. See what I mean? It’s kind of like this place that I just never quite got to–but not because I didn’t want to; more like because I was never close enough to pop over to it but always kept it on the list because I knew I’d get there sometime.

And here we are, packing up for our Portugal’s Rivers of Gold trip. I’m taking Ryan with me (oh, the perks of him being married to a travel writer, am I right?!) and we leave tomorrow morning for our journey to Lisbon. Once we’re there, we’ll spend two nights at the Hotel Tivoli Lisbon (it’s a gorgeous 5-star resort in the heart of Lisbon…I can’t wait to slip into the fluffy terrycloth bathrobes and slippers that I am sure await me there!), and then we’ll hit the Duoro for our week-long cruise.

And then we get back and we’ll have one day to recover from the jet lag before school starts again. And that’s just how our life goes, crazy as it is.

Portugal’s River of Gold

In case you’re considering a trip to Portugal, here’s the scoop on where we’ll be headed and what my plans are while I’m there. Keep in mind that I’ve crammed in a couple of side trips/journo stuff for my own writing (you wouldn’t necessarily be trailing along on a walking food tour just so you could try and find the best pastel de nata chef or chasing after giant paper mache dolls in a parade you heard is going to be happening in a small town you’re cruising through while you’re there….well, you might be, in which case, let me know!).

Anyhow, here’s the lowdown on where we’re headed:

Lisbon (Days 1-3)

After our first night, we’ll get up early and start with a half-day tour of Lisbon. From what I’ve read online, we’ll begin at the super cute Belém district and check out the Jerónimos Monastery, one of the most important and breathtaking examples of Portuguese late Gothic architecture (it’s also a UNESCO World Heritage Site!). Then, we’re heading off on a walking tour through the Alfama District where we’ll get some history lessons along the way.

The next day, the only thing we have scheduled is a walking food tour called “A Taste of Lisbon.” We’ll walk over to what our guide is calling the “working-class district” of Graca and pop in to no less than four local restaurants, pubs, and bakeries. What I love about walking food tours is that you can really experience two things at once: the rhythm of a city by foot and its culinary wonders, one after the other.

This tour is where I hope to talk to someone about making the pastel de nata, a fancy egg tart that’s supposedly creamy inside and crunchy outside. We’ll see what I find!

Porto (Days 3-4)

On Day 3, we board the ship and start the journey to Porto! As we start the cruise, we have a stop at an old university town on the way – Coimbra – where we’ll get to check out Portugal’s oldest university (it’s been open for SEVEN centuries….I’m serious). As a teacher, I’m really excited about this, and I’m especially curious to see if I can pop in and see anyone in the English department while we’re there. Also, there’s something I absolutely love about visiting other campuses in other countries–it’s one of my very favorite things to do when I’m traveling.

The next day, we’re doing a city tour of Porto itself, which, in addition to being known as the home of port wine, is also an adorable riverside community whose historic center is (you guessed it) also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We’re planning on visiting a local port wine–making facility and then heading out for lunch. That afternoon, we’ve signed up for an excursion to the nation’s first capital, Guimarães, which is (is there a pattern here yet?) yet another UNESCO World Heritage Site. Guimarães has a medieval quarter with narrow streets, a main square and palaces and monasteries dating back to the 10th century. In the 12th century, it was Portugal’s first capital and home to its first king, Afonso Henriques. It should be spectacular.

Regua & Pinhao (Day 5)

Today, we cruise through Regua and Pinhao, two riverside cities along the Duoro River. Along the way, we’re going to stop at Mateus Palace, a baroque palace was the home of the last count of Vila Real. Then, the plan is to visit one of the area’s port wine–making shops (can’t complain about that, am I right?!). Everyone also gets to do a private tour of the vineyards.

Also: Did I mention that Ryan and I figured out that we are going to be in Regua during the annual Day of Assumption? This means that we are going to be there on exactly the same day as the gigantones parade, where people march in the streets with giant paper mache dolls. I am SO excited to catch this!

Barca d’Alva (Day 6)

Another sailing day! Today, we keep going east. Along the way, we pass through Portugal’s most dramatic cliffs, terraced vineyards, and bridges. We’ll arrive at Barca d’Alva, not far from the Spanish border, in the mid-afternoon.

After lunch, we get off the ship to take a tour to Castelo Rodrigo, which is located 2,200 feet above sea level and is purportedly surrounded by lush almond trees. While we’re there, we also plan to stop at historic Sinagoga Street, the part of the city where Jewish refugees escaped and made their new home during the Spanish Inquisition.

Salamanca, Spain (Day 7)

If you know me at all, need I say more about this day? We’re crossing over into Spain!!!! (And yes, in case you’re wondering, Salamanca is another UNESCO World Heritage Site). I have always, always wanted to visit this city, not only because it hosts a huge population of international students and is home to Spain’s oldest college, but also because it’s literally called La Dorada, or, The Golden City, because of its sandstone buildings that seem to glow in the sunlight.

During the day, we have free time to set off and explore. I’ve already told Ryan: we’re heading to the university and spending the afternoon at a cafe. That’s all I really want to do–just sit, and be. You don’t get to do that a lot when you hit up a new city every day.

Cruising Back to Porto (Days 8-9)

This morning, we sail west along the Douro back to Porto, and along the way, we’ll pass some of the area’s quintas (vineyards). We make a stop in the little village of Favaios, where we will visit one of the last traditional bakeries in the Douro River Valley. We get to take a tour of the kitchen and taste freshly-made loaves straight from the oven.

For lunch, we’re going to Quinta da Avessada, a centuries-old winery in the heart of the Douro Wine District (yep, another UNESCO World Heritage Site), and we get to try some local varieties of port, such as moscatel. I’m seeing two trends here: a lot of wine, and a lot of really old places.

Porto (Days 9-10)

Days 9 and 10 are the perfect ending: Day 9 is a visit to Lamego, a small town known for its baroque sanctuary and which is still a pilgrimage site for many Catholics today. That evening, we have a lovely farewell dinner, prepared by Viking, to send us on our way.

Day 10, we fly.

Yours in travel,

Kristin

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All photographs from Flickr’s Creative Commons. I thank them for their generosity and I hope my photos turn out just as beautifully!

I’m excited to be traveling to Portugal and Spain with Viking River Cruises on their 2017 River of Gold tour from Lisbon to Porto.

New Orleans Street Music

May 26, 2015 by Kristin Winet 2 Comments

Though I remember this mostly from photographs, I think I first picked up a pair of church handbells in kindergarten, of tones, I think, in B flat and C. I remember I liked these bells because they weren’t the teeny tiny tinny ones, and they weren’t the super-heavy ones that the boys had to play, or the ones the girls had to hurl up with their whole bodies. They also got played a lot, so I never got bored standing there following the bars and wondering when I’d be able to chime in with my ring. I remember playing my small two-belled parts in some of my favorite Biblical hymns, sometimes even accompanying my mom’s 120-voice choir, sitting underneath the tiered seats, banging out those bells in a forte that was probably a little too strong.

In seventh grade, I begged my mom, a lifelong musician herself, to buy me a flute, and I joined the school band. I took lessons at a local music school. Unlike a lot of my peers at school, I loved practicing scales–the repetition of it, the predictable nature of it, the full-bodied, high-pitched trills that happened, magically, when I reached those high octaves and didn’t squeak.

I sang, too, ever since I knew how to put words together and string them into complete thoughts. I sang throughout school, in the car, in the shower, to my favorite CDS (and then my favorite .mp3s, and then my favorite Pandora streams). And I lived my teenage years through music, as many of us do, faithfully attending every single Incubus concert I could afford in the Southeast (truth be told, I probably went to a LOT more Incubus concerts than my meager hostess salary afforded me, but alas, I digress). I attended a million punk and ska concerts with my best friend Rachel, and we followed bands around like we did trendy shoes, buying them up, wearing them for a while, and then flitting on to the next big thing. And then we went to college, where Rachel would study music business at a tiny Christian school in Nashville, the land of country music and mandolins, and I would study Comparative Literature in Athens, Georgia, where more Southern rock bands call home than anywhere else in the country. (my nostalgia recalls many a Widespread Panic and Phish concert in those tree-lined Southern streets and in the historic walls of the Georgia Theater).

Something weird, happened, though, between those high school and college years. I put down instruments and I stopped singing.

Like many kids, it started around 10th grade, when, suddenly, it was no longer cool to tote a metal flute case down the hallway. I still wanted to play music, I desperately did, but I didn’t want the rest of the halls of my high school to know, because, unlike the rest of those band nerds, I was too cool for that (how many of us have said that before, am I right?). In an attempt to be both clandestine but still respectful to my instrument, I would stuff my flute case into my backpack, the tips of the oblong-sized case pressing up uncomfortably against the seams of the top and bottom of my already-packed backpack, and I would teeter down the hall, books in my arms instead. By the end of high school, I was second chair, meaning that I had solos in concerts, sat in the front row, and dressed up for the concerts.

And then, well, college came around and I tried to pick up the guitar instead. I was in Athens, after all; a place where the guitar is about as common a pastime as breathing. But my fingers also chapped, I could never pluck the strings fast enough, and I couldn’t catch up to friends of mine who’d been playing for years. There were banjos, mandolins, guitars, lutes, ukuleles….and lots of talented players behind their strings.

Sometime between then and now, I’d become an observer. Someone who watched, wistfully, from afar, who listened to music but didn’t participate in it. I’ve missed my music–I even see my acoustic guitar in the closet here, beside me, as I write this, and I think mournfully about all the songs that never got played.

Two weeks ago, I went to New Orleans with Ryan to attend a wedding, and these thoughts have lingered with me stronger than ever since I’ve been back. I knew New Orleans had a magnificent music scene (I wrote about it for Perceptive Travel, actually), and I knew, from popular culture, that musicians played in the streets in the historic French Quarter. But imagining and experiencing a thing often leaves an impossible abyss….there is nothing like walking through the sweat-filled humidity of those tropical New Orleans streets, watching the local musicians set up their equipment, lay out a bucket, a guitar case, or a basket for coins and dollar bills, and catching tourists take snapshots.

In the following photos where people are featured, I always asked before I took the picture, and I always left a gift for them as a small piece of gratitude.

To be honest, I didn’t really understand how much I actually missed playing music–as opposed to simply listening to it live–until I joined our friends’ second line to their wedding reception. From the Irish Cultural Museum to the art gallery where they had their Creole celebration set up, we marched through the streets behind a 3-piece brass band, enacting a very old West African tradition brought to Louisiana by slaves and merged with the military brass band parade traditions of the Europeans and white Americans, and I wove a white handkerchief in one hand and held my high heels in the other. As the 60 or so of us walked down those cobblestone streets, passing tourists, musicians, and other artists alike, I felt a reverence for this place and its inextricable link to music. Even know, I find it difficult to describe, this feeling of sound and place coalescing like that.

When we arrived at the gallery’s doors, and the musicians stood outside wiping sweat from their brows, I stopped the trumpet player and said thank you. He looked up, surprised, I think, that one of the wedding attendees had taken the second to personally recognize him, and I told him how lovely his artistry was. He smiled, knowingly at me, this once-upon-a-time musician, visiting his special Crescent City.

Yours in travel,

Kristin

All photographs by me 🙂 A special thanks to the New Orleans CVB for helping me arrange accommodations for my stay in New Orleans.

Just a Day in greenwich Village

April 11, 2015 by Kristin Winet Leave a Comment

What do you do if you have one measly day in one of the world’s most fantastic cities?

You go to a coffee shop and write.

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At least, that’s what I did two weeks ago when I was in the city and found myself wondering what life would be like if I lived here. So I decided to do whenever and wherever I am: I find the nearest spot where I can order a hot drink and park myself for a few hours among some strangers.

The place I stumbled upon, Stumptown Coffee, had an odd name but a huge line, so I guessed their cappuccinos were most likely up to the standards of the many literary voices and writers who’ve passed through its doors.

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As I looked around at the NYU students eagerly catching up on their assignments, the writers lost in thought, their faces lit up by their computer screens, the foreign visitors pouring over their travel guides written in Mandarin, I decided I’d park it for a while here, catch up on my people-watching (it’s kind of a weird hobby of mine—thanks, mom), and pop open my laptop and—Gasp!—write something.

I should clarify that: I mean write something that is not my dissertation.

I put on my headphones, found a playlist of happy indie music, and got to work. I pretended I was a real New York writer, with a dedicated agent, a fancy publisher, a big book deal and plans to traverse the nation talking about my amazing new memoir. I should mention that I don’t often daydream about these things, partly because I’m always so insecure and busy that I hardly ever give myself the time to daydream, to imagine other possibilities, to let my mind drift to places I’d forgotten existed.

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I felt like I was twenty again, stepping into my first creative writing classes, getting my first passport photo taken, wondering what in the world was in store for my young life. Then, I used to daydream. When we grow up, we all too often push those thoughts aside, make ourselves get back to the business of being smart professionals with illustrious careers (or at least serviceable ones). But we don’t often let ourselves imagine what we could do if we just had the time, just had the money, just had the freedom, just had the (INSERT NOUN HOLDING YOU BACK HERE). Now, ten years later, I found myself sitting at this perfect little coffee shop full of intelligent, creative people, and I was daydreaming again.

Of course, I should mention that being twenty wasn’t all glory and glitter, and that in-between feeling very out-of-place and weird most of the time, I had absolutely no clue whatsoever what I was going to do with my life. The only thing I was convinced of at the time was that I knew I wanted it to be something special.

I still don’t really know what the purpose of life is, but I still know that I want it to be something special. Maybe I don’t need a swanky book deal with a big New York publisher. Maybe it’s something else, instead. I don’t know—but at least I should keep myself open to the possibilities. Maybe that’s what adulthood should teach us: to be more open to the possibilities.

I went to the beautiful Big Apple for an interview, but though I didn’t leave with an employment contract, I left having reconnected with a “me” that I’d long buried underneath grading piles of students papers, writing freelance articles, and just plain getting through the hectic daily grind. I’d thought the job I was applying for would give me that–would free me from the monotony of writing a dissertation and being a poor graduate students–but perhaps all I needed was a day there. Maybe, at least for now, I don’t belong in New York. And that, I’m learning, is OK.

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The morale of all this? I’ve decided that more of us should park it in busy coffee shops in Greenwich Village from time to time.

Yours in travel,

Kristin

Dispatches from Boston’s Chinatown

March 29, 2015 by Kristin Winet Leave a Comment

I recently read a story about the first Subway opening up in one of North America’s Chinatowns. Despite the overlooked fact that a Subway had crept in to an otherwise corporate-free ethnic enclave, the interesting thing was that nobody knew how to translate it. It couldn’t be the actual word for Subway, because no Mandarin speaker would have any idea why a sandwich shop was named after a mode of public transportation. There is no such translatable idea of a “sub sandwich” in Mandarin.

So what did they do?

They went with something much more beautiful: they chose three characters that, when put together, mean “better than hundred tastes.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about that yesterday when I went to visit Chinatown in Boston.

These towns of China, these glorious microcosms of Chinese food and shopping, have always been a source of curiosity for me. For one, there are a lot of Chinatowns across North America (except, sadly, for Tucson, which could really benefit from an influx of decent Asian fare, and not the trendy, DIY, “roll your own sushi” place by the university or the unfortunately-named FuKu Sushi on University Ave). Secondly, I always find myself inexplicably drawn to Chinatowns for some reason or another, aching to try the juicy pork dumplings or the fried noodles, eager to find a place that serves food like it’s supposed to be, even though deep down I know even that’s a meaningless statement in itself. Food like it’s supposed to be….food is malleable as it migrates, just like people.

To be honest, I think it’s the general sense of awe and curiosity of stepping into a place that’s meant to mimic another place while still holding on to bits of the first place that strikes me so evocatively about Chinatowns. These places, too, are often the result of difficult migrations themselves, poverty, an aching for community, blue-collar labor, and sometimes, even red light districts. They are contact zones in and of themselves, simultaneously serving as relics of the past and examples of modern globalization.

Boston’s Chinatown is no different. As I walked through it in the pouring rain yesterday, hoping to find a hot cup of tea and a warm bowl of soup, I started thinking about these mini “towns” and what the represent, both geographically and culturally. Historically, Chinatowns popped up in tandem with waves of Chinese migration, to both ease the transition into life in a new country and to preserve a sense of community that might have otherwise gotten lost. Though many Chinatowns no longer specifically function as enclaves for Chinese immigrants and have been infiltrated by tourists and city locals, there’s still something fascinating about these replica spaces.

For instance, here’s a photo of a woman eating her lunch in the Dumpling Cafe, a little soup and dumpling shop right around the corner from the hostel where I’m staying for the weekend.

Presumably from China based on her rapid Mandarin and her ability to navigate the menu like a pro, she’s not doing anything that unusual–after all, she’s just eating and catching up with an old friend or business associate on the phone, right?–but there’s something very, well, Chinatown about it. A woman eating a spicy bowl of soup that may or may not remind her of home, a smartphone, a conversation in Mandarin, equal amounts of white and Asian customers skirting by in the background–these are all images I see when I close my eyes and I think about the busy, chaotic, weird life we live in modernity.

I also noticed the plate setting in front of me, lemon tea, a plate unusued, plastic utensils stacked on top of each other, a menu written in two languages. Another example.

From the window, there’s a McDonald’s, infamous in its two yellow half-moons, its logo placed next to Chinese characters that curiously seem to be the translation of the word. From my research, I now know that the orthography for McDonald’s in Chinese is essentially meaningless, a transliteration of the English word’s pronunciation, but when I saw this yesterday, I couldn’t help but think how strange it was to see such an American icon–yellow against its bright-red background–next to a set of Chinese symbols that are otherwise meaningless.

Or this, a wrapped door calling out to shoppers of 3-D Pictures (what are those?!), Luggages, a cold Coca-Cola, DVD movies, and a drowned out “Push” sign. Elements on the spectrum, some words translated, some not.

My sojourn through Boston’s Chinatown wasn’t long, and I was too cold to really spend any good amount of time there (yes, I’m pathetic when it comes to below-freezing temperatures, even when bundled up), but when I turned the corner and went back to the hostel to warm up, I had so much more to think about than just soup.

Chinatown is centered on Beach Street in downtown Boston. It borders Boston Common and is easily accessible by the MBTA’s Orange Line.

Yours in travel,

Kristin

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All images copyrighted by Kristin Winet, 2015.

In the Rare Book Room at the Royal B.C. Museum

March 24, 2015 by Kristin Winet Leave a Comment

Located deep in the collections of a Canadian museum is a tiny book. Its corners are frayed, its spine cracked, its cover is worn…..

This is how I started my recent article for Atlas Obscura about Captain Cook’s very rare fabric books from his last voyage. I was on assignment with Tourism Victoria and took about a thousand photos of this incredibly rare, inextricably colonizing and yet gentle book of fabric swatches and descriptions from the many people Cook met on the last voyage he took before he was killed. Chilling, really, to see a book like that up close….but so much fun to photograph.

We didn’t get to use all of my photos in the article, though, so I thought I’d include some photos here of the actual process of going through the book–lots of nitrate gloves, careful handling, and a smiling docent at the end 🙂 If you’re intrigued and want to learn more about this tiny gem, grab a cup of tea, settle in, and take a peek at my Objects of Intrigue piece on Atlas Obscura.

A special thanks to Tourism Victoria and the Royal B. C. Museum for helping me plan this unforgettable one-day voyage to Victoria.

Because it’s Summer in Portugal

Portugal’s River of Gold

Lisbon (Days 1-3)

Porto (Days 3-4)

Regua & Pinhao (Day 5)

Barca d’Alva (Day 6)

Salamanca, Spain (Day 7)

Cruising Back to Porto (Days 8-9)

Porto (Days 9-10)

New Orleans Street Music

Just a Day in greenwich Village

Dispatches from Boston’s Chinatown

In the Rare Book Room at the Royal B.C. Museum

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Portugal’s River of Gold

Lisbon (Days 1-3)

Porto (Days 3-4)

Regua & Pinhao (Day 5)

Barca d’Alva (Day 6)

Salamanca, Spain (Day 7)

Cruising Back to Porto (Days 8-9)

Porto (Days 9-10)

Welcome to bon touriste

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As Seen In…

In Partnership With…

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