Portugal, Week 2: The Bubble Pops
A weekend in the middle of nowhere. Plus, gentrification.
As I travel, I’m also reading Oliver Sacks’ travelogue, “Oaxaca Journal.” He was falling hopelessly in love with Oaxaca when, one morning, he saw another side to the city: open sewers, children with infected eyes, rabid dogs, diesel fumes that could choke you. To which Sacks said: “Perhaps it is salutary for me to see this other side, before I get too lyrical about this Eden.”
Well, the world saw I was getting a little too lyrical. And so it brought me Jairo.
Jairo and I met at the end of the last post. We were in a yoga class together, then walked in the park and went to the beach. He lives deep in the mountains, one hour from Porto, where, as he says, the people grow their own food and have never seen the ocean, despite living 45 minutes’ drive from the beach. He invited me to visit that next weekend. “It’s like Braveheart over there, man,” he said. “I call it, ‘AirBnB Experiences, the Middle Ages.’”
Jairo’s in his mid-40s. He’s originally from Madrid, yet lived in the US for over 20 years as an IT and tech consultant, working with banks, large companies, and universities like Stanford and MIT. He burnt out, essentially, after getting fed up with the ruthless and competitive nature of tech, and so he bought a farm in northern Portugal to start an eco-retreat.
Well, things didn’t work out so great.
Turns out it’s not easy to start a business where he lives, like, at all. I have no clue if this applies to all of Portugal, or just in this particular town, which didn’t have much of an economy to begin with. For Jairo, getting the land permit alone was a nightmare. Nothing could be done over phone or email, he said, so he’d have to drive 45 minutes each way for meetings — most times, he’d arrive only for the person to be an hour late, or forget to show up entirely. He was here a year and a half and still hadn’t received his land permit, let alone anything related to operating the business, and thus he eventually accepted defeat.
So Jairo’s a little bitter.
Granted, Jairo tried to start a business in one of the most rural parts of Portugal. They hardly have WiFi here, let alone the infrastructure for an eco-retreat. I told him as well that some places, especially small, traditional towns, simply don’t want change, especially from a foreigner. I understand his intent though and admire him for trying.
Yet still, it can’t be ignored — Portugal’s not a rich country. The average wage here in Porto is 900 euros per month; consider that rent is about that price, and you’ve got a problem. There are many reasons outsiders are flocking here, but when you ask, “cheap” is one of the first words uttered, unfortunately. This has been vastly documented: The country’s in a housing crisis, as foreigners — like myself — are escaping our own out-of-control prices and coming here for the easier way of life. While it’s great for us, and we’re loving our two-bedroom penthouses while the kids go to private school, it’s also driving out the locals and creating an unsustainable way of life.
You know, the “G” word.
That said, I still had an invite to visit Jairo in the mountains, so I happily accepted. And he delivered.
We started at a swimming hole in the middle of nowhere. He then took me to lunch at a tiny place on the side of the road, the lone restaurant in town which I’d’ve never, ever found had it not been for him. We ate suckling pig with potato chips, salad, and wine, finished with chocolate mousse. It was perhaps my best meal yet in Portugal. That night, we went into town where a local celebration was taking place, giving my glimpse into suburban life in Portugal. I had my first Portuguese hot dog, which was less-than-ideal, and we then ate burgers at a small bar. I didn’t see one other foreigner the entire evening.
I stayed at his home, an old farmhouse overlooking a scenic valley. Sunsets and sunrises were equally gorgeous. He had a small creek running through his giant property, with trees that grew olives, chestnuts, oranges, and more. It was a Shangri-La, yet it’d have to be brought to life by someone else.
I felt for Jairo. He was at peace with how this went down, but it still hurt, and I could hear that in his voice. At the swimming hole, we were talking about what’s next for each of us. For him, he yearned deeply for the American way of life, and so he’s been applying for jobs like mad so he can get back to it. But he’s also open to whatever comes.
“I don’t want to design my life, man,” he said. “I just want to live it.”
When I woke up, I was deeply stuffed up from Jairo’s cats, so I decided to leave.
One note, especially for drivers out there: Google Maps in Portugal is both a blessing and a curse. I used it to get to Viana do Castelo, one hour from where I was. On one hand, it took me through the most enchanting little villages, one-lane roads snaking through the mountainside. The downside is that these were one-lane roads on a mountainside, with little Fiats barreling down the other direction. As pretty as the scenery was, I was on edge the entire time.
I arrived at Viana do Castelo, which had a marvelous beach surrounded by greenery, where the sand glimmers in the water like flakes of gold in a Goldschlager bottle. I ate my first Bacalhau (salted cod — one of the more famous dishes here in Portugal). That night I booked an AirBnB in Guimarães, about an hour inland, a medieval town known as “the original city in Portugal.”
Yet Guimarães, pretty as she was, simply did not want me back. When I arrived, the one museum I wanted to see was closed for renovations. It was baking hot, right up until the time I went to bed. The restaurant I wanted was mysteriously closed too — and my backup place had no more seating. I ate my most touristy meal, right in the center of the square, and chose from a menu featuring four different languages (always my nightmare). So like Jairo, I accepted defeat. Timing is everything in life and this was not mine. I have stopped taking this personally, instead recognizing that what brought me here wasn’t too strong or sincere to begin with. And so in the morning, I packed my things, took a coffee and came back early to Porto.
I was in low spirits. It was a great weekend, all in all, I just felt a little down about Portugal, about the wages, about my place here.
To really hammer the lesson home, I got into an Uber and started chatting (almost all the Uber drivers are fluent in English). I brought up Guimarães and asked the driver if he’d been. Of course, he said. I mentioned the museum I wanted to go to. “Unfortunately I don’t have time for museums,” he said. “I have to work all the time, just to afford to live here.” He had an undergrad degree in Product Design yet didn’t want to find work in that field, so he drove for a living. “It’s changing here, a lot,” he said, “and I can say with certainty, it’s for the worse.”
I got out and soberly thanked him for the conversation. What else can you say? This is a topic that so many cities have fought and wrestled with; Porto is one of the latest. What can do you about it? I don’t have the answer. But I’m also not sure I’m part of the solution.