I didn’t sleep well. The bomberos was hot and stuffy, the old foam square I was using as a mattress wafted dust every time I rolled around, and the station dog barked all night, yet I couldn’t fault the firefighter’s generosity. They had opened up their facilities and done so with a smile.
I stuffed my sleeping bag into my backpack, filled my water bladder, and put on my shoes. I left the gym just as the first rays of light broke through the windows. I had a short day to hike, about 20km. The day started with beautiful trails, but quickly changed to the sprawling outer suburbs of Porto, not something I was looking forward to. I’m not a fan of road walking, to begin with; its hard surface puts more pressure on the joints and I often end up with my soles on fire from the constant pounding. The only thing harder than bitchumen is concrete. I am sure there is a scientific explanation, but concrete feels much harder than the road. Give me a dirt trail every day, but if I have to choose between the sidewalk or the road, I’ll take my chances with the cars.
I try not to plan too extensively for my hikes, preferring to feel out each day as it comes. I’d been walking for two weeks now, putting in long days from Lisbon through the remote countryside. Whilst not halfway, arriving in Porto felt like the end of the first stage of my journey. I felt strong, relaxed, and free. My only real plan for the hike was to take a rest day in Porto before the final 240km push to Santiago. Oh, and eat lasagne. A lot of lasagne.
I love the space hiking provides to think. You spend hours every day walking through nature with nothing but your thoughts. The rhythm of movement can be transendent. I’ll walk, mind drifting to thoughts about live, happiness, and very often nothing at all. That blissful state where your mind is free from the noise of everyday life is worth every blister, sore muscle, or sweat soaked summit. For the past few days, however, my thoughts had been preoccupied with lasagna. I craved the melted cheese, the ground beef simmered in tomatoe, and that first mouthful exploding with flavor. Even more than a year later, my mouth still waters thinking about it.
I arrived into Porto around midday, crossing the Ponte dom Luis, a spectacular double-deck steel arch ridge. The river Douro sparkled underneath, the deep blue water a perfect contrast to the terracotta roofs and white buildings that clustered along its banks. To my right, a cable car climbed a ridiculously steep hill, staying horizontal as it was pulled up the incline by some fascinating piece of engineering. Boats, sails white and reflecting the sun, danced across the water, enjoying the perfect weather.
Claudio and I headed to the Cathedral Se to collect a stamp. The architecture was stunning, with intricate stone carvings, and tiled floors. Dozens of pilgrims - more than we had seen for the past two weeks - walked around the grounds, faces fresh free yet to be weather warn. Claudio and I stood out. One glance was all it took to mark us as hardened pilgrims. They quizzed us on the trail life, our thoughts on the trail, and which path we would take out of the city.
Leaving Porto, pilgrims have two choices: take the traditional central route, or the coastal route. Both routes reconnected about four days north of the city. I had debated which route I would take. I was leaning towards the central route. I’m a traditionalist and like to follow the original routes, despite the coastal route being more picturesque by all accounts. I had planned to take a zero day tomorrow and make up my mind. A zero is a rest day, where you do zero kilometers.
I said goodbye to Claudio. He was hiking a few more kilometers west to a small albergue along the coastal route. I had booked a room downtown planning to walk as little as possible tomorrow. Plus, the room was a few blocks from a fantastic Italian restaurant. I could taste the lasagne already!
I checked in, showered, and rested for a hour, spread on the bed. Oh the luxury of real sheets. I found a cafe, holed up in the corner editing photos until the sun set. A gentle pink settled across the city. Locals and tourists mingled in the parks, rugs spread for evening picnics. Tables appeared on every sidewalk, vendors selling beer and apple cider. I walked through the streets marveling at the sights until I could wait no more. At 6pm on the dot, I crossed the foyer into Ristorante Pizzeria S. Martino Baixa, ordered the lasagna before I even ordered a drink. Fifteen minutes later, I went to heaven. It took me 14 days and 400km to arrive, and I’d walk it all over again for another serving of that lasagne.