Wednesday.
Sidell and I wandered through the city of Porto, a port city not unlike San Francisco. We lacked an agenda. Content to wander the city in search of a nice Portuguese cross, which we were disappointed not to find in Fatima, we simply enjoyed ourselves. As we reached the Ribiera along the River Gouros, Sidell and I noticed the festive decorations as the city prepared for something big. Sidell had read about a Festival Sao Joao, which is basically Mardi Gras meets New Year’s in celebration of St. John the Baptist’s feast day. Essentially, we were like people who unwittingly arrived in New Orleans the night of Mardi Gras. While the feast of St. John is celebrated throughout the Iberian Peninsula, no one celebrates it like Porto.
Throughout the day, Sidell and I saw people carrying these little toy hammers. I thought it was odd when I walked past a cafe and witnessed a college kid greet his friend with a whack in the head. Even more surprised when his friend didn’t get upset. We found a cross in a new age store, grabbed a coffee at a little cafe and watched the US in the World Cup. When we returned to our hotel, they gave us a packet of information about Festa Sao Joao and our very own toy squeaky hammer. I Skyped my dad to wish him a happy birthday as Sidell and I rested to save energy for the evening.
About an hour before we walked outside, burning charcoal filled the air. The layer of haze outside could have been mistaken for smog, but no, it was smoke from the spontaneous barbecues happening throughout the city. Walking towards the Ribiera, we passed no fewer than one hundred separate barbecues all grilling the same thing: sardines and green bell peppers. Some people were sharing. Others reserved their work for friends and family. Surprisingly, the aroma of burning sardines is every bit as pleasant as burgers on the grill. But still, neither of us could bring ourselves to eat one.
We wandered through the streets brandishing our hammer, wondering if people were going to hit us on the head or if they only did that to people they knew. The answer came when a 10 year old came up to me without warning and politely conked me on the noggin. Of course, I gently whacked him over the dome to pass on a little wisdom. The kid moved on, but this was only the beginning. Over the next four hours, dozens more hammers would hit Sidell and I respectively. Since we only had the one hammer between us, sometimes people would whack whichever one of us was unarmed and whichever one of us who was armed, would whack in retaliation. Protecting the honor. This went on for few hours.
We found a nice place to eat right along the river as the daylight fell to darkness. After dinner, we made our way to a main stage with a Jumbotron behind it. Shortly thereafter, a televised song and dance show began. Basically, the Portuguese equivalent of Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve. Two morning show hosts/tv personalities introduced various Portuguese acts who would come out on stage and perform with instruments that were essentially props because they weren’t plugged into anything. Working in production, I can understand the logistical difficulties of plugging in various acts equipment and checking the sound and know why they didn’t run electricity to their machines.
Occasionally, flaming balloons would light the sky and float to the heavens. Sidell was a little wary of flaming balls of helium because, well, they’re flaming ball of helium. I gathered by the sheer number of flaming balloons launched on that evening that the good people of Porto knew what they were doing, lest I would have heard of great Sao Joao Festa tragedies in the past. A little after 11 PM, we realized we had to wake up at 5 the next morning and still had 45 minutes of walking to get back home. By now, thousands were pouring into the square and we were standing close to the epicenter. It took a good 10 minutes to work our way out of the crowd.
Once we finally did, we came across two lines of people swinging their hammers as people ran through the gauntlet taking shot after shot to the head. Fulfilling her vows to love and cherish me all the days of her life, Sidell encouraged me to run through the crowd. Knowing that such wonderful advice was why I married her, I turned on the Flip video ready for a one of a kind experience. That’s exactly what came my way. I was about to run through the tunnel when I saw a teenager sprint through. I stopped to let him past, then seeing that the coast was clear through the viewfinder of my Flip, I ran into the gauntlet. About one-third of the way in, a figure came out of the corner of my eyes which were fixed on what I was shooting. Had I been looking ahead I could have avoided the 45-year-old man hurtling through the tunnel…but alas, I was making a Flip video. I collided with the man in a mutual headbutt. His glasses fell to the ground, the lens popping out and he stumbled around trying to get them. The top of his head came up beneath my jaw, which clenched down popping both my ears. It felt like I’d been kicked in the jaw, but I was embarrassed because it was more my fault than his. It was not the way I’d envisioned the night ending, but it didn’t ruin an otherwise splendid evening.
If you can be in Porto for one night in any given year, you should be there on 6/23 for Festa Sao Joao. Our night concluded by watching the fireworks from the comfort of our hotel room. After we fell asleep, the party continued until sunrise. We discovered this as we dragged our bags to the metro station to take us to the airport and we were walking along side hundreds of teens and twentysomethings who had just watched the sunrise from the beach. A drunk Portuguese kid insisted that I hug him on the way out of town. I obliged.
Goodbye to Portugal. One special country.
Patrick McConville 