Sunday, April 24th, Portimao, Portugal. (Easter Sunday)
From what we'd read, Portimao, on the southern Algarve Coast of Portugal, would be a sleepy fishing village with quaint shops, cobble-stoned streets, and a long promenade along the coastline. It is famous for nothing in particular except grilled sardine sandwiches, the aroma of which “permeates every street.”
The view from the ship suggested that it was about as quaint as Miami. Since we had to moor outside the harbor, so we took a tender in, and almost fell for the ship-supplied shuttle bus in town.
“How much?” Stew asked.
$10 each, round-trip.”
“How far is it?”
“Four kilometers.” [About a mile.]
Needless to say, we started off on foot and soon found ourselves lost in an area with tall buildings and totally empty streets. It was like something out of a sci-fi movie, where all inhabitants had been abducted by aliens. Eventually, we stumbled onto a corner cafe where we showed a few locals the map our ship had provided. The lady at the counter called over an elderly gentleman, and together, they studied it as if it were something from our space ship. Clearly, we were way off the map.
Through hand-signals, shrugs, and head-shaking, the man finally pointed us in a direction where little streets turned into larger ones, eventually producing a “centro” sign with an arrow pointing toward the old town. There, we did find cobble-stoned streets, and they were filled with tourists gazing at shops shuttered for Easter Sunday. Sounds of singing came from a small church.
After a while, we also found the promenade, where a free-internet cafe allowed us to update our blog and answer email. Bob had a coffee and Stew sampled a world-famous toasted sardine sandwich. He agreed with a friend who later commented,
“It was the best sardine sandwich I've ever had.”
