Judged in Porto and found Fashion Lacking

The first time I was in Porto, it was early April and Porto was still chilly and  very wet. Three weeks later I loaded myself onto a bus in Santiago and traveled in three hours what had taken me two full weeks to walk. It was a little mind-bending, and I watched out the window for signs of the path beside the highway.

I emerged from the bus station like a mole from the ground, with a tourist map in hand. I scanned around for a landmark - and then began to weave my way towards the city centre. I don't know why I was so hesitant to take the Metro, it was right beside the bus station, but I think you miss so much when you are underground. You learn so much about a city by walking the streets.

Once I saw Sao Bento train station, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, I was back in somewhat familiar territory.

You have to picture me at a street corner waiting for the light to change. Mid 50s, massive backpack, travel weary and dusty from my walk across town - clunky blue hiking boots and walking pole... Two women at the corner were discussing my pants. They were speaking English, and didn't realize or didn't care that could hear... they were trying to figure out what colour my pants were, or had been. Where the grey? or were they green? They decided that they had originally been green, but were now quite grey. They were a little scornful of me and my pants.

The pants they scorned had been my trusty friends for years and years. Originally [to me] from the thrift shop - they were some sort of fast drying khaki green cotton-like fabric. They had good, deep pockets that snapped shut and could roll into shorts. They made the trip because once I spilled coffee all over them, and when they dried you couldn't see the coffee mark at all.

The pants were tired, and sun bleached. I knew, looking down at them, that their time had come and gone, without me noticing. I didn't feel badly, that the women had been rude about my pants, but I could tell that I wasn't in Santiago anymore where the clothing of the pilgrim was a kaleidoscope of colour and quality.

I sat at an outdoor cafe near Sao Bento and had a salad and glass of wine. I people watched. The women of Porto were dressed beautifully. Gold and silver embellished sneakers were in fashion, and I saw many sneakers with sequins as well, usually with  purse or bag with the same glimmer. They wore semi-opaque tights - dark - with long-sleeved tunics. I saw variation after variation of the tunic, tights and sneaker look - and all ages wore it. Even later that week in Lisbon, I saw this look, but Lisbon had a more eclectic fashion style.

After lunch I looked for a Hostel to stay in - and ended up with a top bunk in a room of 4 bunk beds. Extremely clean this hostel was - my room overlooked a narrow street with two double windows which opened wide to all the night noises and street noises. My room was full of young people - and one man in particular sticks out in my mind. He was around 25 and had the middle bottom bunk. He had a small valise beside his bed, with slippers neatly lined up beside. His bed was made and he would lie in it until 8pm, when he would rise and go out - only to return the next morning.

I stayed in Porto for two nights - not sleeping very well, but learning the city at last. I came to appreciate the ups and downs, the grit and the sunshine I walked across the river Douro where the Porto cellars were - and then walked back again.

I did a lot of people watching there. I watched tourists, and saw how they acted and what they wore. I watched locals and teenagers. I turned into a tourist myself.