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Porto
By the Editors

When a city tries to leap from the nineteenth century straight into the twenty-first, its metaphors are sure to get mixed. So it is with Porto, Portugal. In its medieval downtown, where a maze of cobbly streets, palm-treed squares, and granite cathedrals rises steeply from the banks of the Rio Douro, you might see the morning’s laundry
billowing off an ancient balcony — right next to a satellite dish. And three gracefully aging iron-girder suspension bridges, one of them designed by Alexandre Eiffel in 1877, share duties with a postmod concrete span soon to carry high-speed trains from Lisbon. Best known for its wonderfully subtle port wine, Porto (also called Oporto, but only by outsiders) finds itself
now playing the odd role of 3,000-year-old comer, discovered anew by students, artsy types, and venture capitalists flush with European Community currency. (Americans are still a novelty.) Despite this influx, the city remains something of a backwater, as does the surrounding countryside, where the villages and vineyards are as hilly, green, and unchanged as Brigadoon.

What’s Out There
The swimmable, surfable beaches of the Costa Verde aren’t far from downtown, though locals avoid the closest ones — boats anchored along the Rio Douro port have not always observed hygienic niceties, shame on them. Within the city proper, running is a popular pursuit, thanks to hometown marathon hero Rosa Mota. A quick flight to the south is Algarve, Portugal’s answer to the
Riviera (cheaper, less Euro-chic, almost as much visible flesh). And nearby Peneda-GerŠs National Park, the country’s one and only, has been called “Europe’s last wilderness,” what with its mountainy terrain, wild ponies, and vast, roadless outback. Less strenuous might be the journey upriver along the Douro, where terraced rows of vines from the thousands of area vineyards
climb from the bank; you can drive there, ride a train, or float on a barco rabelo, a boat once used to bring barrels of wine to a very happy town.

Around Town
This is northern Portugal, the good folks of Porto will readily remind you. Southern Portugal, home to Lisbon and the Algarve, is by Portians’ reckoning giddy, sunny, overindulged, and in most ways overrated. Porto, on the other hand, assumes a city-that-works milieu, but in a Mediterranean kind of way. People like their lunches long, their wine plentiful, their business hours
short, and their coffee dark-roasted and strong (the locals once owned Brazil, after all). Crime is rare — unless it involves soccer. Last March, 18 Brits had to be hospitalized after a Manchester UnitedûPorto match. (Porto lost, and not gracefully.) But such rowdiness is uncommon. More often energy is expended less violently, as at Porto’s festa of Sƒo Joƒo,
which starts with mass but ends with dancing in the streets, platefuls of grilled sardines, gallons of vinho verde, and townspeople cheerfully bopping one another on the head with leeks. (Don’t ask.)

Living Quarters
You want character? The Ribeira, a onetime red-light district, and the Barredo, a former fishing center, are drowning in it; think New Orleans’s Vieux Carr‰ overlaid onto Boston, complete with apocalyptic parking hassles. Overhauled nineteenth-century townhouses rent here for as much as several thousand dollars and rarely are for sale. Rehabbers can do better, however: The
redoubtable citizens of Porto prefer new construction, so architectural gems sit peeling, ignored, and cheap, usually selling for less than $150,000. Steer clear of Porto’s ‘burbs — Industrial Sprawlsville.

Nine to Five
Porto’s infrastructure hasn’t kept pace with its outsize ambitions: A new subway, for instance, is sinking within tar-like scandals and cost overruns. Even so, the city is transforming itself quickly from the agricultural to the ultrahigh-tech. IBM, Microsoft, GM, and PepsiCo have all opened plants nearby in the past five years, and the government positively drools at the thought
of entrepreneurs bringing cash, cash, cash. Plus, there’s the port wine trade, which holds little interest for Porto’s young people — familiarity, you know. Cozy up to an elderly vineyard owner whose children have skipped to Lisbon and you could find yourself afloat in liquid assets for life.

Memorize This
Ai, que a partida estß divartida, mas tenho que distilar meu vinho. (“Gosh, the soccer match sounds like fun, but I have some decanting to do.”)