Honestly, I’ve lost track of where I’ve been today – but it wasn’t exactly a winning streak.
Last night I arrived in Nazaré. Took a walk along the beach until the rain caught up with me and the sleepy surf town. I found shelter in a classic Portuguese bar – bright lights, cheap Sagres, tiled walls.
The owner and I started talking right away. She told me about the town’s struggles since the pandemic – exploding rents, too many Airbnbs, tourists getting ripped off the moment they reveal themselves. Prices go up 50% in a heartbeat.
But not here. I order a second Sagres.
I spend the night parked on a gravel road next to a “cat hotel”. I love animals, I swear – but the smell of cat piss makes me lose my mind.
In the morning I’m woken up by cats. Nazaré isn’t for me. And it’s raining again.
I drive on to Figueira da Foz. Turns out, I don’t like it either. The town feels deserted. The weather’s crap. I’m tired.
Next stop: Aveiro – the so-called Venice of Portugal. I was here ten years ago, but barely remember a thing.
It’s raining, again.
I walk through the beautiful little town, searching for memories, and stumble into a charming bar.
Turin Spritz in hand. The Doors playing. David Bowie, Velvet Underground, Bob Dylan on the walls.
Within minutes, I’ve booked my third show in Portugal:
Friday, 7 PM. 50€, food and drinks included.
Promotion? Only via Instagram Stories. Because even here, no one can afford the 70€ Portuguese GEMA fee.
