Portugal: The Final Lap

Yesterday was, in technical terms, a bit of a dud travel day. We woke up from another blessedly solid night of sleep (yes, we still count those like lottery wins) and packed for our grand return to Lisbon. Everything was lining up beautifully: the driver was punctual, the seats plush, Joni was well-fed, well-rested, and cooing like a cherub. What could possibly go wrong?

About ten minutes into the drive, disaster struck. For the first time in her young life, Joni unleashed the fury of Mount Vesuvius… in liquid vomitous form. The car became a biohazard zone. Luckily, our driver was also a dad, so within seconds, the vehicle morphed into a triage unit as three adults sprang into coordinated crisis response: one cleaning, one soothing, and one dry-heaving slightly in the corner (names withheld). Order was restored, morale shaken but not broken, and the rest of the drive proceeded without incident.

We arrived in Lisbon, rehydrated our spirits with naps, and rallied for our grand culinary finale: Fifty Seconds by Rui Silvestre, a Michelin-starred temple of fine dining named after the length of the elevator ride to its sky-high perch. From the moment we stepped out into the dining room, surrounded by panoramic views of the Tagus River and a symphony of waitstaff who moved like synchronized swimmers, we knew we were in for something special.  

Each dish was a miniature work of art, a blend of science, poetry, and wizardry. A “Bloody Oyster” that tasted like Poseidon’s own blood Mary martini. Blue Lobster with harissa that flirted with danger but never crossed the line. Shrimp with Thai spices that were cooked to perfection. Caviar-topped tuna, citrus spheres that popped like fireworks, and desserts that made us question everything we thought we knew about hazelnuts and cranberries. Every plate looked like it was engineered in a futuristic laboratory where flavor is a religion and spoons are sacred relics. 

When we descended from the heavens (literally and metaphorically), we returned to find Joni awake and waiting, clearly wondering why we were late for her second bedtime story. We tucked her in, grateful, exhausted, and mildly intoxicated on truffle foam and parent pride.

The next morning came too soon, but we squeezed in one last heroic hotel breakfast before attempting a redemption tour of Lisbon’s missed sights. Jerónimos Monastery was, tragically, sold out (we admired it from a distance like true pilgrims of procrastination), so we strolled along the waterfront, craning our necks at the Monument to the Discoveries,  and made a final stop at the Lisbon Cathedral, a towering, echoing beauty that somehow still smelled faintly of incense and history.  

After a well-earned nap, it was time to head for the airport. Joni handled the Lisbon-to-London leg like a pro, snoozing half the way in my arms, then demanding full attention and entertainment for the other half. The seats were… let’s say “ergonomically humbling.” My knees met the seat in front of me in ways that will haunt my chiropractor for years. But we made it, breezed through customs thanks to Joni’s weaponized charm, and collapsed into our London hotel beds.

Tomorrow, the long flight home awaits, one final test in the saga of Portugal with a Baby. But tonight, as we drifted off, we couldn’t help but feel grateful. For the meals, the messes, the Michelin stars, and the memory of a trip that somehow balanced chaos and beauty, just like life with Joni. 

Portugal Day 6 – Douro Dreams

At long last, a full night’s sleep. Seven or eight uninterrupted hours might not sound like much, but after nearly a week of fractured rest, it felt like a spa retreat for the soul. I woke first and slipped out onto our porch overlooking the Douro Valley, the terraced vineyards tumbling down to the babbling river below. The air was still and faintly sweet with grapes and wild rosemary. For a long moment, nothing moved but the mist.

Eventually, the ladies stirred, and we gathered for a slow breakfast, nodding knowingly at other bleary-eyed parents who clearly understood the rare joy of a full night’s rest. Back at our hotel lobby, Joni happily explored the rugged, masculine space, her tiny palms smacking against leather chairs and stone floors, while I sampled from the self-serve Port bar (yes, Port at 10 a.m., but when in the Douro…). 

Lunch was the highlight of the day: a 14-course tasting menu at DOC Douro, a Michelin-rated restaurant perched directly over the river, where the terrace seemed to hover above the water and distant trains hummed along the opposite bank like contented bees. The view alone was worth the trip, but the food… the food was something else entirely.

We began with warm bread, olives, and impossibly airy goat’s milk butter that tasted like it had been whipped by perfectionists. Then came sardine with tomato and olive oil, a bright, briny kiss of the sea, followed by foie gras with mango and hazelnut, rich and silken with just a flicker of sweetness. A piglet croquette arrived next, golden and crisp, paired with aioli and orange zest, sunshine and comfort all in one bite. 

Each dish that followed seemed to top the last: smoked eel with apple and galangal (smoky, crisp, and oddly refreshing), sea bass with quinoa and avocado (a miniature masterpiece of texture), and melt-in-your-mouth wagyu with broccoli and black bean sauce (umami heaven). Even the desserts were playful and astonishing, a cauliflower ice cream that shouldn’t have worked but did, followed by dark chocolate with a subtle wasabi kick and a tangy raspberry finish.The only let down were the wines, I sampled multiple from various top vineyards and was unimpressed. The Port was still good though.  

Joni did remarkably well, considering she was presented with her own “three-course meal.”  She was intrigued until they handed her cutlery, at which point chaos ensued. Between Emily’s calm and my intermittent scenic stroller walks along the deck, we managed to enjoy the entire marathon meal without any major meltdowns (hers or ours).

We returned to our vineyard oasis for a family nap, lulled by the hum of the valley and full beyond reason.  Later, the staff set up a picnic near the base of the property as the sun set behind the hills. Joni played in the grass, babbling to the wind, while we lightly sample

The foods (still full from lunch) and watched golden light fade across the river. 

Two more days until we return home. For now, we’re perfectly content, fed, rested, and blissfully disconnected from the rest of the world.

Portugal Day 5 – The Day I Challenged the Douro Valley and Lost

Today began innocently enough. I woke early, feeling the heroic stirrings of a man who refuses to let a minor cold ruin his European fitness streak.  “A quick jog,” I thought, “just to shake it off.” Sixty minutes later I was dragging my limp body along the riverbanks of Coimbra, contemplating my life choices and whether this was how great explorers met their end. It was a beautiful run in the same way that dying on Everest offers “great views.”

Breakfast followed, which I approached like a man carbo-loading for an Ironman he didn’t sign up for. Then we packed into a luxury car and headed for the Douro Valley, home of Port wine, rolling vineyards, and, if I’m honest, a day that would humble me completely. 

Our destination: Quinta do Vallado, a ridiculously scenic, 16-room luxury vineyard straight out of a wine commercial. 

 Think chalet architecture meets sweeping valley views and the faint aroma of expensive grapes. We strolled the grounds, Joni cooed at the pool, and I pretended not to be on the verge of collapse. 

After a restorative nap and spa massages (where I may have accidentally drooled on the table), I decided I was fit to attend a wine tasting, with Joni strapped to my chest like a tiny, adorable anchor and the heavy diaper bag on my back. I imagined a relaxing seated affair, sipping port while the sommelier gently explained tannins.

Instead, they handed me a map and said, “We begin with a short walk through the vineyards.” (The steep, rocky, and hot vineyards)

A short walk in Portuguese, it turns out, translates to “mountain trek under direct sunlight with your baby acting as a space heater.”

Somewhere between the fermentation tanks and the 100-year-old vines, I started experiencing tunnel vision and pondering the odds of fainting gracefully while still protecting Joni. I finally excused myself from the tour stumbled into the air-conditioned wine shop, unstrapped my human kettlebell, and chugged water like a dehydrated camel.

Miraculously, I revived just in time for the actual tasting. The Ports were sublime, liquid velvet, notes of caramel, and the faint taste of redemption. The table wines? Let’s just say they were fine, but perhaps they needed more oxygen… like the kind I didn’t have. 

We capped off the day with a quick room dinner and dessert on our porch overlooking the valley a small victory lap for survival. Joni rewarded us by staging her nightly “midnight rave,” leaving us contemplating future travel. 

All in all, a solid day: I fought the Douro, and the Douro won.

Portugal Day 4: The Great Train Chase & Coimbra Charm

At long last…sweet, glorious sleep! After several nights of what could only be described as “toddler interval training,” we all managed a few real hours of uninterrupted rest. Joni did wake once, but this time we took the “ignore and ignore” approach, and miraculously, it worked. Victory!

We rose early, feasted once again at the hotel’s how-do-they-have-everything breakfast buffet, and prepared for the next leg of our adventure: the train to Coimbra. Picture, if you will, two adults heroically dragging two enormous bags, two smaller ones, a stroller, and a car seat, all while maintaining the illusion of competence. We were basically a traveling circus of luggage. 

To their credit, the Portuguese were absolute awesome, helping us find the right platform and even the right spot to stand. Once aboard, Joni slept peacefully, to the immense relief of every business-class passenger within earshot.

The peaceful ride through Portugal’s rolling countryside ended in pure chaos. When they announced our arrival, they apparently meant “we’re stopping in five seconds, run for your lives!” Cue the mad-dash-for-the-exit, a dramatic exit involving a stroller, dangling backpacks, and the tragic loss of one baby bottle (RIP).

After a brief recovery and check-in, we indulged in the two best things known to humankind: pool time and naps. Then, rejuvenated and slightly chlorinated, we met our delightful guide Eva, a real live Coimbra student though not dressed in the traditional black robes that make them look like magical scholars straight out of Hogwarts  (seriously look it up, they look straight out of the books though no photos here as it was forbidden.). 

Eva led us through the historic University of Coimbra, a magnificent maze of courtyards, towers, and ancient stone steps echoing with the sound of chanting freshmen. Apparently, it was ‘hazing season,’ which meant the streets were alive with gleeful chaos, new students in various states of embarrassment being shouted at by upperclassmen. It was like watching a Portuguese musical number directed by Harry Potter’s Snape.

Inside the Biblioteca Joanina,

the legendary 18th-century library, we half-expected a bewigged librarian to swoop down and demand silence in Latin. The air smelled like old books, beeswax, and pure magic. We whispered to each other that if Hogwarts had a study abroad program, this would be it.

After hours of enchantment, we wound our way down Coimbra’s sloping, cobbled streets, narrow lanes framed by ancient buildings, insane drivers, and the sound of distant laughter.   We eventually collapsed (in the best way) at a tiny tapas café (Tapas Nas Costas) tucked into a charming little square, where the sky turned gold and pink over red-tiled rooftops.

There, with sangria in hand and Portuguese guitar music in the air, we watched Joni charm every passing local, student, and pigeon alike. She waved, giggled, and somehow became honorary mascot of Coimbra. 

As the sun slipped away, we took one last stroll along the Mondego River, watching university students run, dance, and laugh under the evening lights.  Joni promptly fell asleep once we returned, and not long after, so did we, dreaming of robes, libraries, and that runaway baby bottle. 

Portugal Day 3: A 10-Mile Stroll, a 3 A.M. Party, and One Very Enthusiastic Baby Marine Biologist

It was another “character-building” night as Joni continues her campaign to personally dismantle the concept of time zones. Around 3 a.m., she decided sleep was for amateurs. So we had an impromptu father-daughter party, cleaning bottles, crawling laps, and giggling in the soft glow of the minibar light. She finally surrendered to sleep, and we felt like we’d won a small but meaningful battle in the ongoing war of jet lag. 

A few hours later, bleary-eyed but victorious, we shuffled down to what might be the most extravagant breakfast buffet in human history. Our hotel had everything! Fresh shaved prosciutto or handmade omelet…. Yes please! Pastries that flaked like dreams, salmon that belonged in an art gallery, every conceivable type of cheese, and an espresso bar that could caffeinate a small village. We ate with purpose, knowing we’d need energy for our upcoming expedition.

Our guide for the day, Gilby, met us at the Miradouro de São Pedro de Alcântara, a panoramic viewpoint that looks out across Lisbon like the city’s personal postcard. The sun was out, the air smelled faintly of oranges and coffee, and Gilby immediately started dropping fascinating facts and sarcastic one-liners with equal enthusiasm. 

From there, we set off on our 4-hour jaunt. We wove through the narrow lanes of Bairro Alto, where the buildings lean toward each other like gossiping neighbors.  Gilby shared tales from his wild youth and the political drama of modern Portugal, pausing only for locals to wave at him like he was the mayor. 

We meandered down Green Street, a lush, plant-draped alley that looked like it had been designed by a hipster Tarzan.  Then came our first encounter with the holy grail of Portuguese pastries, the Pastel de Nata.  Served warm at a market by the waterfront, its crisp, caramelized crust gave way to a creamy custard interior that made us both question our life choices up to this point. If I lived here, I’d need to start marathon training just to offset breakfast. 

From there, we passed through Pink Street, once a red-light district, now more of a neon, Instagram-light district.  Eventually, we stumbled into the Praça do Comércio, Lisbon’s grand square by the Tagus River, where Gilby regaled us with tales of the 1755 earthquake, tsunami, and fire that destroyed most of the city. The Portuguese response? Rebuild everything bigger, better, and with statues that exude “don’t mess with us” energy.

By this point, our legs had detached from our bodies and filed for emancipation, so Gilby took pity and led us through hidden elevators inside buildings—a genius local secret that lets you skip the city’s brutal hills. We emerged at yet another scenic overlook, this one with the whole city glowing gold in the late afternoon. 

Then came the best part of the day: a three-hour nap so glorious it deserves its own national holiday.

Eventually, we peeled ourselves from bed to visit the Oceanário de Lisboa, one of Europe’s top aquariums. Joni was instantly obsessed. Her eyes went wide, her little hands flew, and she nearly vibrated with excitement. Sharks! Otters! Jellyfish that looked like lava lamps! At one point, she was whipping her head around so fast I considered offering her a neck brace.

We wrapped up with baths, showers, and some light packing before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow: Coimbra awaits. But for now, we drifted off with dreams of tarts, tiles, and tiny penguins.