Festival São João, Porto, Portugal

We went to Porto, Portugal for the annual St. Jean (or São João, in Portugese) festival, which is notable for its tradition of banging members of the opposite sex on the head with a squeaky plastic hammer. It was pretty damn funny at first, but as the blood alcohol level increased with the rising moon, the whacks got a bit more vindictive—sometimes devolving into a chasing match in order to bring down the gavel in retribution. The squeaks of the plastic hammers lasted well into the wee hours.
As was explained to me, at its core, the origin of the head-hammer-banging tradition was actually a form of flirtation. This was accomplished by sneaking up on a (presumably cute) member of the opposite sex, and then tickling their nose with a flower from a garlic plant. These flowers can still be found in Porto on the day of the festival, and I can tell you that when I saw one coming towards me, I put my hammer in front of my nose. I can only assume that dabbing garlic juice on someone’s nose so they smell garlic for the rest of the night was a good conversation starter. That kernel of the tradition—making friends with strangers—is what gives its spark to the São João Festival. In the spirit of all spring pagan festival (the good ones, anyway) the flower ritual is accompanied by feasting and consumption of generous amounts of alcohol. I can only imagine that being rather wine-sodden helps preserve the other important element of spring festivals—fertility.
During the festival it’s traditional to eat goat (I must admit that vivid images of sacrificial rituals jumped into my head when I heard this was the traditional meal) and sardines, which are sold at riverside tents complete with picnic benches draped in Super Bock-themed tablecloths and ice-cold bottles of beer of the same name. It’s the first time that I’ve had goat and I was surprised at how much it didn’t taste like chicken, though grilled, it has a similar texture. Grilled sardines and green peppers are the other traditional dish served during the festival and their odor emanates from not only riverside food carts, but also from little half-barrel style charcoal grills set up in the street outside of ramshackle bodegas throughout the city. We smell the vapors wafting in on the afternoon northern sea breeze throughout São João day.

In southern European style, the festivities commence at midnight, and in our case, following a gut-busting three-hour-long meal including 2 dessert courses. A mother next to us caught her three-year-old daughter as he slid off of daddy's shoulders, sound asleep, midway through the fireworks. I did manage to stay conscious for the lovely and lengthy display, including some fireworks cascading off of the bridge and flowing into the Porto river below, reminiscent of Tinkerbell’s magic pixie dust.

As the effects of the late hour, full stomach, and generous pouring of vinho verde and red Duoro wine set in, we crossed the bridge from the Gaia side of the river to reach Porto. On the other side, after turning along the little cobblestone street lining the river, we came upon the most unruly seething throng that I've encountered outside of Pamplona's running of the bulls. We tried to fight our way through, only to run up against a line of bodies snaking towards food, music and Super Bock stands dotted randomly along the borders of the packed street. Thankfully, there was an escape route available by heading one street away from the river and cutting through a vehicle tunnel containing only a scattered handful of pedestrians, thereby providing some breathing space.
As the crowds slept off their hangovers the next morning, the city was in a sort of blissful repose that one imagine happens to a city after only after a natural disaster. Impressively, the city hall plaza that had a line ten-deep waiting for churros (much to my dissapointment, I was too tired to wait my turn) just a handful of hours before, was now empty, completely devoid of garbage, and smelled fresh cleaned cobblestones—what efficiency!

Porto’s riverbank is lined with charming historical buildings, now filled with shops selling Portugese ceramics and tourist items. We wound our way up from the river banks through little cobblestone streets and crossed ancient but well-conserved tile-faced apartments, often with businesses on the ground floor. On the Gaia side of the banks, it’s a sleeker, more modern version than Porto. We sit down to enjoy a view of the river and see a fleet of boats taking tourists on week-long journeys up the river to the Duoro wine region—a UNESCO world heritage site and the first appellation controlee for Port wine.

We also did a quick driving tour of the Duro wine region, avoiding the interstate to wind around the roads leading up to the high plateaus where the famous grapes grow on the banks of the Duoro river. It was hot—I can’t believe that grapes can grow in the heat that we basked in while overlooking the rolling valley below.

I was also impressed by the beach-sand and nettle-studded dunes along the Gaia beach, which are often whipped by the strong north wind, rising from the Atlantic in the afternoon. Luckily, we experienced only a very light breeze while enjoying ice-cold Super Bock in a chic beachside spot, lounging on ultra-modern bean bag chairs that looked like they came straight from the pages of a Habitat catalog. The waves lapping at mt feet felt surprisingly cold after sitting on the intense sun, but I didn’t think much of it until I started losing sensation in my toes and fingertips 15 seconds after plunging into the drink to cool off. Bathers beware! That Atlantic breeze keeps the ocean near Porto quite chilly, even at the end of June.

All in all, it was a memorable and extremely tasty visit. I know that I wasn’t the only one infected by the spirit of São João, as I caught tourists in the airport taking their plastic hammer “trophies” back home as souvenirs.