militants Dear users, you who follow international events of La Tana despite the weather and the weather (which we are historically enemies), here we are again at the helm After about a week spent mostly recover from 
Portuguese zone (well an hour). As promised, here served the vicissitudes of the Tana Atlantic: the smell of dried cod on the jacket it is an irrefutable testimony. And if you do not believe your eyes nor your ears, well, believe your noses. La Tana earth therefore trip Portuguese, through the London stage accompanied by the most classic of packed lunches and several benches to sleep on (keep in mind: will not be the last). For the record: Limoges abandoned at temperatures well below zero and the surrounding landscape monochrome whitish obtained by dixan. Obviously, we think Porto, which will offer an improvement: maybe there will be wind, but there will be the same mica cold, right? As is also obvious, the late arrival immediately shows the trend of the weekend: a cold cagarsi. Porto is brightly lit but despite being a Friday 'evening is not that there is any' people are around. The thermometer at about 6 degrees and the humidity to make the ball immediately understand why, but 'you are too tired to learn more. The next day he eats an impractical amount of food at breakfast and in part legs shoulder, bearing the hand of the young marmots, strictly in French. First, a clarification: Port and overlooking the river fucking Douro . This means that to get from the district of Ribeira , that is the old town, it drops a lot. It also means that to fit in the room, take the funicular. However 
the Ribeira is a wonderful place, with that melancholy throughout Portugal and the union at first sight disconcerting between baroque, colors, smells and churches every two meters, misery and decay. In addition, the Douro, which flows 4 km further west, bad breaks and it's huge. The first attempt to follow the advice of the young marmots turns ominous: half an hour hunting for a restaurant famed (for the French, anyway) that turns out not to exist anymore. Folds up for genuine Ziller local offering for cod and birroni ridiculous figure. The owner has the mustache and his wife cuisine: no objections. Next two Frenchmen, regardless of the dish of the day (guess which one), ordering two hamburgers. They leave the insults in Sassari. Upon the account owner is aware of the nationality of your flag and affectionate commentary, allisciandosi the mustache: "... nothing here macaroni." Time of orange juice (which is an institution here) and sweet and very good exploration continues in the afternoon, finishing with a washstand octopus with rice and a whip of salt cod (oh no?), Different from the lunch and equally level. This time promoted Young marmots. Sunday is the time to complete the tour in the rest of the city (whose center is small), to taste roasted bream rocking, drinking and so many doors to take a look to the surroundings. So 'obligatory passage 
the most important bridge, which offers spectacular views and - especially - boat ride (boat is actually a big word) along the Douro, and the speakers spread The Italian Toto Cutugno , remodeled in Portuguese. Finally the ocean. You get there by tram (not the bus, tram true, although it seems the stuff of museum rattling, with the driver who brought along his family and a string to request stop) in a few minutes, the time to understand that the passage is full of people. The view is magnificent and disturbing, although it seems to be at Porto Torres, perhaps because the end of the commercial port that is visible to the north. A memorable scene of two Portuguese, tanned as mondezzini (feature, alas, local) that would address two tizie probably Russian, who do not suck, and show that much of the attention like all Latin. The frame of events is even more intense cold of the previous days, and is accompanied by unsettling habit of not using the heating in public places. What's more, the doors are always open, to come and go at will the friendly patrons. It should be said that the Portuguese are dressed (male) as if they were in late spring, but their kindness is a sincere and an amazing ability to speak French (after attempts to say three words in Portuguese that are usually "talking English ? "," speak French? "or even" speak Italian? , read directly from the dictionary pocket and handed in a horrifying). Unfortunately, 
the night falls, and with it a pleasant stay at the airport (the plane is strategically planned for the 6 local time). Another fantastic Ziller - dishes come from upstairs, fresh and beautiful all the beers have less than a mustache and look soccer championship on television - and on. Now, ' Porto airport is brand new, beautiful and one of the most modern in Europe. The dramatic gap is - now as you can imagine - it is heated. It follows a night spent in hell against swearing in Sassari cod, Cristiano Ronaldo and a cleaning man, who appears every ten seconds driving a mega scooter with brushes with the intent to make the floor that you have under your ass to the 4 in the morning bright like day. The benches, then, are not as comfortable as those of the Friday 'and the row that is created in a nanosecond for controls while trying to fight the headache with a galactic tea, make the mood, so 'to speak, changing. Fortunately, the inspecting officer, while you get up the belt of his trousers, and you'd need three more pairs of hands to keep everything under control, see the identity card, and exclaims, happy: " Italian! " " Oh yes' " Where? Milan? Rome? " No, Sardinia. "" Ah , Sardinia! Bella, Italy! . You see the face that does not even know where it is, Sardinia. Yet just to feel better. And to think - for the first and perhaps only time - comfortable seats on a Ryanair flight.
Portuguese zone (well an hour). As promised, here served the vicissitudes of the Tana Atlantic: the smell of dried cod on the jacket it is an irrefutable testimony. And if you do not believe your eyes nor your ears, well, believe your noses. La Tana earth therefore trip Portuguese, through the London stage accompanied by the most classic of packed lunches and several benches to sleep on (keep in mind: will not be the last). For the record: Limoges abandoned at temperatures well below zero and the surrounding landscape monochrome whitish obtained by dixan. Obviously, we think Porto, which will offer an improvement: maybe there will be wind, but there will be the same mica cold, right? As is also obvious, the late arrival immediately shows the trend of the weekend: a cold cagarsi. Porto is brightly lit but despite being a Friday 'evening is not that there is any' people are around. The thermometer at about 6 degrees and the humidity to make the ball immediately understand why, but 'you are too tired to learn more. The next day he eats an impractical amount of food at breakfast and in part legs shoulder, bearing the hand of the young marmots, strictly in French. First, a clarification: Port and overlooking the river fucking Douro . This means that to get from the district of Ribeira , that is the old town, it drops a lot. It also means that to fit in the room, take the funicular. However the Ribeira is a wonderful place, with that melancholy throughout Portugal and the union at first sight disconcerting between baroque, colors, smells and churches every two meters, misery and decay. In addition, the Douro, which flows 4 km further west, bad breaks and it's huge. The first attempt to follow the advice of the young marmots turns ominous: half an hour hunting for a restaurant famed (for the French, anyway) that turns out not to exist anymore. Folds up for genuine Ziller local offering for cod and birroni ridiculous figure. The owner has the mustache and his wife cuisine: no objections. Next two Frenchmen, regardless of the dish of the day (guess which one), ordering two hamburgers. They leave the insults in Sassari. Upon the account owner is aware of the nationality of your flag and affectionate commentary, allisciandosi the mustache: "... nothing here macaroni." Time of orange juice (which is an institution here) and sweet and very good exploration continues in the afternoon, finishing with a washstand octopus with rice and a whip of salt cod (oh no?), Different from the lunch and equally level. This time promoted Young marmots. Sunday is the time to complete the tour in the rest of the city (whose center is small), to taste roasted bream rocking, drinking and so many doors to take a look to the surroundings. So 'obligatory passage the most important bridge, which offers spectacular views and - especially - boat ride (boat is actually a big word) along the Douro, and the speakers spread The Italian Toto Cutugno , remodeled in Portuguese. Finally the ocean. You get there by tram (not the bus, tram true, although it seems the stuff of museum rattling, with the driver who brought along his family and a string to request stop) in a few minutes, the time to understand that the passage is full of people. The view is magnificent and disturbing, although it seems to be at Porto Torres, perhaps because the end of the commercial port that is visible to the north. A memorable scene of two Portuguese, tanned as mondezzini (feature, alas, local) that would address two tizie probably Russian, who do not suck, and show that much of the attention like all Latin. The frame of events is even more intense cold of the previous days, and is accompanied by unsettling habit of not using the heating in public places. What's more, the doors are always open, to come and go at will the friendly patrons. It should be said that the Portuguese are dressed (male) as if they were in late spring, but their kindness is a sincere and an amazing ability to speak French (after attempts to say three words in Portuguese that are usually "talking English ? "," speak French? "or even" speak Italian? , read directly from the dictionary pocket and handed in a horrifying). Unfortunately, the night falls, and with it a pleasant stay at the airport (the plane is strategically planned for the 6 local time). Another fantastic Ziller - dishes come from upstairs, fresh and beautiful all the beers have less than a mustache and look soccer championship on television - and on. Now, ' Porto airport is brand new, beautiful and one of the most modern in Europe. The dramatic gap is - now as you can imagine - it is heated. It follows a night spent in hell against swearing in Sassari cod, Cristiano Ronaldo and a cleaning man, who appears every ten seconds driving a mega scooter with brushes with the intent to make the floor that you have under your ass to the 4 in the morning bright like day. The benches, then, are not as comfortable as those of the Friday 'and the row that is created in a nanosecond for controls while trying to fight the headache with a galactic tea, make the mood, so 'to speak, changing. Fortunately, the inspecting officer, while you get up the belt of his trousers, and you'd need three more pairs of hands to keep everything under control, see the identity card, and exclaims, happy: " Italian! " " Oh yes' " Where? Milan? Rome? " No, Sardinia. "" Ah , Sardinia! Bella, Italy! . You see the face that does not even know where it is, Sardinia. Yet just to feel better. And to think - for the first and perhaps only time - comfortable seats on a Ryanair flight. 
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