Aplec del Caragol Festival

I spotted this giant snail at Restaurant Mussol.

At first I thought it was just quirky décor—but then I wondered if it hinted at something deeper in Catalan food culture. That curiosity led me to the Aplec del Caragol, a festival that takes place every year in late May.

For one weekend, the city transforms into a giant outdoor kitchen. Groups called colles gather to cook, eat, and celebrate snails in every imaginable way. What began as a small local get‑together has grown into a massive event, drawing more than 200,000 visitors and serving up around 12 tonnes of snails.

Whether or not that sculpture was meant to nod to the festival, it’s a fun reminder that even the smallest (and slowest) creatures can hold a surprisingly big place in a culture.

I’m tempted to add this to the travel list—snails and all. 🐌

image credit - Credit: Eloi Teixidó Fontova

image credit - https://www.aplec.org/

                         

Calcada

 Everywhere I went in Portugal — especially in Lisbon — I found myself constantly looking down.

Not because there was something wrong with the road, but because the pavements were simply too beautiful to ignore.

Intricate waves, elegant rosettes, geometric patterns, even motifs of ships and stars — the streets themselves felt like works of art. It made me wonder: how did something as ordinary as a sidewalk become such an iconic part of Portuguese identity?

That curiosity led me to a delightful story.

Legend has it that Ganda the rhinoceros, gifted by the Sultan of Gujarat in India to King Manuel I in 1515 and one of the first rhinos seen in Europe in centuries, caused an enormous stir. The city treated him like royalty, parading him through the streets to the amazement of crowds. At the time, the roads were muddy and sludgy — and some say the desire to keep this extraordinary creature clean inspired early efforts at paving.

Whether fact or folklore, it’s a charming idea: that a rhinoceros may have played a small role in shaping the streets of Lisbon.

Calçada Portuguesa 

Lisbon’s pavements — the Calçada Portuguesa — are made from thousands of hand-laid limestone and basalt stones. Each design reflects Portugal’s heritage, placed by skilled artisans called calceteiros. Walking here feels like stepping through history.

What makes Calçada so special isn’t just its beauty, but the craftsmanship behind it: designs conceived by artists and planners, then patiently brought to life stone by stone. It’s slow, meticulous work — a tradition passed down through generations.

A Craft Under Pressure

Like many traditional crafts, this one is in decline.

Where Lisbon once had around 400 calceteiros in the early 20th century, today only a fraction remain. Many are older, and fewer young people are taking up the trade.

At the same time, the pavements themselves face constant wear.

In busy areas such as Avenida da Liberdade, sections show damage from construction work, tree roots, missing stones, and quick asphalt repairs. These practical fixes often disrupt the original patterns and reduce the overall durability.

There’s also a more practical concern: while beautiful, these pavements can be uneven or slippery — especially when wet — leading to ongoing debates about safety and accessibility.

Preservation vs Practicality

Portugal now faces a delicate balancing act: how to preserve this cultural treasure while adapting it to modern needs.

There are encouraging efforts underway.

✨ The Art and Craftsmanship of Portuguese Cobblestone Pavement has been submitted for nomination to UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage list.
✨ Training and awareness programs aim to attract a new generation of calceteiros and keep the craft alive.

And if you’re curious what happened to Ganda—well, the rhinoceros didn’t spend much time in Lisbon. Although he had been presented to King Manuel I, Ganda was always intended as a diplomatic gift for the Pope, and was soon sent onward to Italy.

On the journey, he made a stop in France, where the king was eager to see the extraordinary creature that had captivated all of Europe. But the voyage ended in tragedy. Just days later, the ship carrying him sank off the coast of Italy, and the poor rhino was lost to the depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

The Door of Forgiveness

At the entrance of Seville Cathedral stands the Puerta del Perdón — the “Door of Forgiveness.”

The name isn’t just poetic. In centuries past, this was the place where those seeking absolution would enter, especially during religious rites when forgiveness was formally granted. Passing through this gate symbolised leaving behind sin, guilt, or burden before stepping into sacred space.

What makes it even more striking is its history. The gate originally belonged to the mosque that once stood here before the cathedral was built. Its horseshoe arch still reflects Islamic design, while later Christian additions reframed its meaning. Different faiths, different eras — yet the same human need: to be forgiven, and to begin again.

And perhaps that’s why the name has endured.

Public Shame, Past and Present

Pelourinho da Sé do Porto.

Looking at this old stone column, I can’t help but shiver imagining the scene centuries ago. The pillory was more than punishment — it was humiliation on display. Strapped into the wooden frame, your every flaw and mistake exposed to the entire town, subject to ridicule, laughter, and jeers. People could throw scraps, spit, or just stare — a slow, grinding reminder that society was watching and judging.

It’s hard not to draw a comparison to today. Social media has become the modern pillory. Mistakes go viral, opinions spread like wildfire, and reputations can crumble in hours. Only the stage has changed; the exposure is digital now. And yet, the core feeling is the same: total, inescapable public scrutiny, a reminder of how sharply society can wield judgment.

Standing here, it’s clear that long before the first tweet or post, human nature already loved a spectacle — and some things never change.  

Framing the Frame

There’s something endlessly fascinating about watching someone take a photo. It’s not just the subject they’re capturing, but the moment of pause, the act of choosing what matters enough to preserve.

At Porto’s São Bento Station, I found myself drawn to a window with colored glass panes—yellow and blue filters that softened the daylight. Through the stained glass window, the building outside looked gorgeous — all ornate details and a proud lion’s head staring back. But what caught my eye wasn’t just the architecture. It was the silhouettes of fellow travelers, phones raised, intent on freezing the same view.

So I took a photo of them taking a photo. A photo of a photo! A frame within a frame, a memory of someone else making a memory. It felt like a perfect metaphor for travel itself: we’re all collectors of moments, each perspective slightly different, each image tinted by our own lens—sometimes literally, as with the stained glass here.

In that instant, the station became more than a transit hub. It was a gallery of perspectives, where history, color, and human curiosity overlapped. And my photo became not just about Porto’s architecture, but about the act of seeing itself.

PS: If you haven’t seen my comments for a while, they might be hiding in your Blogger spam box.

I’ve noticed legit comments sometimes appear months later. I check mine daily, and only today comments from March 2026 showed up.

Just so you know, I haven’t gone quiet on you. 🌼💬