We needed to make a trip to the post office today, so we found one down at the beach instead of going to the one near our apartment. We’d been wanting to catch a ride on one of Porto’s electric trams, so this allowed us to kill two birds with one stone. Three, actually.

We took a 20-minute ride on the electric tram that runs right along the edge of the river all the way to the beach, did our business at the post office, and then had a delightful breakfast at a beachside restaurant.

Not a bad way to spend a sunny Monday morning in Porto.

We had never used AirBnB before making our reservation in Porto. All our friends said, “It’s great. It’s simple. You need to do it.”

So we did it. But it’s not exactly clear that we did it correctly.

Don’t get me wrong. Our apartment is great. It’s only about 100 feet off the main street here in Porto. It’s just a stone’s throw from the beautiful Douro River and dozens of great restaurants. It’s right around the corner from the The Igreja de São Francisco, Porto’s largest, most famous church.

When I made the reservations I made sure parking was nearby. I made sure the apartment had wifi. And although the building looks a little rough on the outside, I made sure that the interior had recently been renovated from top to bottom and that our apartment had all the modern conveniences.

What I failed to do, though, is verify that the building had an elevator.

It does not.

And, of course, since it’s a four story building there was almost a 100% probability that our apartment would be on the fourth floor.

It is.

If I were not such a complete gentleman, I would surely tell you how, in fear of this very event occurring, I repeatedly begged Jamie to fit everything she needed into one carry-on suitcase and I would also tell you how she laughed at that suggestion.

If I were not such a complete gentleman, I would surely blame my lovely wife for the fact that by the time I reached the fourth floor with that second heavy, full-sized suitcase, my face had turned a shade of red I had never actually seen before. In fact, I believe it is possible that it was a completely new shade of red heretofore unknown to science.

And if I were not such a complete gentleman, I would surely blame my lovely wife for the fact that while I was gasping for air while lying prone on the fourth floor landing, I saw my life flash before my eyes in a sequence so rapid that showing it on TV would surely cause seizures in any epileptics unfortunate enough to be watching at that moment.

Yes, if I were not such a complete gentleman, I would surely do all those things.

But I can promise you this: If any similar physical conditions arise day after tomorrow when we are scheduled to leave Porto and I must carry those same heavy, full-sized suitcases back down that same narrow four-story staircase, my gentlemanly demeanor will certainly be tested.

Wish me well.

Chicago is known as America’s Second City, but in Portugal that title goes to Porto.

Lisbon, the largest city in the country, has about half a million people. Porto, the second largest city, has just a hair over 200,000 people.

We loved Lisbon, but Porto is more our style because it’s a little smaller, a little quieter, a little slower, a little friendlier, a little Jim and Jamier.

Porto runs along both sides of the Douro River and life in the city centers on the water.

We spent this warm summer evening sitting along the river, nibbling gelato and watching people. It was perfect.

Here are some photos of Porto at night.

João is Portuguese for John, but as far as Jamie is concerned it’s Portuguese for “Hubba, hubba.” And that’s why I have such a tight grip on her in this photo.

We’re staying in Lisbon’s trendy Chiado neighborhood and three tuk tuk tour guides were lined up on the main street near our apartment. One was a middle-aged woman, one was an older man, and the third one was João. It really didn’t matter which guide I wanted.

João was great. He was informative and funny and charged us for a one hour tour even though he drove us around for three hours.

That’s when I said, “Hubba, hubba.”

Let’s not beat around the bush here: My wife is a heathen. She comes from a long line of heathens. Heathenality, if that’s a word, is part of her DNA. If she sent off for one of those Ancestry.com genetic tests, it would come back saying, “5% Norwegian, 95% Heathen.”

But we’re in Lisbon, where there’s a very old Catholic Church on every corner and atop every hill. So you are clearly obligated to visit a lot of those churches on any tour of the city.

As a result, I’m torn between keeping Jamie close at hand so she doesn’t run off with João Luis Marques Guerrero, our hunky tour guide, or staying as far away from her as possible so that I am spared when one of God’s lightning bolts fries her like a juicy Portuguese steak.

Google Translate tells me that this graffiti says, “I love you, Lisbon.” Jamie and I agree.

How can you not love a city with cobblestone streets and arches that date from the Renaissance?

How can you not love a city in which every cobblestone sidewalk and square has its own unique mosaic pattern?

How can you not love a city with a neighborhood market full of fresh fruit and vegetables on every block?

How can you not love a city where most streets wind down to the water and those that don’t wind down to a stunning old church?

How can you not love a city with flower shops on every other corner?

How can you not love a city where even the ice cream cones look like flowers?

How can you not love a city where the epicurean delights include octopus hotdogs?

How can you not love a city where the heroes are larger than life?

How can you not love a city where even the modern architecture is 300 years old?

How can you not love a city filled with sidewalk cafes and colorful streamers?

When I was a kid I assumed that my unusual last name must mean that I was somehow descended from Dutch royalty. After all, that “de” prefix on the front our our last name sounded so regal. I was James “of” Yong. Gotta be royal, right?

In reality, deYong is the Smith of the Netherlands. Every other Jan you run into in Amsterdam is named deYong (or the pre-Ellis Island version, which is de Jong).

We have a friend named Denise who married a guy named Mike Silva. His ancestors were all Portuguese. She did a little genealogical research into the Silva clan and found out that the family name used to be Da Silva, and she came to the same erroneous conclusion that I did as a kid. She imagined that her husband was Michael “of” Silva and was, undoubtedly, the royal heir the people of Portugal had long been searching for.

Well, it turns out that just as deYong is the Smith of the Netherlands, Silva and Da Silva are the Smiths of Portugal.

Every other João you meet in Portugal is named Silva or Da Silva. Need proof? Take a look at some of the restaurant names we found at the market yesterday.

Sorry, Denise, you’re still just a peon like the rest of us.

Barcelona suffered a terrible terrorist attack today. Thanks to all our friends and family and readers who’ve left comments and sent emails asking if we’re ok.

We left Barcelona about a week ago. While we were there, we spent hours walking from one end of La Rambla, the street on which the attack occurred, to the other. It’s packed with tourists day and night and we can understand why those crowds would light up the eyes of a religious fanatic intent on inflicting as much death and destruction as possible.

We love Barcelona and we’re heartsick about today’s attack. And we send all our best wishes out to the victims and their families.

Our friends the Ginsbergs take cooking classes wherever they travel in the world. We know they’ve taken classes in China and Vietnam and they’ve probably taken others we don’t know about.

Jamie thought it was such a great idea that she wanted to sign up for a class here in Lisbon. After we tasted pastéis de nata, she said she’d love to learn to make them.

Much to her surprise, there is a cooking school located right in the middle of the large Lisbon market and when she checked the schedule, she was very happy to learn that tonight’s lesson was “How to make pastéis de nata.” She enrolled immediately.

She’s like a school girl showing off her new clothes on the first day of class.

Shouldn’t the teacher be wearing a hair net over his face?

I think he’s beginning to realize that this student may have real potential.

Wait! Could it be? Is this woman a baking prodigy?

The first taste test seems to have gone well.

The second taste test went even better.

Look at that. Pastéis de nata perfection on her first attempt.

The instructor looks rather proud of his student, doesn’t he?

One of the best parts of traveling in foreign countries is the chance to stumble upon local foods you’ve never heard of. For example, there’s a small bakery right across the street from our Lisbon apartment that sells something called pastéis de nata.

What, you may ask, are pastéis de nata?

Well, they are custard-filled egg tart pastries that are popular in Portugal and countries with a significant number of Portuguese immigrants or Portuguese influence.

They were first created by Lisbon’s Catholic monks back in the 18th century, when convents and monasteries used a huge number of egg-whites to starch things like the nuns’ habits.

That, of course, meant they had an equally huge number of egg yolks left over. No problem. The crafty nuns and monks began using the leftover egg yolks to make cakes and pastries — such as pasteis de nata.

Locals say they are best when they are fresh from the oven, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar.

Jamie seemed to agree.