No.10 Atlantic Winds and Academic Wanderings: A Researcher's Journey to Porto

Prologue: The Journey Begins

At half past noon on a June day, I stood in Haneda Airport's departure lounge, performing my usual pre-flight ritual. The upgrade to Munich had come through—a small mercy when facing a journey that would stretch beyond twenty-four hours, connections included. The 12:30 departure would put me in Munich in the early evening, then on to Lisbon on a 7:30 pm flight. Sinking into a flat-bed seat, I felt the weight of the long journey ahead. My destination: Porto, Portugal's second city, a historic port town where centuries whisper from cobblestoned streets.

The ISPIM Innovation Conference 2016 awaited—a gathering of five hundred researchers and practitioners from fifty countries around the globe. "Blending Tomorrow's Innovation Vintage" was the theme, a perfect marriage of tradition and transformation. Technology entrepreneurship, innovation policy, open innovation—sessions covering the bleeding edge of my field. But more than that, the conference was in Porto itself, a city where history breathes through every archway and reflects in every azulejo tile.

This is what draws me to international conferences time and again: the electric fusion of intellectual discovery and cultural immersion. It's a luxury unique to academic life—to have your work take you to corners of the world you might never otherwise explore.

Lisbon's Unexpected Embrace

The connecting flight from Munich was delayed by a couple of hours, so I finally touched down in Lisbon around 10:30 pm. After more than twenty-four hours of travel, exhaustion should have driven me straight to bed. But my hotel was near Rossio Square—too perfectly located to ignore, even at that late hour. But...

The next morning, I woke to find Lisbon bathed in early light. Morning sun flooded Figueira Square, painting the limestone buildings in shades of gold. The narrow streets were stirring to life—locals heading to work, shopkeepers rolling up their shutters, the distinctive yellow trams rattling past.

I hadn't been able to reserve a seat on the express train to Porto in advance, which meant a trip to the station during my Lisbon layover. At Oriente Station's café, I nursed a seventy-cent espresso—bitter and sweet in perfect balance—while waiting for my train north. Through the café's windows, I watched the rhythm of the station: hurried commuters, leisurely tourists, announcements echoing off the modern glass-and-steel architecture. Here, in this liminal space, I felt my dual identities converging: the researcher traveling with purpose, and the wanderer traveling for the simple joy of motion.

For lunch, I tried sardinha assada—charcoal-grilled sardines, a Portuguese staple. The locals apparently eat four or five per person. With a cold beer at my elbow, I demolished my plate with gusto. It wouldn't be the last time during my stay. Some dishes just speak to you, transcending culture and language.

Porto and the Five-Star Dilemma

The two-and-a-half-hour train journey delivered me to Porto. As usual, the conference organizers had recommended a five-star hotel—conveniently located near the venue and hosting several conference events. Also as usual, it exceeded my travel allowance. I did the calculation in my head: convenience versus cost, networking opportunities versus budgetary constraints. In the end, I swallowed hard and reached for my personal credit card.

Normally, I'd hunt down a budget hotel far from the conference center, navigating local buses and metro lines to reach the venue each day. But there's no denying the advantages of proximity. And the breakfast at a five-star hotel is, quite simply, an experience unto itself.

The next morning, I discovered champagne casually stationed among the breakfast offerings. A morning ritual, then. I poured myself a glass and surveyed the spread: fresh bread, artisanal cheeses, cured meats, tropical fruits. Through the windows, Porto stretched out beneath a flawless sky. (The vegetables looked sparse, so I supplemented later with the green powder I'd brought from home—one must maintain some semblance of health on the road.)

Such are the contradictions of academic travel: champagne breakfasts paid for with personal funds, green powder mixed in hotel bathrooms, the constant negotiation between professional necessity and personal economy.

Walking Through Centuries

Porto earned its UNESCO World Heritage status in 1996, but its history reaches back millennia. The Romans knew it as Portus Cale—the Port of Cale—and this name would eventually give rise to "Portugal" itself. In the fifteenth century, Prince Henry the Navigator made this city his base for launching the Age of Discovery. The wealth that flowed back from Africa and India built the magnificent architecture that still defines Porto's skyline.

Wandering these historic streets was pure pleasure. The blue azulejo tiles of Carmo Church gleamed like sapphires set in stone. Near Clérigos Church, I found the University of Porto—the country's largest by enrollment—a World Heritage site in its own right. The heavy stone buildings spoke of centuries of scholarship. Lion statues guarded the Fonte dos Leões fountain at the entrance. Medieval atmosphere hung thick in the air.

But Porto demands payment for its beauty: hills. Steep, cobblestoned, breath-stealing hills. Up and down, down and up, the city's topography is not for the faint of heart. Yet every climb rewards you with vistas that make the burning in your calves worthwhile.

From the famous Dom Luís I Bridge, I watched the sun set over the Douro River. The bridge itself—completed in 1886 by a student of Gustave Eiffel—is an architectural marvel, its iron lattice work and graceful arch glowing golden in the evening light. Below, the Douro wound its way toward the Atlantic, reflecting the day's last rays in fractured brilliance.

Later, I claimed a table at a riverside restaurant. Port wine in hand—the city's namesake fortified wine, sweet and potent at nineteen to twenty-two percent alcohol—I gazed up at the bridge's silhouette against the darkening sky. The Age of Discovery felt suddenly close, almost tangible. Here, where Portuguese ships once set sail for unknown horizons, I sat in the warm June evening, letting wine and history wash over me in equal measure.

The riverfront was pure European summer: sun-drenched terraces, water sparkling like scattered diamonds, boats gliding past, the bridge spanning it all like an iron rainbow. I could have stayed there for hours. I did stay there for hours.

An Escape to the Majestic

The conference was held in Porto's historic City Hall, a magnificent stone building that seemed purpose-built for bringing together minds from across the globe. Inside, researchers presented cutting-edge work, debates raged over methodology and implications, and the peculiar language of academia—dense with jargon and precision—filled every session room.

But even the most dedicated scholar needs occasional escape.

Between sessions, I slipped out and sprinted through the sun-bright streets to Café Majestic. Yes, it's the quintessential tourist spot—I knew that even as I made my way there. But some places earn their fame honestly, and I had to see it for myself.

The café, established in 1921, sits on Rua Santa Catarina. A line of hopefuls always snakes from its entrance—tourists and locals alike, all drawn to its legendary ambiance. I joined the queue, waited ten minutes, and stepped inside.

Art Nouveau in its full glory: ornate ceiling decorations, massive mirrors lining the walls, leather chairs that had cradled decades of patrons. The menu itself was a work of art. I ordered a cappuccino—€4.50, steep for Portugal but reasonable for what you're really buying: a moment suspended in time.

This café appears in Manoel de Oliveira's film "Porto of My Childhood." Sitting there, I imagined myself as the protagonist, living briefly in a more elegant age. The cappuccino arrived—perfect foam, rich espresso, harmonious and complete. Formally dressed waiters moved through the space with practiced grace. At the next table, local ladies laughed over their coffee. Outside the windows, Santa Catarina street flowed with pedestrian traffic.

I glanced at my watch. Time to return. I drained my cup and hurried back to reality, back to the conference hall, back to PowerPoint presentations and academic discourse. But that brief escape added color to the long conference days, a reminder that we don't attend international conferences for the papers alone. We go for moments like these—for the culture, the history, the small human connections that expand our understanding of the world beyond our research.

Brexit and the Best-Laid Plans

The journey home brought unexpected complications. I would later learn that TAP Portugal has an unfortunate reputation for delays, but at the time I was blissfully ignorant. The outbound flight had been delayed, landing us in the middle of the night. The return was worse.

We boarded the plane, settled into our seats, and waited. And waited. Two hours passed. I began seriously wondering if the flight would be cancelled altogether. Then, finally, the announcement: "We'll be departing shortly." The cabin erupted in applause—that peculiar sound of collective relief mixed with resignation.

By the time we touched down at Heathrow, my connecting ANA flight had departed. A group of stranded Japanese passengers gathered, collected our checked luggage, and made our way to the TAP counter in the departures hall. Rebooking for tomorrow's flight. Vouchers for a hotel. An unexpected night in London.

As fate would have it, that night Britain voted to leave the European Union. Brexit. I watched the results come in on the hotel television, witnessing a historic moment that would reshape European politics for years to come. The pound sterling plummeted. Before leaving the airport the next day, I stopped at a fee-free ATM and converted some currency for my next UK visit—a small silver lining to an otherwise frustrating delay.

My carefully planned research trip had transformed, without warning, into a front-row seat for history. This too, I suppose, is part of what it means to attend international conferences: you open yourself to the unexpected, to the ways the world intrudes on even the best-laid plans.

Epilogue: The Researcher and the Wanderer

Five hundred researchers, three and a half days, countless presentations and debates—this was ISPIM Innovation Conference 2016 by the numbers. I learned about cutting-edge developments in my field, forged connections with scholars whose work I'd only known through journal articles, and engaged in the kind of intensive intellectual exchange that only face-to-face conferences can provide. This is the official narrative of academic conferences, the justification we provide to our institutions and funding agencies.

But the real value, at least for me, lies elsewhere. It's in the walking and tasting and stumbling into the unexpected. It's in the quiet moment with an espresso at Oriente Station and the lively evening by the Douro. It's in the art nouveau café and the azulejo-covered train station and yes, even in the frustration of delayed flights and unexpected layovers.

These experiences don't appear on my CV. They won't be cited in future papers. But they fundamentally shape who I am as a researcher and as a person. They broaden perspectives, challenge assumptions, and remind me that knowledge exists not just in journals and conference proceedings but in the lived texture of human culture and history.

Porto offered all of this in abundance. The grandeur of its Age of Discovery architecture, the beauty of the Douro's landscapes, the complex notes of port wine, the timeless elegance of Café Majestic—each element enriched my understanding of the world and, by extension, my capacity to think creatively about my research.

Yes, there were costs: twenty-four-plus hours of travel time, the five-star hotel coming out of my own pocket, the delays and diversions and frustrations. But these too are part of the story, part of what makes the journey memorable and meaningful.

International conferences are not merely venues for presenting research findings. They are crossroads where scholars from around the world meet, where cultures intersect and dialogue, where we confront ourselves in the mirror of difference and discover something new in the reflection. My days in Porto taught me this anew, or perhaps reminded me of what I already knew but sometimes forget in the daily grind of academic life.

I can still taste the port wine I drank by the Douro, can still smell the cappuccino from Café Majestic, can still feel the Atlantic wind that swept through Porto's streets. These sensory memories anchor the intellectual gains of the conference in something more immediate and human.

This is the privilege and joy of being a researcher who travels: the luxurious intersection of intellectual stimulation and cultural experience, the opportunity to expand both your understanding of your field and your understanding of the world.

I wonder what city, what conference awaits next. With that anticipation humming quietly in my mind, I return to my office, to my next paper, to the daily work of scholarship. But somewhere in the back of my consciousness, Porto's blue sky and the Douro's glittering water remain—a reminder of why this work matters, and of the world that lies beyond the walls of academia, waiting to be discovered.