[continued from previous entry]
Spent Monday night stuffed into a big metal tube with another two or three hundred people, flying across the Atlantic, and I have to say: there is nothing quite like an early morning hike through security checkpoints, customs and miles of Heathrow corridors.
Early afternoon found me, my zipless jacket and my big wheeled bodybag of luggage at the airport in Lisbon, happy that we'd all arrived safely (and on the same flight). Sunlight fell softly through rolling mist, palm trees puncuated the distant outline of the city. A lovely place, with a gentle, welcoming feel.
The guy at customs, on the other hand -- not much welcome there. Not much of anything there apart from appearing like he wished he were somewhere else. Didn't look at me, didn't look at my passport. Opened it up, pounded his stamp, tossed it back. The British Airways flight crew hadn't given us landing cards to fill out, a handout done without fail when disembarking in London or Madrid -- on the way off the plane, I asked if we needed one, got a wordless headshake in response. Didn't know whether to believe them or not, saw people filling them out inside the terminal along the approach to the customs booths. Grabbed one, scribbled in the info. Asked the customs guy if wanted it, he jerked his head no. I thanked him and skipped happily off to baggage claim.
Hopped a bus that ran from the airport down into the center (note to travelers headed Lisbon way -- go for the day or multi-day public-transport pass: a genuine deal that gets you all over the city on all of the various forms of public transport, cheaply), the bus driver responded to my Spanish with no problem. I told him where I wanted to get off, he responded with the name of a Metro stop, meaning, thought I, the bus would be stopping there. I'd studied a street map enough to know we were making a big loop around the general area of the stop he mentioned, I stayed in my seat, trusting we'd reach it eventually. (HA!) At the end of the line, the bus emptied out. I looked around my suddenly peopleless environs, grokked the situation, grabbed my bags, hit the pavement.
The city: crowded, packed with people and traffic. And showing age, looking like it's weathered many centuries of life. A bit blowsy, a bit rundown, but full of life and character, and mighty appealing.
The Lisbon guidebooks warn that street maps portray a city easy to traipse across, implying nothing about Lisbon's hills. Steep hills, with narrow winding streets, and expanses of steep old stairways rising up into equally old neighborhoods. They're not kidding. Not a city to drag a wheeled bodybag around in.
Checked the map at a bus stop, hopped a local that took me closer to where I wanted to go. Got off at the edge of a large plaza, the ocean looming off the far side, a huge, old arch looming off the near side, beyond which stretched the area I wanted. Crossed a cobblestone street, followed the tiled sidewalk beneath the arch and along a wide, old pedestrian way -- the area a strange combination of old, old buildings infused with life by chic, prosperous stores along the street-level.
Found the hotel -- another deal. The room: four stories up -- small, basic, inexpensive. Lacking any fancy touches except a small balcony with a spectacular vantage point for watching neighborhood life, more than compensating for the room's paucity of space/ritziness.
Opened the doors to the balcony. Peeled off clothes (trying not to flash the outside world), squeezed into the closet that passed for the facilities, took a bath. Unpacked some clothes, hung them on the room's two hangers, hoping they'd unwrinkle a bit. Pulled on some reasonably presentable duds, went out in search of food.
Found a local joint, grabbed an outdoor table. On paper, Portuguese is similar enough to Spanish that I found myself feeling dangerously confident as I checked out the menu. Found an item that looked promising -- 'Polvo cozido c/ batatas e grelos.' The Spanish word for chicken being 'pollo,' I thought I was looking at 'stewed chicken with potatoes and, er, something.' Had no idea what 'grelos' meant, figured how bad could it be, whatever it was? A waiter emerged, didn't seem to speak either Spanish or English. I showed him what I wanted, he nodded, I grabbed a table and watched the scene until food and drink appeared.
The scene: local office workers, emerging from lunch joints, heading back to the salt mines. Tourists. Young couples. People being served at other outside tables in front of other lunch joints. Lovely Portuguese women. Gray skies getting steadily grayer, now and then spritzing down light rain that pattered on the awning above me.
And then the waiter reappeared with my chow, me staring at the mound of food that moved my way. 'Polvo,' it turned out, did not translate to pollo -- it translated to 'pulpo,' the Spanish word for octopus. The result: two plump, pink, stewed tentacles coiled atop three big potatoes and a pile of spinach.
Not something I'd ever felt a hankering to sample, octopus, and had managed to avoid it until this point. The plate landed on the table, the waiter looked at me inquiringly. I gave him a smile, he smiled in return, headed back inside. Leaving me staring at sad rows of tiny stewed suction cups.
[continued in following entry]
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:17 AM [+]
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