[continued from previous entry]
A moment of inner debate, my stomach urging me to pay the bill and bolt while a more adventurous part of me counseled taking at least one mouthful. Just one teensy, careful mouthful, after which I could do anything I want -- run away, stay put, whatever.
Knife and fork found their way into my hands, I cut into the thick part of one of the tentacles, sawed off a bite, guided it gingerly into mouth. Chewed. And discovered that it wasn't bad. Had a vaguely chickenish texture, a surprisingly mild, unfishy taste. Tried another bite (scraping off suction cups and loose, boiled skin). Again, not bad, despite the occasional stomach rumbling when I thought too much about what I was dining on. Continued that routine, nice and slowly, until I'd finished off most everything except a mound of suction cups and bits of octopus skin. Feeling like such a grown-up. Don't think I'll intentionally order a similar meal anytime soon, but if someone cooks one up and sticks it in front of me, I'll likely try it. (And probably without hurling. Very important, that.)
Rain moved in as I ate, getting heavier, less user-friendly all the time. Making the prospect of walking around the city less appealing with every passing minute.
Went back to hotel, cleansed mouth of octopus remnants. Then found my way to Santa Apolonia train station to see about reserving a spot on a train to Madrid. Pre-trip internet research on certain reputable English-language websites indicated that two Madrid-bound trains depart from Lisbon every day -- one in the morning, one at night. Got to the station, meandered around trying to figure which window would be the right one to bother. Finally wandered into a tiny customer service office tucked away off one of the platforms where I learned that there is actually only one daily train to Madrid, leaving at 10 p.m. every night. I'd planned on staying in Lisbon a couple of days before catching the morning train out. Something about the change in facts in combination with steadily worsening weather conditions gave me the urge to get moving.
Booked that night's train. (The fare: yet another bargain.) Left the station, followed the impulse to walk, rain or no rain. Headed up into the hills, glad I'd brought an umbrella. Found a café, tossed down a fast cuppa and croissant. Walked some more, then grabbed one of the old trolleys that run between downtown and some old neighborhoods perched on the city slopes. A beautiful old funicular, kept in mint condition. A guy sat behind me carrying on a loud, leisurely conversation in Portuguese with two other males spread around the rear half of the car, blabbering on and on and on. (That may have been when I realized that Portuguese sounds like the mutant offspring of Spanish and Russian. The Portuguese spoken in Lisbon, anyway. At least to my jaundiced ears.) Beautiful women boarded and got off the tram. Now and then church bells rang out from passing sidestreets. The coach wound its slow, steady way down from the hills into the center, the rain continuing, darkness falling.
Returned to my little cubbyhole of a room, dried out. Read, snoozed, watched a bit of European television. Ten o'clock found me and my wheeled body bag on the train, getting ready for a night of sleep as the train eased its way out of the station. My little overnight train cubbyhole was situated against the coach's loo, which meant periodic bouts of noises I wasn't looking to get used to. Ear plugs did the job.
And the next morning found me back in Madrid, navigating the bodybag through the tail end of the Metro a.m. rush hour. Since then, I'm re-acclimating. My Spanish seems to have suffered minimally from four and a half months away. I've slipped back into the morning routine of picking up a paper, ducking into a local joint for espresso and a croissant before getting the day underway. The narrow local streets are alive with people. The new apartment building across the street -- under construction for nearly two years now -- might actually be ready for residence by year's end.
Life goes on here in this city planted the middle of a large peninsula, an ocean away from the city in which I was born, far from the green mountains of a tiny state up by the Canadian border, my stateside home in more recent years.
Life goes on.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 8:06 AM [+]
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