|
25 Not So Glamorous I greeted the misty morning with another enticing steamy shower. I tried hard, but I couldn't deplete the hot water supply. The gardener wore long pants, a heavy leather jacket and a balaclava over his ears and nose. In contrast, I wore a tee shirt and cycling shorts. It was winter and they dressed as we did in the far north. Mornings were ten degrees Celsius; afternoons reached sixteen. My long pants were still wet, after being on the line overnight. Sharon and I hand washed our flannel sleeping bag liners in one of the dozen hand washing tubs and waited for the washer women to appear to unlock the metal grate fence that enclosed the lone machine washer and dryer. We spun the clothes in the dryer for thirty minutes. When it finished they were still wet. We had the washer woman do it again. At the end of the cycle I gave her a ten. She kept the change. I was beginning to clue in how the washer woman was able to afford a shiny new red sports car. We planned on leaving, but it had taken until early afternoon to dry our clothes. Instead, we took a bus downtown to look around. On a tray beside the driver, I placed the bus fare for the three of us. He handed me three tickets and pointed to a slot. I figured that was where the money went and he wanted me to stick the money in. I began to pick up the coins, but he yelled at me and pointed to the slot again. In an exasperated tone, the bus driver shouted "Ticket," and pointed to the slot again. I placed one end in. It punched a corner off the ticket. I hoped Sharon and Susan were watching, because it was rather complicated. The bus jostled over cobblestones and jerked around corners. It soon became an overstuffed sardine can on wheels. A sticker posted by the door said capacity ninetyfive-well over that number were squished in. Sharon turned an interesting shade of green. Passing a museum Sharon announced that was our stop. I didn't know how she knew, because her eyes were closed. I barely made it out the door before the bus drove off. Crossing under the road and railway, we emerged by the river's edge next to a gigantic concrete statue, dedicated to voyages of discovery. Carvings of various explorers looked off to sea. I had difficulty imagining backward Portugal was once the leader in world explorations. It was so foggy we couldn't see across the river-let alone the sea. The River Tagus laid claim to being the widest in Europe. The thick fog girdled us as we walked along the river's edge toward downtown. Soon we heard an eerie, otherworldly sound, like the drone of bees. The fog was so viscous we couldn't see the vehicles on the suspension bridge above us, their tires humming on the roadway high over our heads. Our river path ended. We strolled along narrow cobbled streets as traffic brushed past. Laundry hung from windows. Musty earthen air escaping deteriorating buildings enveloped us. Most people smoked. Then I realized-if I lived there-I would want to die sooner too. We were not in the tourist section. We went through an industrial section, loading docks, train station, and slum area with rundown apartments. By the time we reached downtown, Lisbon didn't seem as glamorous as the brochures led one to believe. I had to go the washroom. A large building with two uniformed guards, bayonets on their shoulders, paced back and forth. I decided not to ask them. I was holding out for the tourist office. We stopped to reconnoiter our city map. It became evident I was not going to make the tourist office before my bladder burst. I told Sharon, "I have to pee-not now, but five minutes ago." I went into a restaurant and eyed the door with Lavabo written on it. I jiggled the handle. The door didn't open. Light shone through the slats of the door. Great. The restaurant was empty, but there was a person in the can. I nearly peed myself thinking of the irony of it. I returned outside and headed into an alley, keeping the flood waters at bay by holding the little guy tightly through my pant's pocket. Three old women inhabited the alley. Sucking in my cheeks, I desperately turned and headed back into the restaurant. A waiter sat at the counter. The restroom door and light were the same. I knocked on the door. There was no response. I tried the handle again. The door didn't budge. With a wild look in my eyes, I turned to the counter and asked to use the washroom. "Si," he said, and indicated go ahead. Thricely I returned to that wretched green door. I pushed mightily and was rewarded with the sight of gleaming porcelain. There was a God! Gee whiz. I decided to name the Portuguese portion of our trip PAP: Pee Across Portugal. My feet were aching. Cycling shoes weren't made for long distance walking. A small rock relentlessly ground my sole. We came to a park overlooking the fado district, where nightclubs sang melancholy national songs for tourists. We could see old Alfama, where regular tourists went, and a monastery and aqueduct on the opposing hillside. A fellow approached us with a fado pamphlet. "I'll buy you each a complimentary glass of Port if you go to the fado." He told us he spoke five languages and was half Pope and half Lord Byron. "You are very lucky to meet me," he boasted. He fed us several more lies about living in Sintra's castle for the summer, and that monastery across the way was his winter home. Along with safety admonishments he gave us tips on what to see. "The weather is beautiful in Portugal. Better than Greece," he maintained. As he left, he said: "Remember, fifty percent of what I say is true." I doubted it was that high. The good news was my pants were almost dry. Past the trolley that smart tourists were taking, we walked down an agonizingly steep cobblestone tram line that knotted my calf muscles. At the bottom we spied the tourist information and, starving, asked where there was a cheap restaurant. She told us the restaurants were in the Barrierio district-back up the hill. We took the stairs. About halfway up restaurants posted menus in windows. With our phrase book we translated the offerings. We chose the Transmontana restaurant and then discovered they didn't open until eight. We walked around looking at more restaurants; finally it was seven. Back at the Transmontana a German couple had a Lisbon guide book that recommended the restaurant. That clinched it. We asked the waiter if it was okay if we came in and sat down. The management agreed, even though they were eating their own supper and weren't taking orders yet. We ordered varieties of mouthwatering bread with white cheese and spiced lamb sausage. I ordered a dish that turned out to be a gristly grilled salted ham with a side dish of tasty fried potatoes. Susan had salmon; Sharon cod. Ceramic jugs held white and red wine. The total was fifty bucks. Not bad, considering what we had, but not exactly cheap enough to restaurant my way across Portugal. The German couple asked how we happened to pick the restaurant. "Oh, we just followed people with guide books and watched where they went. It worked fabulously," we told them. Back down the stairs. We arrived in time to see the campground bus pull in. We clattered across the square and caught the last bus. I stuck my ticket in like an old pro. |
Book Info