Portugal and Poland and all things nice

Hello, ladies and gentlemen,

Greetings, first, from Poland. I arrived in my "homeland" (I use this only because it is now my home, at least for the next three months or so. I actually have 0% Polish blood running through these fine Ritchie veins, so the term is, uh, slightly misleading) on Friday, promptly freaked out because--I. was. here. at last! Whoa.--and have now settled down and settled in more. Krakow is a lovely city lined with Baroque buildings and greenery. The weather here is apparently freakishly warm for this time of year, and there is no snow--also, freakish, according to the folks at my program--but it's been treating me well so far. I'll keep you all updated as much as possible on the events that unfold as my semester, at last, begins.

But first--stories from Portugal!
Last weekend, Mieke, my homeslice from London, and I took a weekend-long jaunt to Lisbon. It truly is the most underrated country in Europe, Portugal, because it's amazingly cheap and just as beautiful as anything I've seen in Italy (the jury is still out on Spain, which it, of course, closely resembles, as I have yet to go there.).

So, we landed in Portugal late on Thursday night, and had quite the little adventure attempting to get to our hostel. It goes like this:

So, once we finally made it to Portugal (our flight was, naturally, delayed by over an hour), the bus we were supposed to take had stopped running at 10 pm (it was nearly 11) and the woman at the tourist information desk, after a judging looking or two, strongly, STRONGLY recommended that we take a cab. This we did, and several events unfolded as a result:

So, we walk out of the airport and I hand the sheet of paper with the hostel address to the taxi driver, an older man who had to put on his glasses to read it and clearly spoke not a word of English. So, the cab driver takes the piece of paper, looks at the address for quite a long time, then nods twice, slowly, and we hop in. He drives (more like speeds at breakneck rates...ahhhh! rather terrifying) through Lisbon highways, stopping, just barely, at red lights to check the map he's pulled out of his side door (but, of course, cannot read without putting on his reading glasses, which he does. This bring on more complications, because he misses when the light turns green again, and the drivers behind him start to kind of go before he's even realized the light has chaned....yikes.) The roads in Lisbon are definitely wider than those in Rome, so it wasn't nearly as jarring as a high-speed taxi chase through Rome would have been. However, we turned down a tiny alley, and then there we were, on just as narrow as many a street around the blessed Hotel Grifo, where Wade and I stayed in Rome. Our driver's speed, of course, is hardly deterred, and we continue through a well-graffiti'd area packed with people and what appeared to be very seedy bars. Eventually, we hit something of a dead-end--a car is parked in front of us, and people are busy unloading quite a few items from the trunk. So, the taxi driver turns around to face us and holds out his hand for the fair, without saying a word to either of us. I hand him the 10 euros, and begin to get out of my door (I'm on the left). He tells me crossly in Portuguese to get out on the other side and, without so much as an "obrigado" (that's "thank you" in Portuguese) zooms away.

Mieke and I look around at the various seedy drinking establishments by which we are now surrounded. We see nothing that has anything to do with a hostel. The house # is 26A. 26A on this street is a door with a metal chain gate over it--a storefront, closed down for the night. We start to get, um, a little apprehensive. We poke down a few streets, and the foot traffic begins to thin. This, if anything, makes me more nervous, so we head back to our original street corner. After consulting our printed off directions for a few moments, we both realize the cab driver totally misread the sheet, and dropped us off at a street called something like Rua da Attilla, instead of Rua da Arilta--probably as a result of his reading glasses. What. A. Feeb. (Only joking, Pops, I really do love YOUR reading glasses and don't think you're feeble in the least for losing your vision.) So, we're kinda, well, fucked, and begin looking around for, um, anyone who will help us. I suggest to Mieke that she call the hostel, since she still has her cell phone. So, she takes out her phone and begins to dial, and, as the call connects, several things happen. One, someone picks up the phone, and she says, "Hi, I'm looking for you. How do we find you?" and the man on the other end of the line responds with a "You're looking for me??" As this confusion unfolds, a man, clearly an employee, walks out of the bar of our fateful street corner. He's dressed as a conquistador--complete with tights, and a three-cornered hat plus poufy white feather. He lights up a cigarette, and glances, bored, in our direction.

My eyes got huge.


We found the hostel about three minutes later; it was five blocks away, and someone from the hostel walked up to us, inquired if we were looking for the hostel (it sounds much shadier than it felt at the time. At the time, it was like the least shady thing about the whole situation) and led us there.


Right.


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So, Portugal was fantastic. On Friday, we went to Sintra, which is something of a touristy village outside of Lisbon. There, we explored two of several palaces (there are palaces EVERYWHERE in Portugal, it seems, and we only had time for two): the Sintra National Palace and an old Moorish castle. You can see pictures of those down below. After Sintra, we took a bus to Cabo, which is the westernmost point of continental Europe. And, gazing out onto the Atlantic, we watched the sunset. It was devastatingly romantic, and Mieke and I may or may not have held hands (may not have, in fact, as Mieke was drugged up on anti-motion sickness meds by this point, and completely out of it, and I was more caffeinated than I've been in years, having had half a coffee and a bottle of Coke that day).

The next day, Saturday the second, we explored Lisbon itself. We went to the Castello St. Jorge--a huge castle in the city that offers an amazing panoramic view. The weather was fantastic--in the high sixties and sunny--and I am happy to say that I totally whipped out my sunglasses. We also explored some of the market squares, too, and I picked up quite the cute little piece of street art. Later that afternoon, we took a train out to Belen, which is basically just a train stop, in fact, along the main river that runs through Lisbon. I desperately wanted to see the Tower of Belen (I'm quickly getting a thing for towers, and this one, as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was supposed to be a beaut.), and there are, also, reputedly the best pastries in the universe in Belen as well. They weren't lying--about either tower nor pastries. The pastries (also pictures below) were to die for, tasting something like a crumbly yet custardy mini-donut from the state fair (I know, right? Am I super classy or what?), and we, once again, treated ourselves to an amazing sunset view, with the tower in the foreground, and various ships and boats dancing across the river as the sunset. Gorgeous.

Oh, and for dinner that night, we went to a chain restaurant in Portugal that serves typical Portuguese food (and was recommended to Mieke by one of her co-workers, who is from Porto, in Portugal). It was called "Portugalia," and mid-way through the meal, my traveling companion pointed out to me that, yes, this was definitely the equivalent of Red Lobster. Too true (see pictures, below, for some serious proof).

The next day, Sunday and our last in Lisbon, was not quite so fortuitous. It rained. Not just a slight little April shower (well, okay, February shower, but you get the point). It DOWNPOURED. In-tense. We went to a church--the Cathedral of St. Vincent, which had a very impressive museum to it, too. It seems like the Portuguese are obsessed with hand-painted tiles, and this church, with its hefty bounty of blue-and-white tiles dating from the 18th century and before, did not disappoint. So, after we slopped through the rain, we headed back to our hostel, grabbed our cute little backpacks, and began the long trek back to London.

Lisbon in many ways reminds me of San Francisco, which is impressive, considering I've never been to San Fran before. Okay, fine, it reminds me of the San Francisco that I saw in "Full House" when growing up, and for that reason, among many, I loved the city. It's very hilly, and winding, because it dates back to the medieval times and before. It uses a system of trams as its main form of city-wide transport (hence the San Francisco thoughts, with the street trolleys, right? Or did the Tanner family deceive me all along?). To add to that, it even has its own Golden Gate Bridge, of sorts: a suspension bridge of a deep red hue that looks just like the one from the "Everywhere You Look" credits. Yep, everywhere I looked, Lisboa confirmed that it is the San Francisco of Europe. And it was good.

Sintra & Cabo

Lisbon