Before winter shows her fangs here in Germany, Jeremy and I traveled
to Portugal for one last dip in the sun.
Sandwiched between a few days of beach lounging and sporadic
surfing in the small town of Prahia da Fonte de Telha was one compact day in Lisbon.
Jeremy and I had previously been schooled in the ways of
malasadas and Portuguese horseshoes thanks to living in Hawaii, but no city
has eluded us quite like Lisbon.
We consider ourselves well-traveled and take pride in
our navigational skills when it comes to public transportation in foreign
cities. We put forth effort to learn enough words to communicate - order beer, exchange pleasantries, find a toilet, you know, the important stuff.
Lisbon, however, was a cruel, cruel mistress – beautiful and
captivating with her narrow, cobbled streets and sidewalks, (when a trolley passed and you
happened to be on a sidewalk, you literally had to suck in
your gut) tiled walls, staggered buildings ...
and winding walkways ...
filled with art and mystique.
We’ve been spoiled by the German efficiencies that were lost on us
in the bustle of Lisbon. Streets are not well-marked, no signs exist for the
Metro – you just have to stumble upon it - points of interest do not announce
themselves and no train or bus schedules exist … anywhere. Even Rick Steves’
directions let us down at times, much to the chagrin of his biggest fan.
In between meandering around in a state of confusion, we managed to find a
flea market where I was reminded of home.
Twice.
We visited the Jeronimo Monastery,
and sampled wine at the Port Wine Institute.
The 40-minute trek back to our beach hostel took a record
time of 3 hours on public transportation with a savings of 14 euros. (I question
our frugality at times …)
Our flight left early Monday morning so we thought it best
to call a taxi. We failed miserably.
After 40 mintues on the phone with 4 different cab companies
we had no idea whether they were even coming. In our best broken Portuguese we
would request pick-up and give a location. In return we received an earful of
the unknown language. With a cringe, we replied “uh, não compreender.”
In an attempt to simplify Jeremy asked, “taxi vir? sim ou não?” (taxi come? Yes or
no?) to which our dispatcher replied “sim ou não, OK!”
"Yes or no, OK?" Huh?
We were at our wits' end, expecting to miss
our flight when I walked outside and saw the 127 bus pulling around the corner
– the bus we knew would take us to the train station.
We ran down to catch it, still packing our
bags and began the long trek to the airport. A train and short taxi ride later
– we arrived, but our journey home was only beginning. Our first flight was
delayed, second flight was cancelled, and we missed the direct train from
Munich to our hometown by a matter of minutes. What should have taken about 6
hours turned into a 17-hour ordeal.
Despite the constant confusion and apparent inefficiencies, we still managed to fully enjoy ourselves in Portugal and will definitely be back.
Many times the universe presents us with
lessons, humbling us as only travel can. On this trip, we were reminded that regardless
of how calloused our gypsy feet have become, we are walking into many cultures
for the first time ... and we still have a lot to learn.
Hayden’s injury resulted in the loss of her mobility for the next several days but it did not impact her ability to plan a “kick-ass” mystery birthday weekend for back-up vocalist and rhythm section bandmate Jeremy Buddemeier.
The following day, the buddymollys took to the open road for a weekend in Vienna.
The pair enjoyed the sights, drank deeply of the city’s infamous café culture and caught an opera, all at a leisurely pace of a couple twice their age.
