Kindness of Strangers

For our last night in Lisbon, we decided to go out with our new Croatian friends, Monica and Anton. To close out our time there in style, the quintessential Libson experience was in order: a night of fado. Fado is a traditional form of folk music, found in small clubs all over the country, but most prevalently in Lisbon, and most specifically in the Alfama neighborhood. Fado is typically sung by a woman; the theme is usually lost love or lamenting for bygone, better days. A low, smoky voice matches the mood.

The problem is finding a reputable fado club. Many cater to tourists, the result being inflated prices (upward of 35 Euros per person) for mediocre food. Most clubs have a minimum charge; dinner is typically included. I was delighted, then, when one of the local guys who worked at our hostel gave us a solid recommendation for a fado club, with reasonable prices and great singing. It was called Manuel. So we set off by train to the Alfama district to find fado.

When we exited the train, the neighborhood seemed a little dodgy. Alfama is a warren of narrow alleys, with nooks and crannies peeking out from every twist and turn. Festive streamers loomed overhead, and touts stood on every corner, beckoning would-be fado customers. “Boa noyt, good evening, buenas noches, you speak English? No?” We smiled politely and moved on, trying hard to find our club without looking completely lost. “Bonjour, madam.” This was not the first time I had been mistaken for a French woman in Portugal. Groups of locals crowded around sidewalk tables. I could feel eyes studying us, and I had the distinct sense that we weren’t exactly welcome here.

We continued around the bend. Many of the doorways were simply marked “FADO.” How did we know which one was Manuel? Lingering too long would undoubtedly lead to high-pressure sales tactics. We walked up the street, seeing nothing, and then walked back from where we came. A woman, hoping to making a sale through a sample of her work, sang a few bars of some mournful-sounding song. “Well,” said Anton, “we’ve heard fado. Let’s move on.”

Down the street we ran into a club called Miguel — could “Miguel” (which sounds different in Portuguese than Spanish) have been mistaken for “Manuel?” Who knows. The place was closed, as it was Monday night, and we were starving, so we took another restaurant recommendation from Anton. He had visited Velho Macedo a few days before and reported that it was solid, fresh, traditional Portuguese fare. And it was just a few blocks away.

We crowded into the small space, which was lit by fluorescent and had a Portuguese version of “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” playing silently in one corner of the room. But the place was packed, and there were delightful cases of beautifully arranged fresh fruit lining the back wall. (Cherries are in season here now, and I love that you can order a bowl brimming with the plump, purple berries for dessert.)

In Portugal, each meal begins with couvert, which are essentially small appetizers. They are placed on the table, and you pay for what you eat. If you, for example, eat the bread but don’t use the butter, you will be charged accordingly (we have, however, noticed that, if you touch one of the two packets of butter, you’ll be charged for both). We were first served a small plate of green olives, dressed with shards of garlic, a sprinkling of Italian parsley, and sweet olive oil. Maikael ordered the squid, as Portugal is known for its seafood, and I ordered pork fillets, another specialty. When Maikael’s dish arrived, we could hardly believe our eyes. Instead of the golden, deep-friend rings that we’re accustomed to, his calamari took the form of bright white tubes, tinged with flecks of deep purple. The eggplant tentacles were served alongside. Simple boiled potatoes and string beans, drizzled with olive oil and roasted garlic, rounded out the dish. I am not usually a huge fan of seafood, but it looked so fresh and homey that I had to try some. It tasted earthy and pure, nothing like I expected. Maikael said it was the best squid he’d ever eaten.

We parted ways with our Croatian friends, kissing one another on the cheek, and promised to look up one another up if we were ever in the neighborhood. The world is such a small place that it just might happen. We didn’t find fado, but we did find some great food and friends in Lisbon.

The Spain photo album is now up on our site, and as we are uploading the Lisbon portion of our album as I write this.  We haven’t organized, labeled, or done much to the photos, so bear with us as we try to learn what we’re doing!  We probably won’t be able to upload photos very often, as finding WiFi access is proving to be difficult, but we will do our best.  At least it will give you a flavor of what we’ve been seeing and experiencing.

A few people have asked for an update on my shoe situation.  Here’s the lowdown:  my Merrels are great shoes to wear with socks.  I had hoped they would work equally well without socks, but alas, they don’t.  I’ve been giving the situation great contemplation, and have decided that I am going to try to make them work…if I can find somewhere to buy low-cut, black wool socks.  In Albuquerque this would be a snap, but here it’s difficult.  For now I am wearing my flip flops, as it’s very hot here.  They’re not the most comfortable, but they’re serviceable.  If I see some great shoes along the way (in Italy, perhaps?), then I’ll buy some and ship the Merrels home.  I met a girl from New Zealand, who is also traveling around the world for a year, and was comforted to know that she has already ditched two pairs of shoes — and she’s only half way through her trip.  I’m not alone!

Tomorrow we are leaving Lisbon and are off to Viana do Costelo, a beach town to the north. It will be our first experience with a long-haul train in Portugal, so it’s bound to be an adventure.  Then, it’s off to Guimaeres for four nights, then onto Porto for the final week of Portugal.

As always, thanks for reading.

What do dalmatians, cravats, Nikola Tesla, and Michael Buble have in common? All originate from Croatia! I learned this nifty fact from our new Croatian friends, Monica and Anton, whom we met purely by chance at our hostel a few nights ago. We were studying the schedule for the Portuguese train system, which requires an advanced degree in cartography to decipher, when they approached from behind. As it turned out, we were all planning on going to Sintra the next day. They asked us if we’d like to accompany them, and we enthusiastically accepted.

Staying in a hostel is a bit like the first day of school: everyone is eager to make new friends, and it’s not uncommon for people to strike up conversations out of the blue. We have met some really kind and interesting people during our week in Lisbon, which has been one of the most rewarding (and unexpected) benefits of staying at a hostel. We met a guy from Canada who will be in Istanbul at the same time as us, and we exchanged contact information in the hopes that we can connect, hang out, and help out one another while we’re there. It’s not every day that you pass someone in the hall and exclaim, “See you in Istanbul!,” and at home I’d rarely agree to spend the day with virtual strangers. Hostels embody the kindness of strangers approach.

Maikael and I walked to the train station, only a few hundred feet from our hostel, to meet Anton and Monica. When we arrived, Anton was calling across the train tracks to another man on the platform, asking him which side we should use to depart to Sintra. This is something Maikael and I hate doing, and it was such a relief to have help. We decided to tackle the ticketing machine en masse, and were able to figure it out in no time. We were soon standing on the platform, clutching our tickets and getting to know one another.

We spent the train ride talking about the differences between Croatia and the US, politics, sharing George Bush jokes, our families, speaking Portuguese, and where we had traveled. We talked little about work, which always seems to be the first topic of conversation in the States. We learned that they live on what sounds like a gorgeous island, where they have a family farm that produces delicious olive oil, seasoned by the salt air that whisks through the trees. They spend time at the beach most evenings, are surrounded by family, and seem to enjoy their lives tremendously.

Anton is in Lisbon for the month working on his dissertation project (he, too, is an engineer), so he had all sorts of great tips about maneuvering through Sintra. We bought a daily bus pass, which shuttled us between the three majors castles and palaces in town, something we never would have known about had we not met them. The town, which sits in the hills an hour outside of Lisbon, looks as if it was torn from the pages of a fairy tale. Turreted palaces with ornate gardens give way to crumbling stone castles set in Sherwood-like Forests.

Our first stop was at the Palacio Nacional de Sintra, where two huge, conical chimneys – looking a bit like something you might see dotting the landscape of a New Mexican pueblo — protrude from the grand building’s kitchen. Next, we wound our way through the twisting lanes, our bus just barely missing cars and pedestrians alike. We stopped at the Castelo dos Mouros, looking like something out of King Arthur. The crown jewel of Sintra is the Palacio Nacional da Pena, the final stop on the tour. Here, Eastern influences overlay a classic castle, thanks to the Moors’ presence in Portugal, making for a whimsical and magical building. English-style turrets stand proudly next to shapes that you might seen in Aladdin. Buttressed, Gothic ceilings are lined with brilliantly-colored, hand-painted tiles, some of the oldest in Portugal. Towers that look like Crayola chess pieces stand at attention. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

After touring the grounds, we made our way back towards the center of Sintra. Anton was able to recommend a restaurant that he had eaten at before, another relief. Trying to figure out places to eat is often one of the most stressful parts of the day, and not having to think about it for once was a gift. We snacked on hamburgers without the bun, along with French fries and salad, typical Portuguese sides, regardless of the meal. We laughed and talked about our mutual love of Frasier, the fact that the Sonics are leaving Seattle, the New York Times, Lisbon restaurant recommendations, and Borat. I can’t remember the last time I spent such a nice afternoon getting to know new people.

I love meeting new people from new places because it gives me a window to the world that I’ll never be able to get from a tour book. I love that they are such a worldly couple, who know many languages between them, but still seem to be grounded in a sense of place: Croatia is their home. I appreciate their open, fearless attitude as they travel through a place: I could use a little more of that on this trip, and certainly in my own life. And I’m glad they stuck their necks out to meet us, all in the spirit of the kindness of strangers.

I had one goal – one seemingly simple goal — for Saturday: to add new blog posts and photos to our website. We started the day at the front desk of the hostel, and learned that the computers are unavailable on the weekends. Is there anywhere near with WiFi available, we asked? Maybe at the Vasco de Gama Mall (this seafaring hero is so beloved that they even named a shopping center after him), on “the last floor”, where the restaurants are at, we were told.

We hiked a mile down the road with our computer, roasting and basting ourselves with sweat in the midday sun. When we arrived at the mall, we rode the escalators to the top floor, home to the equivalent of a food court, where you can lunch on anything from McDonald’s (always the longest line) to Argentine parrilla. We didn’t see any signs for WiFi, and wondered if this was what he meant by the last floor. We proceeded up to the next floor, a sort of loft area, with fancier restaurants. Was this the last/top floor? But we saw no signs for WiFi, so we went back down the escalators to look for an information booth, and on our way spotted a small Internet kiosk. We could connect to the Internet, but they couldn’t access our USB drive.

At the information booth we learned that there was WiFi in the mall, but that we’d have to “talk to the Clix people.” The woman at the booth motioned towards another kiosk, emblazoned with black and hot pink Xs. Through our sorry attempts at Portuguese, we learned that we’d have to buy some sort of a device at another store before we could set up a subscription with Clix before we could use the WiFi at the mall.

We walked out of the mall, defeated, and stumbled upon another Internet cafe. They, too, did not have WiFi access, nor could they read our USB card. We wandered back out the other side of the mall, stopping at another informational booth. Here, we learned that there was free, public Internet access available at the science center down the road. Bingo!

We found out way towards the modern (and air conditioned) space, which boasted a corral of new Apple computers. And yes, we could transfer our files from the USB card. For free! We ran into some major snags with uploading photos, so only managed to get the posts up.

It took us all day to learn what should have been obvious from the beginning: that any expectations we had about how something functions at home (in this case, WiFi) doesn’t necessarily translate to another culture. We emerged eight hours after our day began, able to accomplish only half of what we had set out to do.

This seems to be par for the course: everything takes twice as long to do half as much as you’d like. Most things we set out to do in a day – from figuring out how to buy a bus ticket to asking for directions to the procurement of food – take eight times longer than we think it will. Even making Top Ramen, the world’s simplest meal, is a major feat. Everything is a multistep process, and we rarely get it right the first time. This is taking some getting used to. We take our habits and routines, our basic orientation to our lives and culture, and our easy access to just about everything for granted. There are times when I just want to sit down and cry, wanting only for the simplest thing to be easy. This has been a week of calibration, of slowly learning to set my expectations low. “Going with the flow” sounds easy in theory. But it’s more complex than just learning to take things as they come. It’s about accepting the fact that everything will take longer and be harder than you think – anything additional is a bonus.

On the day we left for our trip, we bought a Sunday New York Times.  We were excited when we saw that the cover story of the travel section was on Lisbon!  According to the article, Lisbon is undergoing a major revolution, quickly becoming a notable arts and cultural center in Europe, as well as on the international stage.  Young Portuguese designers that once headed to London or Paris to develop their careers are choosing to stay closer to home.  The article mentioned the Fabrica Braco de Prata, which was recently converted from an old munitions factory to an arts space that combines theatres, cinemas, performance halls, exhibition spaces, and even boasts a restaurant, cafe, and bookstore.  We were excited to learn that the Fabrica was a short bus ride from our hostel, so decided to check it out. 

Our driver dropped us in a pseudo-industrial area:  like Lisbon itself, the neighborhood seemed to be in transition, the new mingling with the old.  The space is so new that few people know it as an arts space; referring to it as the old weapons factory seemed to garner more recognition.  We ducked into a small store to ask for directions.  “Fala ingles?”  “Nao,” responded the owner.  “Fala espanhol?”  “Nao, solo Portuguese.”  We didn’t have to get very far off the beaten track to find a non-English or -Spanish speaker.  Luckily, we had our map, and the owner kindly walked us to the corner, chatting in Portuguese all the way.  At the corner he gestured towards another neighborhood.  Still unable to locate it, we stopped another man, whom I can only describe as Portuguese Jack Nicholson, for directions.  He led us back in exactly the opposite direction, stopping at every block to joke with his friends; he was clearly the big man on the block.  When we finally got to the Fabrica, it was closed.  The posted hours were 8pm to 2 am, something I am still getting used to.  (We went to a nearby mall at 11 pm on our first night here and couldn’t believe how crowded it was.)  “Oh well” we said, and set back towards the bus stop, where weathered, old men stood next to young hipsters sporting black-rimmed glasses, colorful clothing, and chic shoes.

We continued along the waterfront on Bus 28, which deposited us in Belem, a neighborhood at the far outskirts of Lisbon.  Our first stop was the Fabrica de Pasteleis de Belem, a cafe and production center that has specialized in pastel de nata since 1847, where antique bakery equipment crowds next to modern cash registers.  After lunch, we stood at the factory window and watched a crew of African women popped buttery tarts out of metal molds.  Even the population is in flux:  Portugal is giving way to huge waves of immigrants, primarily from areas of the world that were colonized by Portugal, including some parts of Africa. 

Belem typifies the old marrying well with the new.  Crumbling buildings abut new construction.  New walkways are paved with light and dark square cobblestones, imitating the original ones found in the city’s core.  Modern trams zoom by their antiquated counterparts.  Belem’s greatest attractions revere old and new equally, where a 15^th century monastery sits next to the modern art center, making for an exciting and eclectic vibe.  My favorite part of the waterfront area is a gigantic monument, an architectural love song to Portugal’s seafaring past, where sculptures of kings and explorers crowd their way onto the stone facade. From a distance the shape of the monument looks angular and modern, but as you move closer, the figure’s faces look as if they could have been chiseled 500 years ago.  In the shadow of this stunning piece of modern arts, fisherman cast their lines into the water, just as they’ve done for hundreds of years.

We moved on towards the Torre de Belem, a World Heritage site that was once Lisbon’s primary watchtower to defend against invaders.  This great stone tower, which looks as if it belongs in the English countryside, is framed by verdant palm trees:  if you didn’t know you were in Europe, you’d swear you were in Havana.  As we made our way back towards the bus, I gazed back at the art center, which suddenly looked like a modern interpretation of the Torre de Belem.  Coincidence?  Not in this town.  

As we were planning this trip, one of the things I worried about most was doing laundry on the road. Should I pack soap?  Should I pack one or two laundry lines?  How do you effectively do laundry in a sink?  Back at home, doing laundry is one of the most pedestrian tasks you can imagine; most of us could it in our sleep, and it’s a part of our weekly routine that happens like clockwork.  On the road, though, laundry is elevated to a status that is rarely achieved in household tasks:  it’s an experience.  First, there’s the unpredictability factor.  You never know when you’re going to have the opportunity to do laundry, and when you do, who knows how the washing machine will operate. 

I had my first laundry experience yesterday.  I’ve been putting it off since arriving a few days ago.  Our first night, I studied the machine’s complicated diagrams and concluded it would be next to impossible to figure out.  But the weather is hot and humid here – in fact, Lisboetas are saying this is the hottest it’s ever been here – so we are quickly running out of clothes to wear.  Therefore, we decided to take the plunge (literally). 

We stuffed nearly all of our meager wardrobe in the washer.  Next, we had to determine water temperature (calculating from Celsius to Farenheit, of coruse).  Then, we had to figure out what setting to use, with each choice simply numbered one to ten.  Each number corresponded to a different picture:  there was one that looked like bow-tie shaped pasta, and another that looked like a striped dress.  I think I might have figured out that the stripes denoted various shades – from dark clothing to light.  I randomly chose number two (mixed colors?).  Next, I had to choose a start button:  was it the circle with a solid line, or the spiral with a line through it?  I went with option number one, which set the washer in motion.

The machine began whirring around, but no water was entering the basin.  Finally, a trickle began.  It seemed safe to leave it for awhile.  I returned in an hour, but the the washer was still going as strong as ever.  I went to the front desk.  “Um, excuse me?  I’m having trouble with the washer?”  “It doesn’t work?” the guy said.  “No, it works, but I think I’m doing something wrong.  How do you use it?”  “Well, you put the clothes in, and then the soap, and then you start it.”  I felt like a real moron.  “Choose five.”  Uh-oh.  I had chosen two.  My guess was that this corresponded to the length of time needed for the cycle, and sure enough, my laundry was still spinning after two hours. 

The laundry finally stopped spinning, but I was unable to open the door.  The sign on the door said to turn it off and wait ten minutes.  After waiting, the door still didn’t open.  I realized I had to manually turn the machine off (but which button?) before the 10 minutes would start counting down.  Sure enough, I had wonderfully clean clothes two and a half hours after starting the wash!  Then begins the art of hanging an entire wardrobe on a laundry line and any available space.  Our only saving grace is that things dry quickly here.  I shudder to think what will happen when we move to wetter climes.  I’ll leave that worry for another day.