Kindness of Strangers

We are in Lisbon!  We were very nervous about visiting a Portuguese-speaking country, as it would be the first time either of us had traveled independently in a non-Spanish- or -English-speaking locale.  By cobbling together our collective English and Spanish, we are getting along just fine.  Most people seem to speak one or the other quite proficiently as a second language; we feel bad that we can’t meet people half way, but we are making a valiant effort.  In return, people are exceedingly kind and patient with our clunky language skills.  Our stock phrases of “Fala ingles o espanhol?” (Do you speak English or Spanish?) and “obrigado/a” (thank you) are working wonders.  We are slowly adding words to our vocabulary, and Maikael even had a brief conversation today with someone in Portuguese.

I’m not sure so much that we’re speaking Portuguese as we’re making the sounds of Portuguese.  As our Lonely Planet guide notes, Portuguese looks somewhat intuitive via the written word, especially if you know a Romance language, but it’s more difficult to decipher when spoken.  Most of the time, we say the words with a Spanish accent.  Or, more accurately, we say the words with what might sound like Sean Connery’s Spanish accent.  “Buenosh diash,” would be an excellent example of this. 

In between bumbling through Portuguese, we are enjoying getting to know this interesting city.  If you are like me (and most Americans, I suspect), you know very little about this country.  Much like Iceland, I am intrigued by places that have a vibrant life and wonderful people, but are often overlooked.  When I stumble across one of these places, I want to see it as up close and personal as possible.  I have heard that the slower you travel, the more you see.  Luckily, Lisbon is compact, so we decided to spend the day traversing the city in as slow of a way as possible to have a closer look at what makes this city tick. 

Lisbon is situated within a series of steep hills, and the Lisboetas were thinking when they modeled their public transportation systems to accommodate the terrain.  In addition to the stock buses and metros that service most large cities, you are able to ride petite, antique tram cars and funiculars from low ground to high ground. We spent nearly two hours riding the famous Tram 28, and the result was a topsy-turvy, rattling ride through the narrow, cobbled streets that are Lisbon.  The tram was equally peopled with tourists, who are there for the quintessential Lisbon experience, and locals, who use the tram for practical purposes, which makes for a great cultural experience.  Two little boys in front of us waved to every single pedestrian who passed our slow-moving car; almost everyone waved back. As the tram lurched its way through the city, passengers hung like monkeys from the looped handles dangling from the ceiling, jockeying their way to the back of the car, as ancient wooden floor boards creaked below.  We were able to take in the lovely azulejo tiled buildings, winding streets, quaint storefronts, and sweeping waterfront vistas for a bargain price.  The tram even stopped for a labor demonstration that flowed through the streets, providing an interesting look at another side of Portugal that most tourists don’t get to witness. 

We stopped for a leisurely lunch at Cafe Nicola, a Lisbon institution with Art Deco flair.  Portugal is known for its fine baking tradition – I have never seen such beautiful sweets in my life — so we finished off the meal with pastel de nata, the national dessert.  The result is the lightest custard you can imagine, with just a whiff of cinnamon, baked in a delicate puff pastry crust.  The outside is rippled with caramelized sugar, giving the effect of a darkened crème brulee.  And no pastry is complete without uma bica, a powerful shot of espresso sweetened by sugar, served in cups fit for a little girl’s tea party.  Most Lisboetas sidle up to small counters and pastry cases throughout the day to enjoy their bica standing up.  We ended the day with a pitcher of sangria outside the Castelo de Sao Jorge, nestled in the winding lanes of the Alfama district, as the late afternoon sunlight danced across our glasses bobbing with bits of fruit.  We talked about our impressions of this place thus far, and here’s what we’ve concluded in our brief acquaintance:  the people are friendly, the pastries are delicious, we feel like we’re a bit off European’s beaten path, there are a lot of old people (my Lonely Planet guide tells me that nearly 20% of the population is over the age of 65), the views are stunning, and things seem to be in transition from traditional to modern.  

Wednesday was our third wedding anniversary.  For years we celebrated by trying to do something special, which always backfired. One year we attempted to have a picnic atop Mt. Rainier and were chased down by deer flies and a bug I’ve only seen the likes of in the darkest forests of Central America.  Another year we went to Port Townsend and stayed at the weirdest bed and breakfast that ever saw the light of day.  We finally decided to stop celebrating our anniversary with fanfare after our experience two years ago, when we spent over $100 on a meal that left us famished.  This year was going to be different.  This year we were going to be in Portugal on our round-the-world journey!

Correction:  we would be traveling to Portugal on our anniversary, which should have had disaster written all over it.  But our talisman was the carrier we chose to make the journey:  Easy Jet.  How hard could a trip be on Easy Jet?   I was eager to try this low-cost carrier, which promised bargain basement prices to a variety of European locales.  We set off for the airport at 11:15 am to make our 1:30 pm flight. This time around, we had much greater success navigating the Madrid subway system; I was beginning to feel like a real Madrileno.

When we arrived at the airport at 12:15, the Easy Jet line stretched on for what seemed like miles.  I soon realized that Easy Jet is the Southwest Airlines of Europe:  you get what you pay for.  Check-in was due to close at 12:50, and as we inched our way towards the front of the line, I watched, panicked, as the clock struck 12:48.  I seemed to be the only person in line concerned.  “We’re never going to make it,” I told Maikael. ”We’ll be fine,” he said.  “Trust me.”  I tried my best to be cool as a cucumber, but failed miserably.  We made it to the front of the line in the nick of time and raced through security, reaching the gate at 1:05, just a few minutes after boarding was to commence.  But the door to the gate was closed, and there was no gate agent.  So, we waited.

By 1:30, the situation remained the same. A line formed, as if creating a queue might nudge the cosmos into action. The passengers, with passports from as far away from New Zealand, shifted back and forth on the balls of their feet.  We waited some more.  A flight to Gothenburg came and went.  We waited.  I began checking the reader board. At 1:30 it estimated the flight would leave at 1:35.  At 1:35, 1:40.  And so it updated in 5 minute increments until 2pm. The line deflated.  Then, a representative from the airline approached the desk, at which point spontaneous applause broke out in the terminal, and the line reformed faster than I’ve ever seen in my life.  She began flashing cards, written in large, orange, bubbly font, Easy Jet’s signature graphic.  “SA.”  She displayed the card like Vanna White. Then, “A.”  “Groupo A,” she said, making a sweeping gesture in front of her.  Passengers, like a herd of cattle, milled in front of her.  She flashed a card marked “B,” our group, to which we fell into line behind her like soldiers.  We stood around for five minutes.   We thought maybe we had missed some important detail, so we asked the guy next to us, whose passport read “Espana” if there was something more we should be doing.  “No,” he said, “this is weird.” Finally, another announcement in Spanish.  “The flight has been delayed another 35 minutes. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”  The line crumbled. 

I’m not sure what the point of assembling us was, but it must have made everyone hungry, because a group filed en masse to the cafeteria (the neighboring Robot Cafe was, sadly, closed).  We munched on a jamon y queso sandwich. We waited.  People circled the electronic reader board, looking spectral.  “See,” said Maikael, “I said you didn’t have anything to worry about.”  He was right.  At 3:00 pm we went through the card charade again.  More cheering.  We boarded the plane, at which time we were given a technically impressive description of the hold up, something to do with computer problems and having to ship a part from the UK.  The flight attendants passed through three times with their head count clickers, like ushers at a movie theatre, which I thought was a little odd.  Finally, a voice crackled over the loudspeaker.  “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. We have another leetle probleam.”  The flight manifest listed 120 passengers, but there were 122 aboard the plane.  We couldn’t leave until things were resolved.  “Ladies and gentleman, is everyone on board going to Lisboa today?”  “I’m beginning to think not!” shouted the guy behind us, which signaled a wave of laughter through the plane.  We waited another 30 minutes.  Turns out, it was another computer problem. The wheels began moving at 4:30, nearly three hours behind schedule for a one-hour flight. 

We arrived at the airport and, after one snafu, caught the correct bus to our hostel.  It was rush hour, and the bus was packed.  I was sweaty, and hot, and tired,  and straddled my  backpack amongst the crush of passengers.  The woman next to me offered the space above her for my luggage. It was a small gesture, totally in the spirit of the kindness of strangers, but I just about cried with happiness:  it was exactly what I needed in that moment.  We checked in, dumped our bags, and I couldn’t help but grin.  It was, by most accounts, a miserable day.  But it was the happiest I had been since starting this trip three days ago.  My life has shifted towards small victories.  My friend, Sarah, had a baby last year, and I remember her telling me that the days she got to take a shower and make it out of the house to the grocery store was a big deal.  That’s exactly how I feel:  the only difference is that I’m learning to mother an eight-month trip. Getting from Madrid to Lisbon – and all the steps in between — felt like a major success.   It was my tinge of reassurance that maybe I can really do this. 

After showering, we decided to walk down to the Parque das Nascoes, which was developed for Expo ’98.  We had no idea this gorgeous strip of waterfront property was in our backyard for the next week.  We walked along the Tejo River, taking in the cloudless blue sky and the palms fringed with sunlight.  We stopped at a waterfront restaurant for dinner and ordered a bottle of  $12 Vinho da Casa – the house wine, which happened to be Portugese.  We watched the moon scoop out of the sky, casting a soft beam of light over the water. 

We didn’t give each other gifts of leather or glass this year., the tradition for third anniversaries  But it was best anniversary I can ever remember; it was the perfect end to a perfect day.   

A short post to let you all know that we are in Lisbon, but our Internet access is very spotty.  But rest assured, I am blogging every day, just not able to actually get posts or photos uploaded yet.  More soon, we promise!  But with this fun Portuguese keyboard I can type weird letters like this ç

When I took my first Spanish class in the 10th grade at Kent-Meridian High School, most of our textbook referenced Spain. For years I didn’t have a reference of the Spanish-speaking world beyond the country. I remember watching a video about Semana Santa, mesmerized, thinking, “I want to go there someday.” One of the first things you learn in any language class is cultural customs surrounding food. I was completely enthralled by the idea that Spaniards indulged in churros y chocolate for breakfast. This was better than Cocoa-Puffs. This was the equivalent of dessert for breakfast.

I’ve waited 15 years to order churros y chocolate in Spain; in fact, it was the only thing on my to-do list today. We asked our host for a recommendation, and he pointed us towards Chocolateria San Agustin, which specializes in typical Spanish-style churros y chocolate. The last time I had churros y chocolate was in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, at Christmas, late at night, just after we had watched the posadas parade down the street. If you’ve never eaten a churro beyond Disneyland or your high school cafeteria, you’re in for a treat. A proper churro is as thin as your thumb, with a crispy outside and a chewy inside. They are light, buttery, and delicious. Over the years, I’ve also become a fan of chocolate, thanks to The Thomas Family. Every Christmas morning, Maikael’s mom makes Mexican hot chocolate. It’s richer and creamier than its American counterpart, with a hit of cinnamon.

As we settled into the lovely, shaded alley and confidently ordered churros y chocolate, this is what we were expecting. A few moments later our churros were delivered alongside a large cup of melted chocolate. Maikael and I exchanged what is now becoming the typical eyebrow raise of confusion. I tentatively dipped a churro into the dark, molten liquid, which was immediately met with resistance. The consistency was somewhere between motor oil and quicksand. “It’s like they melted down a bunch of Hershey chocolates and put it in a cup,” Maikael said. The chocolate was delicious – it just wasn’t what we were expecting. That is the thing about traveling: you enter into situation with an expectation of what it will be, based on a similar experience, and are always shocked when it turns out differently.

Yesterday, when we went to lunch, we could barely decipher the menu, despite the fact that we both speak Spanish. Phrases like habitas buenas escaped me. “Doesn’t that mean ‘good habits’?” I asked. In Spain, it’s a mixture of vegetables. I knew to avoid lenguado, which I assumed was a tongue, but appeared to be a strip of cod-looking fish. As a self-proclaimed foodie, I make it a point to learn culinary-related words. But I realized today that most of my references come from Latin American cuisine, the base of most of my experience in the Spanish-speaking world. I wonder if it will be easier in a place like Jordan, for which I have no cultural familiarity – what is there to be surprised about when you have no expectations?

We studied the other cafe-goers, who all seemed to be happily gulping down their chocolate. The Spanish grandpa behind us sipped eagerly from his cup, hands tottering, dots of chocolate lining his upper lip. We tried to spoon some down our throats, but couldn’t swallow the viscous chocolate. We left our cups half full, which prompted the waitress to ask, “You didn’t like it?” “No,” we said, “it was just different than we expected.”

As I was waiting for our flight to Spain at Chicago O’Hare, I went to use the restroom. When I went to wash my hands, an older Indian woman, dressed in a flowing peach sari, was trying to wash her hands in the basin next to mine. She carefully studied my motions, and it soon became clear that she had never encountered an automated sink. I turned to use the towel dispenser, and she did the same. As the water in her sink kept flowing she looked panicked. She gave me a look, the equivalent of a shrug, that said, “How the hell do I turn this thing off?” I smiled and made “okay” gestures with my fingers. But the message got lost in translation, and she banged on the metal spout with her fist, hoping that would do the trick. Finally it turned off by itself, and I smiled, reassuringly trying to say, “See, it’s okay!” Inside, I was thinking, “That is going to be me soon.”

Little did I know that soon would come in a matter of hours. We arrived Madrid at 8:15 am, bleary- eyed and exhausted, having slept little on the plane. After clearing customs and collecting our luggage, we began the great debate of how best to get to our hostel. We had been warned repeatedly about pickpockets and gitanos running rampant on the Metro, and wanted to make sure our belongings were secure. First, we made the executive decision to carry our backpacks by their handles rather than the straps, so as to appear less vulnerable. I slung my daypack awkwardly over my shoulder, and Maikael strapped his to his frontside. The result was two Quasimoto-like figures ambling through the underbelly of Madrid, looking more vulnerable than ever.

Second, we decided to give my money belt its maiden voyage. I crammed the belt with passports, cash, and credit cards, and within minutes my protruding paunch was sagging. By the time we reached our destination, it was somewhere towards the bottom of my thighs. Maikael slung his backpack atop his shoulder, as if he were carrying a bag of coffee beans. I finally stopped halfway through a Metro tunnel and strapped on my backpack properly. “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

We emerged from the Metro, after wrestling with the ticketing machine, sweaty and tired. We arrived at the Hostal Alaska, relieved that our room was ready for check-in so early in the day, and Maikael removed his pack. His chest was ringed by a bullseye of sweat from hugging the daypack to his chest. On a normal vacation, I’d say, “Big deal. We’ll throw it in the laundry when we get home in two weeks.” But today my mind began calculating the complicated equation between shirts owned, opportunities for laundry, and days on the road. We are fortunate enough to have a bathtub in our room, so I immediately plunged all of our dirty clothes in the soapy water and decided to do a load of laundry. When I went to hang up our laundry line – which came highly recommended for its versatile design – I discovered that there was nowhere in our room to hang the now-sopping laundry (note to self: assess laundry line situation before submerging clothes). “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

After a brief nap and shower we went to a lunch spot that was recommended by our hostel. We ordered from the menu del dia, typical midday fare in the Spanish-speaking world, which provides a choice of one of three primero and segundo platos, plus “1/2 of wine” and dessert, all for 10 euros. The waitress brought two bottles of wine, both about ½ full, and we waited for her to pour us each a ½ glass. When she left we raised our eyebrows at each other. “Does this mean we get an entire ½ bottle each?” We glanced around to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve stumbled tipsy out of a restaurant into the midday sun.

It took only one day to determine that we might need to buy a strap for our backpacks for certain situations; that our laundry situation needs some reevaluating; and that the shoes I bought are proving to be disappointing. It’s a reminder that we’ll hardly ever get it right on the first time on this journey, despite our planning and best efforts. We’ll get better at this.

Despite an exhausting and difficult day of feeling like babies beginning to walk, I am writing this post with the balcony doors propped open, as Madrilenos pour out into the waning daylight, laughter rising from the cafe below. I can even hear the strains of an accordion playing an eclectic repertoire of “Happy Birthday,” “When the Saints Come Marching In,” “Those Were the Days My Friends,” and, curiously enough, “Jingle Bells.” Could I be in any more of a quintessential Spanish scene?

Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully with better shoes.

4 comments

In the immortal words of John Denver:

“All my bags are packed I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door…
I’m leaving on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again.”

Well, this isn’t completely true. The bags aren’t totally packed. We’ll be back March 15. I’m certainly not standing outside any doors. But all in all, we’re ready to go. I’m happy to say this is the last post I will place in the “Planning” category.

It’s been a strange week. I have been riding an emotional roller coaster all day: one moment I can barely contain my excitement for the journey ahead, and I feel calm, cool, and collected. The next, I am panicked and nervous and just about ready to leap out of my skin. I guess this is to be expected at the eleventh hour; at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

We’ve said a lot of goodbyes this week, mostly over duck eggrolls, fancy grape martinis, Saggio’s pizza, sangria, and the best Mexican food in town, which we will miss dearly. It’s strange to say goodbye to people, knowing we’ll be back but that things will be different when we return. Most times in life, change just happens. We don’t realize until we’re in the throes of transition that things are different, and usually we never could have predicted it. It’s an odd feeling, then, to embark on a process that you know will most certainly result in coming out the other side a different person, not unlike having a gypsy tell your fortune.

As I’ve said my goodbyes and begun shedding the tangible trappings of my everyday life – cell phone, date planner, garage door opener, house keys – I’ve noticed a strange thing. With each item I give up, I compensate for the loss by adding another to the bag. I’ve found myself sneaking in extra razors to my toiletries bag, and wondering aloud if I shouldn’t buy just one more shirt. I think it boils down to an issue of control. Most of the things I am about to face in the next eight months will be out of my hands, but I have some say as to whether I add another item to my scant wardrobe. I am reminded once again of the powerful pull of stuff.

And yet, I look at the meager piles of items that we’re packing. It’s amazing to thing that I have pared down my life to 3,500 cubic inches. I’ll probably regret packing half of it by next month. Even today I found myself clutching pieces of paper, wondering, “Do I really need this?” To ensure that gender stereotypes don’t run rampant, I’ve included photos of Maikael’s pile and my pile of items to be packed. As you can see, they are nearly equal in size.

Signing off from Albuquerque, New Mexico, on the eve of a journey of a lifetime. See you in Madrid! Buenas noches.