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November 22 Tuesday Bicycle touring Portugal from Lisbon Portugal to Lisboa Portugal I greet the misty morning with another enticingly steamy shower. So far I haven't been able to deplete the hot water supply no matter how hard I try. My long pants are still wet after leaving them on the line to dry overnight. Sharon and I hand wash our sleeping bag flannel liners and then wait for the washerwomen to appear to unlock the metal grate fence than guards the one lone washer and dryer. There are about a dozen tubs for washing clothes by hand. I have on my fuzzy fleece jacket and a light pair of cycling shorts. I notice the gardener has on long pants, a heavy leather jacket, and a balaclava pulled up over his ears and nose. He is busy hoeing away like crazy, trying to build up some warmth. Guess it is winter here for them and they dress like we do for the winter in the far north. It is around 10º C right now. In the afternoon it goes up to about 16º C and, of course, it is even warmer in the sunshine. It costs $3.40 to spin the clothes in the dryer for one cycle. When the cycle is finished they are still wet. It costs another $3.40 to go again. Finally they are dry. I hand the washerwoman a ten. She doesn't give me any change. And that didn't include yesterday's wash price, which I paid an additional 5 bucks for. I'm beginning to clue-in on how the washerwoman is able to afford to drive a shiny new red sports car to work every day. I also see why most people hand wash their clothes and then hang them up to dry. We had planned on leaving on our Portugal and Spain bicycle tour today, but since it took until 2 PM to dry our clothes, we decide to take a bus downtown and look around instead. I place the bus fare for all three of us on a tray by the driver. He gives us three tickets and points to a slot. I figure that's where the money goes, and since he's now seen that it's the correct fare, he wants me to stick the money in. I start to pick up the coins. He yells at me and points at the slot again. I look around. He shouts "Ticket!" in an exasperated tone, as in how can anyone be so stupid, and points to the slot again. I place one end in the slot. It punches a corner off the ticket and time dates it. Cool. I hope Sharon and Susan were watching this closely, cause it gets kind of complicated. We find three single seats near the back of the bus. We jostle and jerk over cobblestones and around corners. Soon the bus is packed, and I mean packed. A sticker posted by the door says it holds 95 -- this is on a normal-sized bus -- but there has gotta be a whole lot more than that squished in here. Soon, Sharon is a weird shade of green. We pass a museum. Sharon says this is where we get off. I don't know how she can tell, because she's had her eyes closed. We go to get off and barely make it out the door before the bus drives off -- like we're literally jumping off. We cross under the road and railway. We emerge by the river's edge beside a huge statue dedicated to voyages of discovery with carvings of various explorers all lined up at an incline looking off to sea. It is very foggy and we cannot even see across the river, let alone the sea. The river does claim to be the widest in Europe. We walk along the river edge toward downtown. Soon we hear what sounds like a drone of killer bees, but can't see anything in the fog or figure out where it's coming from. We soon realize it is the traffic on a suspension bridge high above us as their tires hum along the pavement. It is an eerie unworldly sound. The fog is so thick we cannot see the vehicles on the bridge above us. Our river path ends and we walk north. We walk along narrow cobbled streets as traffic brushes past. Laundry hangs from windows. Musty earthen air envelopes us as it leaks from deteriorating buildings and fills our nostrils. Lots of people smoke. Then again, if I lived here I would want to die sooner too. We are definitely not in the tourist section. We come upon a huge building with two uniformed guards pacing back and forth with bayonets on their shoulders. I have to go the washroom, but decide not to ask them. I am trying to hold out for the tourist office. We stop to reconnoiter the poorly done free city maps that I picked up at the airport. After a quick gander it becomes clearly evident to me that I am not going to make it to the tourist office before my bladder bursts. I have to pee not now, but five minutes ago. I see a restaurant. I go in a see the door with a Lavabo sign on it. I try the handle. The door won't open. Light is shining through the slats of the door. Great. The restaurant is empty, but there has to be a person in the can. I almost pee myself. I go outside into an alley, holding tightly to my pecker through my pants pocket to keep the flood waters at bay. The alley turns out to be inhabited by three old women. Terrific. I turn around and desperately suck in my cheeks. This somehow seems to help. I head back into the restaurant. A person is at the counter. The door and light are the same from the washroom. I knock on the door. No response. I try the handle again. The door doesn't budge. I turn toward the guy at the counter with a wild look in my eye and ask to use the washroom. "Si," he says and indicates go ahead. I return thrice to that wretched green door. This time I push mightily against it. I am rewarded with the sight of gleaming white porcelain. There is a god. Unfortunately, to unzip my pants I must let go of the little petunia. When I do, a backwash of pee that must have been in its stem trickles down my leg. Gee whiz. We have walked very far. My feet are killing me. I think we should have brought our touring bicycles. Cycling shoes aren't great for walking. A small rock chip has got inside my wool sock and relentlessly grinds into my sole. We come to a park that overlooks the Fado District where the clubs sing the national songs for tourists. It's a type of popular Portuguese song that usually has a melancholy theme and is accompanied by guitars or mandolins if it's really authentic. We can see Old Fatima, where the tourists go. There is a monastery and an aqueduct on the opposing hillside. A fellow approaches us with a pamphlet for a fado. He tells us he speaks five languages. He also says he is half Pope and half Lord Byron. He tells us we are very lucky to meet him. He feeds us several more lies about living in a castle in Sintra for the summer and the monastery over there is his winter home. He says if we go to his fado, he will buy us each a complimentary glass of Port. He gives us some tips on what to see. He admonishes us on safety in the city. He tells us how beautiful the weather is in Portugal. Better than Greece he says. As he leaves he says to remember that 50% of what he said was true. I doubt it is that high. The good news is my pants are almost dry. We walk down an agonizingly steep tram line on cobblestones that put my calf muscles in a knot, and past a trolley car that the smart tourists are taking. At the bottom we spy a tourist info. Lo and behold it is open. We enquire where to catch the #43 bus back to the campground. A woman tells us right across the street in the bus square. We ask where is there a cheap restaurant. She tells us all the restaurants are in the Barrierio District. You guessed it. Back up the hill. We take the stairs this time. About half way we start hitting restaurants that have menus posted on doors and windows. With the help of our phrase book we translate some of the stuff that is being offered. We decide on one and then we discover they don't open for supper until 8 PM. We walk around some more. Finally it is 7. We are starved. We walk back to the Transmontana Restaurant -- what a unique Portuguese name. There is a German couple with a guide book that recommends the restaurant. They ask someone in the restaurant if it is okay if they can come in and sit down. The management agrees. We ask if we can come in a sit down too, even though they are not taking orders yet. "Si." After the restaurant family has eaten, they come over and take our order. Shortly, we are eating varieties of bread with white cheese and spiced sausage just like the kind Sharon had bought. It is mouthwatering. I order a dish which turns out to be a grilled gristly and salty ham with a side dish of delicious fried potatoes. Susan has salmon; Sharon has cod. We have white and red wine served in ceramic jugs. The total is 50 bucks. Not bad, considering what we had, but not exactly cheap enough to eat my way across Portugal in restaurants. The German couple asked us how we happened to pick this restaurant. "Oh," we replied, "we just follow people with guide books and see where they go. It really works out well." Back down the stairs, this time with full bellies. We try to figure out where the bus is. We go in one direction and see some buses. We arrive just in time to see the #43 pulling in. We run across the square and catch the last bus of the night that goes to the campground. I stick my ticket in like an old pro. I'm exhausted. Too much walking for this bicycle tourist. I'm so tired I go to bed without taking my evening shower. |
