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23 Lisbon At 5:30 a.m. I checked outside. Miraculously, it was clear. The moon shone brightly. We packed up, turned on our blinking Vistalites and struck off. After forty kilometers along the river grade Rio Tejo a sign read: Lisbon 89 km. We had it made in the shade and stopped at an early morning café to enjoy fresh buns and syrupy sweet glazed doughnuts. We rode from nine thirty to ten thirty and came to another sign: Lisbon 85 km. Sharon moaned they were moving the city farther away. A tractor passed, carrying an old woman in the bucket. I wondered if that was his first wife? Dressed to the nines, they looked as if they were off to church. At eleven thirty we reached the barest outskirts of the Lisbon area. Lisbon was forced to be a compact city, squashed amongst hills, the Rio Tejo and the Atlantic. Where on earth were they going to stick an airport? We crossed a long bridge. Traffic had been heavy, but few cars passed on the bridge's uphill halfway portion. I was praying there was no traffic behind us when I heard Sharon yell, "Hurry up, there's a big truck bearing down on us." The trucker beeped his horn half a dozen times. What did he want us to do? There was nowhere we could go on the bridge to get out of his way. We cranked like crazy, our legs spinning like dynamos, building speed down the incline. Almost at the end of the bridge I hit a "pavemento deformato" area and heard something crash to the ground. Slowing, Sharon screamed at me, "Step on it! It was only your pineapple juice that fell off!" At the end of the bridge I pulled off and waved to the truck driver. He waved back enthusiastically. I saw why so few cars passed-they were backed up for two kilometers behind the truck. We didn't know how to get to the Lisboa International airport so I asked a bystander for directions. He wrote the names of the small towns we would pass through, seven in total. "Beeceecletas no N1," he emphasized. "About feefty keelometers to aeroporto." That couldn't be right I thought with a jolt. It was 12:38 p.m. The first town had a long traffic jam. We passed the stalled cars. Up hill, down hill, through suburbs. Coming into Lisbon, our meters registered 10,000 kilometers. In Lisbon, along N10 there were no airport signs. We passed through a shanty town with black people standing outside corrugated metal shacks. Light standards doubled as end posts for strung laundry. A trio of kids, outside a metal shed, picked up a plastic bottle and hurled it. It hit my calf spraying me with liquid. I cursed the little bastards. Beggars lined the roadside-filthy hands outstretched-pleading. We saw our first airport sign. The airport was north, about ten kilometers from city center. We arrived at the terminal at 2:10 p.m. I hoped the plane was late. I checked the arrival board but the flight wasn't listed. The clerk at the information desk said it had arrived at one forty, but the passengers were still inside. Fifteen minutes later, I spied Susan coming out of the immigration exit, pushing a baggage cart loaded with panniers. I gave a winning smile and joked, "Lose Vicky?" Without a trace of a smile Susan grumbled, "She had to cancel. Her Dad's ill." Stunned at the news, I rebounded, "Where's your bike?" Susan groaned, "They lost it." Sharon couldn't believe it when I came out of the terminal with only Susan. Sharon was sure we were pulling her leg, and that Vicky was inside waiting for the bikes. She asked twice before realizing we were telling the truth. What a let down. We were so looking forward to seeing Vicky. Sharon and I felt awful for her and her family. And we would miss her spunk and enthusiasm on our trip. Susan introduced herself at the lost luggage depot. They told her another flight from Paris was arriving at four thirty, and her bike may have been put on that flight. We waited, eating Truffle chocolates Sharon's sister, Diane, had sent. The bike didn't arrive. But they had located it. In Toronto. It hadn't even left Canada yet. The lost luggage clerk told Susan, "It will be in Madrid at seven and should arrive in Lisbon tomorrow morning. We will deliver it to wherever you're staying." "The campground," Susan told him. "What's that?" "Camping." "Camping?" he asked, confused. "Yes. Camping." "Camping?" Susan took a cab to the Lisbon campground. Sharon and I rode, picking up a charbroiled chicken with picante sauce. The route turned out to be a hairy before dinner ride along the autoestrada with a zillion speeding cars. In the dark, we got lost. We eventually arrived at the same campground as Susan. I had a hot shower, leaving a foot high dirt ring-our first shower since Catherine and Christophe's. Unfortunately, all my clothes were dirty-but, one thing at a time. Two cyclists camped below us with laundry strung between trees and handlebars. Too bagged, we didn't make an effort to communicate. They seemed antisocial as well, so we left each other alone and merely waved. |
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