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So I'm back in Lisbon, and let me tell you...
I forgot I was traveling. And that traveling = stress. Even in a spot as cool as Lisbon, if there's stress to be had, I will find it and rub it all over myself.
I got myself a fancy hostel as a reward for being so thrifty, which I guess defeats the purpose. The hostel is posh, with scrambled egg breakfasts, a lounge with jazz playing and iPads to rent. Yes, iPads. No, they couldn't just let you borrow a functional and portable laptop, they need to give you Mac products. That's the kind of posh this hostel was. Mac product posh.
But I didn't even stay for a minute, I jetted out to see more of Lisbon. The woman at the hostel advised that I take care as Lisbon is not just number one in hostels. It's also number one in pick-pockets. So, that little seed planted in my mind, I started suspecting every person that got too close. I shoved my hands in my pockets and gripped my belongings as if these thieves had the capacity to phase through the fabric of my pants and steal.
I went to the Tower of Belem, which used to be a fort and prison and is now a bastion for ripping off tourists. Five euros to get in and wait in hallways as other tourists took pictures of each other in front of cannons. On the way back, I ran into a random band playing in the park. And, unlike most random concerts I run into, these guys didn't sound like they were holding instruments for looks. Even more, they were GOOD.
Then I went to get pastries at this place that was famous enough to have an aggravating line of whiny white tourists bustling at the door. It's called a Pastel de Belem and consists of a little custardy mess held by a flaky crust.
Next came the mistake. Across the river from Lisbon is another city (technically, apparently it's sort of included in Lisbon, but people in Lisbon don't like to admit it). From the waterfront of Lisbon you can see a statue that looks reasonably sized from that far away, but is actually an enormous stone Jesus with his arms outstretched as if asking why the fuck did they decide to put him in the middle of no where.
Because that's where he was. I rode the ferry over, waited a half hour for a bus, got harassed by crazies on said bus, wait another half an hour while the bus navigated narrow streets with all the color and variety of canned meat and then finally I arrived at the top of the hill.
And the park was closed. That's right, an enormous park with beautiful views of Lisbon is closed before sunset because fuck Portugal.
I remembered, then, that I'm traveling and as a result, periodically I have to hate my life. The bus driver laughed at me (good-naturedly) and I contented myself to take pictures from behind the gate and kick the door.
I spent the night in Barrio Alto and continued to be impressed by how cool it is. Looking back over this entry all that happened was I saw some sights, listened to great music and ate pastry. Which doesn't, I guess, give me any reason to be stressed. Sometimes I forget that I'm on vacation.
I forgot I was traveling. And that traveling = stress. Even in a spot as cool as Lisbon, if there's stress to be had, I will find it and rub it all over myself.
I got myself a fancy hostel as a reward for being so thrifty, which I guess defeats the purpose. The hostel is posh, with scrambled egg breakfasts, a lounge with jazz playing and iPads to rent. Yes, iPads. No, they couldn't just let you borrow a functional and portable laptop, they need to give you Mac products. That's the kind of posh this hostel was. Mac product posh.
But I didn't even stay for a minute, I jetted out to see more of Lisbon. The woman at the hostel advised that I take care as Lisbon is not just number one in hostels. It's also number one in pick-pockets. So, that little seed planted in my mind, I started suspecting every person that got too close. I shoved my hands in my pockets and gripped my belongings as if these thieves had the capacity to phase through the fabric of my pants and steal.
I went to the Tower of Belem, which used to be a fort and prison and is now a bastion for ripping off tourists. Five euros to get in and wait in hallways as other tourists took pictures of each other in front of cannons. On the way back, I ran into a random band playing in the park. And, unlike most random concerts I run into, these guys didn't sound like they were holding instruments for looks. Even more, they were GOOD.
Then I went to get pastries at this place that was famous enough to have an aggravating line of whiny white tourists bustling at the door. It's called a Pastel de Belem and consists of a little custardy mess held by a flaky crust.
It is delicious. There's not another word for it.
Because that's where he was. I rode the ferry over, waited a half hour for a bus, got harassed by crazies on said bus, wait another half an hour while the bus navigated narrow streets with all the color and variety of canned meat and then finally I arrived at the top of the hill.
And the park was closed. That's right, an enormous park with beautiful views of Lisbon is closed before sunset because fuck Portugal.
I remembered, then, that I'm traveling and as a result, periodically I have to hate my life. The bus driver laughed at me (good-naturedly) and I contented myself to take pictures from behind the gate and kick the door.
I spent the night in Barrio Alto and continued to be impressed by how cool it is. Looking back over this entry all that happened was I saw some sights, listened to great music and ate pastry. Which doesn't, I guess, give me any reason to be stressed. Sometimes I forget that I'm on vacation.
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