Side Note: Stories from the hostel

Let me set the scene.

There's some beers being passed around.  I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone when I guy I haven't talked to brushes by me.  But before moving past, he puts his hand on my stomach and begins to rub it.

It took me a second to realize this was really happening.  And then another second for me to remove his hand and tell him flatly, "Don't touch me, man."

He responds by looking both surprised and hurt, neither of which he had reason to be, and he begins to move on his way.  But, before moving completely out of view, he steps back and says:

"I'm not gay."

Well, what's important is that he tries.

Portugal Day 4: That's right, I forgot I'm still traveling

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.

It is delicious.  There's not another word for it.

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.

Portugal Day 2 and 3: Now with Pictures!

I missed some blog entries due to surplus of coolness. Lisbon turned out get gradually more awesome the more time I spent there. My first night I went out to Barrio Alto, which means High Neighborhood which is not just a name. The neighborhood is, in fact, elevated. To get there you either take a graffiti-ed trolley or you walk up a monstrously long, monstrously steep hill.

Then you get this: 

So people climb.  Every night. Because Barrio Alto is amazing. The same twisty windy streets and architecture which just oozes history, but dotted with a bunch of bars selling cheap cocktails which people tend to take with them to the many scene overlooks that dot the neighborhood.

It's sickening how neat the area is. Like, actually makes me nauseous. And no, that's not just the cocktails, though they are delicious.

The past two days I spent in Lagos which is, in every sense of the word, a beach town. What locals there are, having no real place to go for vacation, are high-strung and kind of rude. All of the bars/restaurants have English menus with London prices. It still manages to have the cool streets and buildings, but underneath it's the same as any Jersey shore neighborhood. A land where time stand still during the winter and allows everyone to develop a keen sense of haughtiness that fizzes on through the summer.

Doesn't stop Lagos from being beautiful. 

There's not just beaches, but these enormous cliffs casting themselves in various dramatic formations out over the water. There are beaches to be sure, beautiful white-sand beaches with clear blue water. A number of the beaches can only be reached by boat and are therefore very secluded and therefore filled with naked people. I always am struck with wonder at how a woman with their boobs hanging out can just walk around like it ain't no thang. And how the husbands resist the urge to form a full body shield around their wife.

The hostel was filled with characters. And by characters, I mean 20-year-olds. I've finally hit the age where people stop saying “Oh, I thought you were older” and instead just nod and smile encouragingly as if I had just told them a story of how I conquered heroin addiction. Aw, you're so brave to be 26 and in a hostel.

I hung out with people until I remembered why I like to travel alone, and then I did. Not that I didn't have fun with them, though. Together we discovered why Port wine is so popular and later discovered why the streets are empty during most mornings. It was a beautiful thing.

But I'm ready to be back in Lisbon. I got a taste and I'm hungry for more.

Portugal Day 1: Lisbon and the Concussive Kisses

Sitting in a hostel eating fresh cherries and watching flies drift lazily about feels like vacation.

I arrived in Lisbon full of confidence.  I had found my way through Madrid, a city so twisty-turny it seems actively engaged in getting you lost.  I had traversed Marrakech, which is specifically designed to get you lost in the souks until you spend all your money.  How hard could Lisbon, the capitol of a country a third of the size of the others, be?

The answer is fuck Europe.  For some reason Europeans have decided they're too good for street signs.  All that carrying on an telling people where they're going, nooooo, that's too easy.  Too...American.

So after not sleeping for a night, I bumbled into a city that would make a mapmaker commit suicide, if he could ever find a cliff to throw himself off of.  The sidewalks are painfully narrow, the cars are blindingly fast and the streets are made out of what looks like bathroom tile.  It's slippery enough without rain, I have no idea  what people do when it rains.  Maybe they just all live downhill.  The rain's like some kind of new public transit system.

But once I showered and made myself a real person again, I started to really get into the city.  What Spain does with mountains, it does with giant plazas.  Lisbon is, I'm going to venture a guess, 50% plazas.  I ran into at least ten of them, all with enormous columns with Greco-Roman statues doing dramatic things.  One of them, which I now can't find the name of, is a guy uppercutting two horses.

I kid you not, it's the most badass statue ever.  There's two angry horses on either side of him flanked by two giant vipers.  The name was the spiirt of Portugal or something.  Apparently Portugal is hardcore.

This fact is borne out by the Archaeological Museum.  It's situated on a cliff (like everything in Lisbon) and fills the ruined shell of an awesome gothic cathedral.  The exhibits contain random bits of ruins as well as mummies and arrowheads.  I don't know why, there's not really any narrative to it, but it's awesome.  It's like an action movie museum.  You don't need to understand to go "oooo" and "ahhhh".

But anyway, the title of this post pertains to something I've noticed about both Spain and Portugal.  Spanish and Portuguese couples kiss VERY loudly.  I was sitting on a subway and I see this couple getting all close and I'm like isn't that cute.  And then their lips touched.

At first I wondered if it was terrorists, if they had set some kind of public display of affection bomb, a PDAWMD if you will, set to go off when the two lips met.  The sound was something like two wet microphones being slapped against each other, it was deafening.

 I've never been so nauseated and turned on at the same time.

Then I thought, think of the weapons potential here! Rather than drop bombs on other countries, all you have to do is line up a few amorous couples in front of the enemy.  The sound will be enough to end any struggle.

This realization has made me somewhat frightened by the double-kiss.  Now I know within Spainish and Portuguese lips hide explosive potential.  Kissing that close to my ear could deafen me instantly.  Who knows if they need a matching pair as a catalyst?

Oh yes, be afraid ladies and gentlemen.  Hispanic lips carry a terrible secret.  And who knows.

You might be next.

Special Edition: Sleeping at Airports or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and HATE EVERYONE.

You know, the mind is an amazing thing.

It has the capacity to come up with creative new kinds of charity, ways to convert one's one satisfaction into worldwide happiness.

It also has the capacity to turn even the most innocent, doe-eyed, kind-faced wizened old woman into Satan's best friend.

Given the right situation, everyone's an asshole.  Lying in a desperate fetal position on a cold marble floor while an announcer drones on in two languages about the importance of keeping an eye on your baggage...it's the perfect asshole storm.

It really wasn't that bad, in the end.  I mean, the sleeping part didn't really happen, but I did, you know, survive.  It was actually funny to walk past all the bodies strewn all around.  People tried everything, sleeping on their luggage, spooning their luggage, using their luggage to wall off their sleep space.  There was one group that found a standing circle of luggage wheelie carrier things and had formed a kind of group cuddle puddle.  I wondered, for a second, if I could join.  Whether an airport at 3am knocked down some fundamental social boundary.

It doesn't.  The woman at the cafe said I couldn't sleep in the chairs.  Presumably because I was taking up space from their VAST clientele.

Yes.  She was doing her job and she's an asshole for it.  You see what I mean?

Madrid Dia last: Touring the suburbs.

Stop being pretty, Spain.

It's annoying.  Like, every goddamn town and park is so scenic, up on hilltops looking over sprawling vistas, it's really just disgusting.  You try too hard, Spain.  Get over your beautiful self.

I got a bad case of the lazy today and instead of going to Roman aqueducts and castles and stuff, I went to the suburbs.  Madrid has a very interesting system for getting people in and out of the suburbs.  It's like the subway, except, you know, not sub.  It's a system of 8 or so trains that come regularly and are a bit more outfitted for long-distance travel than the subway.  It seems to work pretty well.

EXCEPT.

Whatever European design genius decided to make it so all the seats face each other.  Like there are four seats and two by two they face one another so you are forced into this awkward staring contest with the random shmuck across from you.  If that's bad enough, the seats are close enough that your knees are almost touching.  And I couldn't think of the translation for "Get your fat knees off me".

But the ride was short and I arrived in what looked like the most boring, dirty suburb ever.  A few blocks cured that, of course, and I ran into a bunch of medieval-type architecture and winding streets.  You know, like ya do in Spain.  I walked for a while, eating my bread and chorizo out of a plastic bag (I'm starting to enjoy it).  I eventually got to a park with, you guessed it, beautiful mountain vistas.

Like, stop it.  Enough with the gorgeous, sprawling mountains, Spain.

Madrid Dia whothehellknows: Too much Jesus

Today I came up with the question: How much Jesus is too much Jesus?

And I also answered it.  I have had so much Jesus today I'm suffering from an upset stomach.  And my palms and ankles kind of hurt.

It occurred to me that there are a buttload of pictures of Jesus dying.  Like, the guy seems to have done nothing of consequence in his life except come to the brutal end of it.  He's constantly on crosses, being taken down from crosses, coming back and looking somewhat confused.

Furthermore, he almost always looks shocked.  Shocked that the Romans are beating on him, shocked that he's getting crucified.  But if he's the son of God, shouldn't he have seen that shit coming? And if I were him, I'd be pissed.  I'd come back not with staffs and poetry but machine guns and machetes.  Your Saviour's back, and he's here to clean house.

Anyway, the reason I haven't updated is because fuckalll happened Saturday and Sunday.  I'm in Toledo now, which is a little town on a hilltop that should appear next to the dictionary definition of "quaint".  It's got these twisting medieval streets and this high Gothic architecture and everything costs so much money.  Really, it's 7 euros to get into the center cathedral and I'll be damned if I'm gonna spend my food budget for the week on some hoighty-toighty God shack.

But it's a very pretty city.  Honestly, just walking around getting lost and elbowing tourists makes the trip worth it.  There's gorgeous vistas in every directions, archways and plazas and it's all so nice I didn't even feel guilty eating my ham sandwich out of a plastic bag while the stench of two-day-old clothes repelled clean-shaven tourists.

Ah, travel.