lotsa fun, eh?: DAY ELEVEN

I have no idea where in the city I am. Because it was late on my arrival, I took a cab from the airport, - fortunately, as it turned out – because the streets are unbelievably convoluted and narrow, and the hostel is in an old area of Lisbon. In the morning, I walk a little ways to a small park which overlooks the Tagus River. It's a beautiful sight in the sunshine. I walk sort of around the block, but decide it's just too confusing for me, so end up back watching the river flow, waiting for my courage to return, when I venture back out to a busy street and wander down, memorising landmarks. It's busy, busy out there, with lots of interesting shops, streets and buildings.

Suddenly, I'm in a big square, with huge ornamented structures, and the elusive metro system to boot. Street musicians are playing for the weekend crowds. I sit, listen, and people-watch, with the sun on my back. The streets are paved with tiles, and patterned, a trend everywhere in Portugal, the lack of which I decry on our continent. They don't just build there, they celebrate beauty. I find funky shops, and an art gallery, amongst other things, and as I wander I decide to move on with my original plan to travel up the coast to the city of Porto. I'd heard it was lovely, and had pre-booked a hotel (my first on this trip), so I had to get there. Three hours on a bus was not an inviting prospect, but I didn't know any other way.

It was all good until I actually boarded the bus, and very quickly got annoyed with the AM radio that didn't shut off after we got on the road. AM radio is annoying everywhere, but I didn't want to listen to Portuguese AM radio – too reminiscent of the Benfica House in Toronto that used to keep me awake every weekend night. On the route there was absolutely nothing beautiful, and I became progressively foul-tempered until I remembered that I had brought a tiny mp3 player, and started listening to myself – all my eight CD's that I have recorded. I thought, “Hey! I'm good, dammit!”. Better than the AM station for sure. And some of my songs are great – original; tuneful. I listened to me singing my life (because every melody tells a story, don't it?), and I watched the day slowly die in the pink sky. But even singing to myself could not overcome the bum-and-mind-numbing torture of the never-ending hell-ride. In the dark, I hear my song “Unsung Song”, recorded with Norm Amadio and Jack McFadden. I'm sinking into depression, thinking “it's my life, and even though I'm singing it, it stays unsung, doesn't it, in the world at large, when it's not heard and known the way so much crap and unmusical stuff is making millions for hackers. Jack's gorgeous solo on the bass makes it seem even more of a travesty. I HATE THIS *&^%$#@!!! TRIP!!! But I'm trapped. Where's the “lotsa fun, eh?” now?

And it gets worse when we pull into the bus terminal, situated God knows where in the city. I just start walking angrily, asking directions, begging for English because, unlike Spanish and Italian, I have no vocabulary in Portuguese. It takes a very long time, but I find the hotel, or some spirit guide that has helped me all through my life's miseries steps in and brings me there, maybe just to shut me up. I have to admit, I meet and talk to a lot of nice people, and only one with bad breath. The hotel welcomes me, in spite of the incorrect VISA info I had booked with, and they very kindly began again with the last remaining room. I am very relieved, (see crazed pic) and when I go down the street to the recommended restaurant, eat, and listen to some Fado music, I'm sort of human again. Back at the hotel, I shower the unhappiness off me and sleep.