DAY TWELVE

Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeeeeeling......The sun's out; the temperatures in this country are much more civilized than in Toronto. I start the walking tour, snapping photos, and marveling, as always, at the architecture, and lively spirit of the people and way of life. Down winding streets I venture, and end up by the river, where I meander to the lift back up the mountain. “Oh, no, I'll walk. It's such a lovely day,” I say to the fare collector. Then I wheeze my way back to the top. God, these people must have been hardy before all the electric help arrived.

How many churches can one town build? In such splendour and intricacy? I dutifully view many, eat, and buy some take-out fish for another day. Then I get the afternoon bus back, filled with trepidation because I know what I'm in for. I curse the porca miseria man (and he was porky, too) who insisted on having his numbered seat, turfing me from a window seat. How did I know they're numbered? I have to cramp myself in beside someone else, where I listen to the rest of my albums, which do make the trip bearable, but I need to bring out the cursing again for the endless traffic jams which destroy the 'express' in the express bus. I go back to the hostel.  

city of Porto; only here could you find a bank named after the Holy Spirit (the sublime and the ridiculous)

street in Porto, amazing structures abounding

can't remember what this landmark was, but it was impressive

rooftops over Porto

I love this work, the tenderness of it

lotta gold; lotta work

and a bigger picture of it; think of the money....

light from a stained glass, reflected on the wall

Hello, Josephine, how do you do?

cruise boat in the Douro River

painted wall; I had to walk to the top there

detail of the painted tiles on wall

storefront window; a nice contrast to the sacred splendours, no?

DAY THIRTEEN

It's my last day. Do I want to travel more? Nooooo, I scream inwardly. But I'd heard so much about Sintra, and the coastal towns, and the delicious fish there, and it's only forty minutes by train, and cheap. So I'm off.

Sintra is gorgeous; I decide I want to live there, especially when I find a little healthy-food cafe. I just walk and sit, and walk, and feel the sun, and walk, and have a gelato. I decide not to visit all the tourist suggestions, which want a lot of money. I joosta henjoy.

And then. And then I decide to go to the coastal town of Cascais. It's a bus ride away – another forty minutes – but a train goes back to Lisbon from there.  But once on, I find it's a milk-run, unfortunately; redeemed only by the sweet little girl sitting beside me, who babbles on in Portuguese to me, myself sort of grunting assent, and smiling, and gesturing, and making things with her dominoes.

I didn't really see a lot of the town. I wanted to get to the beach, the Atlantic coast, and look out to Newfoundland, and the sun was already hovering close to the horizon.  I just walked along the boardwalk and basked in the rosy hues, and came back for a bite, when I finally found something open on the beach. The Portuguese make delicious, and very nutritious food. I explored some of the shopping area before plunking myself on the train and rushing to my last sleep in Europe.

bathroom at the hostel; lovely to wake up to all this light

the train station in Lisbon

history of the little cafe in Sintra

Sintra street

a tiny portion of a huge garden in Sintra

cute, eh?

in the park

in front of the historical centre; Sintra

Sintra; reminded me of pictures of the Amalfi coast

the little babbling girl on the bus to Cascais

street in Cascais

along the boardwalk

and again

tiles in an underground walkway

as above

more boardwalk

from the cafe where I ate

shopping area, Cascais

still Cascais; I love the sidewalks

DAY FOURTEEN

I settle into my two square feet of space on the aircraft Lisbon to London. Seven a.m. I've already eaten my pear, piece o' fish from the Lisbon take-out, and banana. I search hopefully in the elasticized seat back compartment and find only magazines on business and shopping – the two areas that couldn't bore me more. New products, you say? Or new ways to make someone else rich???? We don't get fooled again....

So I turn to the Italian book I got at the hostel. It's a little existential angstish sort of author's subconscious, but it's his angst, not mine, and reading helps with my comprehension and practice of the language, besides being an improvement on vapid models strung with bling.

One of the flight attendants has huge bags under her eyes, albeit a lovely smile. Was she up all night with a baby? A lover? A sick parent? Up all night – that reminds me of the boys in the hostel last night, - partying on and on, the bass of their 'music' reverberating through the floor under my bed. Couldn't sleep. Maybe dozed for about a half hour when they finally stopped, until my room mate came in. Shoes clump; door slams; water runs; toilet flushes; zippers zip. Finally she's in bed and asleep and snoring in two minutes. I toss and turn and project my evil thoughts through the night until five a.m. when I have to get up.

On the road for two weeks; - “on tour”, as it were, as an incognito musician, traveling 'below the radar', and indulging in the pleasure of being unrecognized, not to mention unpaid. I could write a book....and so become an unpaid author too....With that thought, light begins to dawn outside the plane, illuminating the folly of that idea.

I see an aircraft seeming to head straight for us, but I'm too tired to care. And then it passes over us, and we're finally cleared for take-off. (that's right, we haven't left the ground all this time). We climb the pink and orange air of the rising sun, an orb I may not see again for a while, since Toronto currently has only drizzle and cold.

The flight from London to Toronto is long, but British Airways has all these great movies.... I got through the eight hours watching three of them.

And then, at 3:30 local time, I'm back on the TTC. There was no one at the airport to greet me. I didn't run across the waiting area and throw myself into someone's arms; have that long, ecstatic airport reunion kiss and big smile plastered on my face. But I wasn't expecting that, honest; I wasn't disappointed at all. No, I thought, it's better to just continue the solo journey, jump on the express bus, and get home, - by myself. And surprisingly, I was fairly energetic for having traveled and carried bags for twelve hours (minus the eight watching movies).

And thus it ends, - rolling eastward to the ugliness of Victoria Park and Danforth – in-your-face contrast to the magnificence of London, Barcelona, Italy, and Lisbon, where even the poor areas are pretty. I'm going to work very hard at not becoming bummed out.“lotsa fun, eh?”  

tried to get the moustache on my face, but missed (leaving the hostel)

looks like snow on the tundra; it's the cloud cover we're flying over

Home again; waaaah, it's over

ALL HAIL MY FEET

they put on another thousand miles today, poor things.  but i got to the atlantic ocean.  did you hear me saying halooooooo?
so now it´s beddy~byes, because i have to get up at an ungodly hour to catch the plane from lisbon to heathrow, then london to toronto.  should get in around 3pm, in case there´s a huge party being planned at the airport.
but more likely, i´ll be getting to my freezing house by around 5.  and going out for dinner...
a domani

ARE WE ALMOST THERE?

no really, it´s fun.  just that i only now got back from a little side trip that turned out to have the worst - i say the WORST bus ride ever, and once there, i had to do it all over again to come back.  so now it´s lisboa once more - for my last day tomorrow.  the weather here is lovely.  please try and arrange for some sunshine and moderate temperatures starting on tuesday.  puleese.

and although i have managed these couple of blogs, please come back in about a week when the whole trip will be written up for your idle moments of reading. it´ll be sure to delight.

and the pictures will be fan ---- tastic.