The hills of Lisbon, Portugal 2009

5/5/09 day one

The flight to Lisbon was not too bad. My seat mate was a woman who had not flown much, never internationally. She had had bad luck so far on the flight—bad weather had grounded her in Atlanta overnight. But she, was certainly taking it all in stride, seemed to be interested in it all. Quite shocked when we were offered wine with dinner—trust me this only happens on Air France. It was kind of fun answering her questions—how to adjust the reading light or the air, how to use the earphones for the movie, how to put the seatbelt on top of the blanket when you slept so no one would wake you until you landed, why you might want earplugs or the night masks they were handing out, when is the best time to got to the bathrooms, and why her feet were swollen. She wanted to know what we’d have for dinner and I said probably a choice of chicken or pasta, probably a cheese tortellini. I reasoned that everyone liked chicken and they also needed a vegetarian dish. I tried not to look surprised when I was right. She could not understand the announcements even though they were in both French and English. She thought I was “translating” for her and I didn’t have the heart to explain it. Marcella was a long haul truck driver who lived either in her truck or the trucker’s hostel between jobs where they shared a car. So when she was laid off in January, she lost her home and transportation in addition to a paycheck. She is visiting her daughter who is living in Marcelle for a few months. She spent a lot of time detailing packaging for potato chips, telling me about pallets and forklifts. She detailed banding, labeling and plastic wrapping pallets. I think she forgot that I told her I did manufacturing training, so have documented all of this. But she seemed to believe that I had shared my travel wisdom with her, so she should share her life knowledge.

I left her at Charles de Gaul airport and walked to the far end of the terminal to board my flight to Lisbon. No worries, a smooth flight. I’ve had little sleep. Took a taxi to my hotel, the Residential Princesa, a budget hotel. The ride was 9 euros. The rooms are small, but clean and have all I need. I showered and should not have laid down because I fell asleep immediately. Decided to use the rest to my advantage and call it a siesta in preparation for a tour I’m signed up for tonight. I’m doing a Lisbon by Night tour, includes dinner with Fado music. The tour doesn’t start until 8pm, dinner at 10pm. I will be up past my bedtime!

I booked the tour at the hotel with the young man at the front desk. He is very new and his English is only fair, but it seems better than anyone else’s. He does a fine job as long as you do not rush him or get him flustered. He must be barely out of high school and way too thin. He has the perfect skin of a child who has not spent time in the sun, but his eyebrows are so wild they may have a life of their own. I have not met his boss, but I have heard her yell at him. He had never booked a tour before and had to go to the back “room”, really just a partition screen, several times. Each time she would yell in Portuguese and while I don’t know the language, I understood the sentiment. “Stupid” sounds the same in so many languages. He always came around the partition smiling as though I could not have heard or understood the manager. After the third time, I asked if she was having a bad day. He smiled broadly, “Oh no! This is a good day. I am happy.” and then wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow. “Phew!”

I spent the afternoon walking in ever larger circles around my hotel, trying to get my bearings. I am essentially the walking dead as I have not had enough sleep. I have not found a subway stop, but have written down the number of the tram and bus that stop in front of the hotel. So far this just looks like any large city with graffiti, narrow streets and working people. I am in a downtown area and must figure out the trams and subway to get around. Maybe tomorrow. The hills are killers. If I lived here I would either get in better shape or die. Possibly the latter as one of my trail names is Flatlander. I earned it after a particularly difficult climb when I tried to talk my bunk mates at the shelter that night into renaming the stretch “Hell, with switch backs.”  It never caught on, but my nickname stuck. But there are some lovely old buildings with tile facades and narrow balconies. I am near a hospital, small park, grocery and a police station, so all the essentials are covered.

There is wireless internet in the breakfast room and I brought my netbook, so will not have to type everything on my tiny blackberry screen. Do not expect my spelling to improve.

later 5/5/09

You can tell this is a budget hotel for what is missing. There is no stationery, notepad or pen with the hotel logo. I have no bathmat, which makes the move from the shower to the green tile floor treacherous. The hotel, by the way, boasts repeatedly that it was remodeled extensively a decade ago. In light of the green tile, the color of the popular 1970’s shade known as avocado, does not seem in line with this timing. There is also only a single electrical outlet in my room, which is why I have learned to bring a multi plug in addition to an adapter when I travel. There is a room safe, as advertised, but one must rent its use. I solve this problem by bringing little of value with me on trips. What I have I lock in my suitcase so that at least if a thief steals it, he will have to endure my dirty socks as well. This should be protection enough!  As advertised, there is a an air conditioning unit in the room. It is located high above the door and the remote to turn it on seems to be missing. Even if I could find the remote, the electric “eye” is covered by a band aid, and not even one of those fancy decorated ones my niece sports. Again this is a Budget hotel. But it is clean, seems safe, even if only because the police station is visible from my 3rd floor window and I think if I yelled loudly enough, they would hear me. The hotel has something else you don’t see in the states: There is a coin operated dispenser that has water, snacks and beer by the can.

Tonight I arranged a Lisbon by night tour that included a drive around the city and a traditional meal with Fado music. In the Iberian Peninsula, they eat dinner late. The tour started at 8pm, dinner at 9, then the driver picks me up at 11pm to continue the tour. It was well past midnight when I got home.

later that night

I would like to say that I dressed carefully and elegantly for dinner. I would like to say this, but I would like even more not to lie. In truth there are two obstacles. The first is that I don’t bring dressy cloths when I travel. My black Capri pants and red shirt are practically a uniform for me at all times. They will have to do because they are all I have. The second problem is that I woke up suddenly one morning and found that I was both portly and middle aged. None of my old clothes fit and nothing new looks good on me so I don’t buy it. In theory, I can do something about the weight. Based on results, this is still just a theory, however. But unless I manage to live to be at least 200 or, better yet, discover the fountain of youth, I can’t do much about the age thing. I must age gracefully, fight it every step of the way, or just age. Or die. Well, I’m not ready for that yet.

I added a black and white scarf, draped loosely around my neck the way I see in Europe. I do this under the theory that a scarf instantly males one look civilized, if not fashionable. And it hides the lunch stains on the shirt. Bonus!  I wore make up—even a little eye shadow. I don’t own blush as I’ve no need of t. Even with heavy stage make up, my naturally ruddy complexion, common to all who descend from hearty peasant stock, shows through.

And if it doesn’t work, I’ll probably never see any of these people again. One of the great, but seldom discussed, reasons to travel abroad is the statistical improbability of running into your high school sweetheart after you’ve let your self gain 50 pounds. While you may be very likely to have your worst hair day ever, be caught in a sudden hurricane, or even spend 73 hours getting to your destination while wearing the same clothes, you usually don’t have to meet someone you know at the end of it. Though it is not impossible.

The sights included the Edward VII park, named in honor of an English king’s visit and sporting English box hedges in geometric patterns. The statue of the Marques do Pombal, who rebuilt the city after the devastating earthquake of 1755 (which was immediately followed by a tsunami and fires). Commercial Square, the National Pantheon, various churches all more interesting than the last. We crossed the bridge, a smaller version of the Golden Gate Bridge and made by the same company, to get a better look at the Christ the King statue, a replica of the one in Brazil. We drove around the Bullfighting arena, the narrow streets of the Barrio Alta and the narrower ones in the Moorish district. All of these places I want to see today and more.

Dinner was not as touristy as I expected. Half the crowd sang along with the music and appeared to be Portuguese, if not locals. We were treated to a troupe of 4 traditional dancers accompanied by an accordion player and three different Fado singers. Fado is distinctly Portuguese, usually central to Liston, and seldom heard outside of the country. It requires and strong and expressive voice, one that can show pain and loss and still project to the back of the room. There was no amplification, and the singer must be heard over the guitar and the mandolin like instrument that gives a distinct sound. Fado is reported to be the music of slaves, lovers separated by the sea and/or students sent away to university. Sort of like the US spirituals, blues and country music rolled into one, but with classy clothing.

The food was a simple fish fillet in a tomato sauce with onions and chunks of potatoes. It was served with white wine, bread and olives. Dessert was a “caramel cake” which I would have called a flan, followed by the very strong coffee. I met a lovely couple, retired real estate agents, who were well traveled. The had just gotten off a cruise that day. They planned to drive to Germany to see his family, but expected to stop in Madrid, Seville, and maybe Paris along the way. They were funny, it was a second marriage for both and it seemed to be working out.

I met my driver after dinner at 11pm and he continued my tour. It was 12:30 before I got back to my hotel.

5/6/09 Day 2

I got a bit of a late start today. I’m blaming it on lack of sleep but I just could not figure out the public transportation system. First I had to buy a metro ticket, which turns out to be something you get at the post office, though that is not what my guidebook said. Then I could not find the metro stop. There isn’t one near me. I just couldn’t find it. Then I found my way back to the hotel and decided to try a bus. I don’t have good luck with buses, but the schedule said the number 100 bus was going exactly where I wanted and stopped in front of my hotel. Except it didn’t. Not even sure if there is a 100 bus anymore. There was a very nice, very helpful man who gave me directions to where the  bus now stopped, except that he was wrong and now I had managed to get pretty hopelessly lost. My map only shows main streets and I clearly wasn’t on one.

So I walked. My theory was that if I just went downhill I’d eventually find a main street that was on my map or I’d hit the river, which is a pretty good landmark in anyone’s book. Water runs downhill, right?  My only concern with this theory is that Lisbon is reported to be built on 7 hills, so I could just get stuck in a valley this way. (BTW, my tour guide last night assured me that Lisbon only has 5.5 hills. The last dictator just wanted it to sound mythical like Rome.)  The walk gave me the opportunity to notice that the majority of the sidewalks are almost on the same level with the street, a convenience for automobiles which drive and park directly on the sidewalk. In a few areas, they have metal posts to keep the cars on the road. And I found that you can complain about the traffic with anyone, even if you don’t share a common language.

And it eventually worked. I found a lovely, broad boulevard called Liberdade. There is pricey shopping on either side and the strip down the middle was a shaded park, with extensive landscaping, fountains, pools for fish. Perfect for walks. But I had walked enough already. So I boarded a double decker, sight seeing bus and let it drive me around while I listened with earphones to a recording of someone with questionable English skills tell me what we were passing. There is no pick up point near my hotel, but the ticket will be good until tomorrow. Seriously, these bus tours are a great way to see a lot in a little time and are budget conscious. You can usually jump on and off at will.

The big sites I saw today:

l Torre de Belem–sort of the symbol of Lisbon and built in the Manueline style found only here. It is a defensive tower that used to sit on an island in the middle of the river Tajo (Tagus in Portuguese), but now is at the river’s edge, since the swampy land between the tower and the monastery have been filled in. Built 1515-1520. Manueline is decorative without being fussy. It has both religious and nautical motifs.

l Monument to the Discoverers–built in 1960 to mark the 500 anniversary of the death of Henry the Navigator. It faces the river and includes the likenesses of the heroes of Portugal’s age of discovery, the 15th Century. At the top of the column of heroes, it Henry, holding a model of the Caravel—the sailing ship that made it all possible. And i thought it was just a chocolate bar!

l Jeronimos Monastery–also Manueline style. Dom Manuel I built the Monastery and abbey in the early 16th century, as a thanks for all the maritime discoveries that had made the country rich. Buried there are Vasco da Gama (first to sail around Africa’s Cape of Good Hope) and Henry the Navigator (son of Dom Joao, Prince Henry was the driving force behind overseas expansion in the 15th century. If he were alive today, he would be a rock star.). Also, Luis de Camoes, a great Portugal poet. My tour guide last night told me that I could never understand Portugal unless I read this poet, so I must do so.

l Museum of Antique arts–which is at he Monastery and I accidentally paid admission thinking that I was paying to go into the church. It was worth the 3 Euro, though. they have a large display of Egyptian mummies, art. And an interesting collection of photographs taken in Egypt in 1902.

I also drove past the bullfighting arena (and I understand they may have a bullfight Thursday?); several lovely squares; the bridge that looks like the Golden Gate, the statue of Jesus from across the river and an aqueduct system (not Roman, for a change). I’m happy with most of my photos and can’t wait to share them.

The weather is hot. Temperatures are 80+ with not a cloud in site. I think I burned the top of my head.

Other ways to tell this is Europe:  There is a hand towel, but no face cloth, called a face flannel here. You are expected to bring your own as it is more sanitary. My room is on the 3 floor, though you would climb 4 flights of steps to reach it. The ground floor is not counted as one.

Another clue is that dinner is late. I have just come back from a lovely meal at Clara’s, located 3 blocks from my hotel, just across the park. I left at 10:30pm, just as the real diners were arriving.

I was seated in the garden, and even with the smokers, two tables over, could smell the flowering vines. I had planned to order the cod, but the waiter talked me out of it. He felt that boiled cod should not be served to anyone who was not raised in Portugal. He suggested the bream, filleted with the head on, and grilled. It was served with a buttery wine sauce, new potatoes and greens in garlic butter. I started to order a white wine, but he assured me I would enjoy the local beer with this dish much more. Both suggestions were less expensive than I would have ordered, so how could I refuse?   He laid out a crisp white linen cloth for me and real silverware. He lit small votive candles in shimmery cut crystal globes. My bottled water was served in a goblet and came with fresh bread, chewy on the outside and tender just inside the crust. Served with a soft cheese, with just a hint of blue veining. I could see the moon—one day short of full—over the ancient garden wall and listen to the fountain. The only incongruous thing was a rooster, crowing well past his bedtime. But the crowing cock is the signature of Lisbon and, more importantly, it may mean that the eggs are very fresh.

And of course the waiter was right about the selection. Perfectly grilled. Perfectly seasoned. I ate all the fish, did not mind the small bones I had to set aside and considered how much flesh might be in the head. And even though I am not much of a beer drinker, this was wonderful beer, served in a chilled glass and carefully poured so as to create only the tiniest foam across the top. Alas, it is not available in the states.

The two French women, the smokers, were much more friendly than rumors indicate. It may have been that I volunteered to take their photograph. Or it could have been the enormous bottle of wine they had just finished. The young women, I would guess mid 20’s, asked me to join them for coffee and dessert. They were on holiday from Paris, their first visit to Lisbon. They seemed completely unaware of the tourist sites. And uninterested. They listened politely to my descriptions of Belem and the monastery and then asked if I could recommend a bar that would stay open until morning, preferably one with dancing. I was no help. The ladies ordered a chocolate cake that they would split. My waiter suggested that I trust him once again, he would make me something special. But, of course!

He served their cake with two silver forks. Then presented my plate with a flourish. He had cut me a thin slice of each of the four desserts!  A sponge cake, soaked in orange and topped with marmalade. A lemon cheesecake—light as air—topped with raspberry jam. A rich chocolate cake with chocolate icing. And a sugary vanilla mouse, whipped with toasted coconut and candied walnuts. The French are so unattractive when they are jealous.

I left an enormous tip by Portugal’s standards, though it was only 20 percent. He practically carried me to the ladies room when I asked for directions and walked me out the door offering to call me a cab personally. He kissed my hand, which seemed excessive based on my khakis and red t-shirt. And the fact that the money had come from a pouch worn around my neck and stuffed in my bra.

I did not take the cab, but walked back through the park which was now quite occupied now that the cool of the evening had taken over. Two boys were shooting hoops, each trying to impress the girl on the sidelines in the short blue jean skirt. We could have been back in my hometown. There were a half dozen young children playing on the slide and swings. I estimate their ages at between 5 and 7. It seemed late for them to be out on a school night. Their parents were talking and when I greeted them “Hello” they asked if I was from the UK. I’ve gotten that a lot since I got here, though I suspect it has little to do with a confusion of my Midwestern accent and that of the English. The UK is very near and they are probably guessing with the odds. Besides, it is not offensive for a US American to be mistaken for English, though I doubt the reverse is true. One of the parents confessed that when her children got home from school she gave them, “the cookie and then the wine. And then they take the long nap.”  Maybe it wasn’t so late for them.

I am now in my hotel room, sitting at the tiny desk in the niche of the window, which is open. The breeze is very cool, delightful after the sunny day. In the distance I realize that the stone wall I see is part of Castelo de Sao Jorge (St. George’s Castle). It is lit at night. I did not notice it during the day. This is where I plan to visit tomorrow, along with the Se convent. Assuming I don’t get lost.

I mentioned that my hotel is located between a hospital and a police station. It makes for poor sleeping when the ambulance or the police sirens go by. but I need the window open. What I failed to notice is the Military Academy straight across from my room. At 7am they play music, I assume the Portuguese version of reveille  (spelling?), over the loud speakers. Who needs an alarm clock?

Day 3 in Lisbon, 5/7/09

Honest, I’m a bright woman. I’ve travel a lot, with nothing more than a guidebook and a vague sense of the exchange rate. And I’ve gotten along well. But the public transportation has me beat here. Now that I’ve walked about a third of the city, I begin to understand. First the trolleys mostly take you where you need to go if you live and work here, not to tourist sites. Same with the metro lines. Can’t tell about the buses because they have changed from my map. They are also different from the public transportation map that I got at the Tourist Information booth. And some nuns assured me today that the maps on the bus stops are also out of date. (and I don’t think the nuns would lie!)

This morning I had not figured all that out however. I found my way to the Bullfighting ring, only to find that the fight is next Thursday. I really want to see a bullfight and the Portuguese bullfight is distinctive from the Spanish. New plan. I was lost for an hour trying to find a metro station. In desperation, I hailed a taxi. The driver spoke no English and I confused him by pronouncing Jorge as “HOR hey” and Castle as “cas STEEL”. Finally I pointed to the words in my guidebook. He says, “Oh castle GEORGE!” and away we went. He drove fast in the narrow streets but it was all up hill so I wasn’t about to complain and walk some more. I was on my way to Castelo de Sao Jorge, St. George’s Castle, the highest point in Lisbon. And it only cost 5 Euro. On the way, I noticed, but did not get a chance to photograph, a condom dispenser located right on the street. Nice to know they are safe here!

The earliest archaeological evidence indicates that the hill that the castle stand on was occupied as early at the 7th Century BCE. They have found iron age tools. Under the Romans, this was a fortress and residential area, known as Olissipo by 138BCE. There were large pottery operations here, due to the proximity of clay along the riverbank and plenty of trees to fire the kilns. And there was much trade, as amphorae of wine and oil have been found from Italy, Spain, Greece and Mid East. The castle was built by the Moors in 11th Century and the area was renamed Al-Uxbuna. The named changed to Lixbona in 1147 when Henry (Dom Afonso Henrigues, first king of Portugal) captured the city after a 5 month siege. Over the years the name morphed to Lisboa.

All that history is actually pretty difficult to glean from the castle itself as the displays are “rustic” at best. There are few signs in any language. The site is an amazing vantage point for photos of the city and the river., so the admission price is worth it for that alone. You can walk the upper walls of almost the entire fortification, assuming your balance is good since it is narrow, uneven and there is virtually no railing. A site like this would be considered too dangerous  for tourist in the US. Personally, I walked the walls but decided my knees didn’t need to view the city from the top of every single tower.

At this point in my travels, I’ve seen a lot of Medieval castles. I am struck by how cold and uninviting they really are. These are forts, not palaces. But I did find all the water collection points interesting—hard to get more than rain water on the top of the hill and you have to be prepared in the case of a lengthy siege. One thing I had not seen before were several “seats” built into the walls. I don’t mean just the court yards, but also at the top where the guards sat. Along one side several of the stone seats even had a round indention that would have perfectly fitted a tankard of ale! I have the photo to prove it.

Other than that, the castle grounds are compact, with a few statues, a couple peafowl and a couple dozen stray cats. There was LOTS of shopping just outside the gates but there just wasn’t a thing I was interested in. Sorry if I don’t bring people back anything, but I didn’t see anything anyone would seriously want. And the older I get the less I want, outside of new experiences.

As I left the castle, a taxi pulled up. I pointed in my guidebook to Se’ Catedral. Four Euro later, I was in front of Lisbon’s cathedral, built by Dom Afonso Henrigues (the same King Henry who seized the castle), shortly after taking over the city. It stands on the site once occupied by the city’s main mosque, and you know there was a message in THAT. The current building is a restoration and reconstruction. Like much of Lisbon, it was greatly damaged in the 1755 earthquake. I found the building severe. Without a guide or at least a guidebook, you wouldn’t be able to distinguish this from any other old church. Highlights include: a baptismal font that may have blessed St. Anthony as a child; two bell towers—a taller, third tower collapsed in the earthquake an was not rebuilt; the Romanesque Nave is nice and is about all that remains of the original building although it was heavily restored.; and a Gothic Ambulatory with chapels and tombs. There was a treasury, but the relics it once held were all lost in the earthquake.

I know that all sounds like a lot to do in one day, but frankly it takes longer to tell about the above than it did to see it and take a few photos. When I walked out of the Cathedral, it was noon and I literally had nothing else on the agenda for the day.

So I walked. That’s how I figured out the city. I walked downhill towrd the river to the Praca do Comercio (Commercial Square) which is being reconstructed. I walked up the Rua da Prata and through the grand Triumphal Arch that marks the entrance to the Rua Augusta—the pricey and touristy pedestrian shopping area of the Baixa (pronounced BAA he ah) . From there I saw lovely town squares, Praca da Figueire and Rossio , Praca Dom Pedro IV).

I wandered over to the Elevator de Santa Justa. I had seen it from the tour bus, but it is located in a narrow street and I couldn’t get a photo as we moved quickly by. This is the oddest structure I’ve ever seen and as far as I can tell, serves no purpose except to take the money of tourists. It was designed by a student of Eiffel (think “tower”). It literally just lifts you about 3 stories from the Baixa to the Carmo ruin in the Chiado (she AH doe) district so that you can go to even more expensive shotp and restaurants. I didn’t go up, but I took photos.

I continued up the Avenida da Liberdade—the one I found yesterday with the lovely pedestrian boulevard in the center of the wide street. Today I walked the length of it to the Praca (the word seems to mean square?) Marques de Pombal. The statue of the virtual dictator who reconstructed Lisbon after the earthquake is located in the center of a huge and busy roundabout where all the major roads of Lisbon converge. It is at the foot of the sloping hill that is the Edward VII park. From there I walked to my hotel in the Estefania District. Roughly 4 million miles. Give or take a million.

I do not shop in the pricey areas. I make it a rule to go a minimum of 2 blocks off any major shopping area, 4 blocks if there is a Louis Vuiton store. But the Estefania neighborhood is mostly residential, so on the way, found a Dora the Explorer bag for my niece. It is silly and cheap, but she is 3 and will love it. And I can say I actually bought something in Lisbon.

Phew!  That walk should make up for my missing my walking group both days this weekend. I was glad to get back to my room, shower and type all this up. Greater Lisbon has 3 million people, and on foot it seems they are all tourists. So far my favorite photoso far is the graffiti on a church wall, “Tourist, go home!”

But all this means that I’ve actually done all the sites I considered most important in Lisbon and I still have two days left!  Rick Steves says Lisbon is worth 2 days and he is right. So for tomorrow, I’m getting out of town for the day. I’ve booked a tour to Sintra, Cascais & Estoril. It is called the “O Verde e o Mar” Tour (Green and Sea?) I hardly have any idea what all that means, though. Here is what the brochure for the tour says: “Visit to the National Palace (Palacia da Vila) and its Historical Centre with free time to taste the traditional cheese pastries. Drive through the National Park of Sintra-Cascais, till Roca Cape, the most western point of the Continental Europe. Visit Hell’s Mouth (Boca do Inferno). Walking tour of Cascais, a charming village with a traditional fishermen harbour. Panoramic view over Casino Estoril and its gardens.”

Pastries, a palace and panoramic views. I’m there.

Tonight’s dinner was a restaurant within walking distance. I find that is a safer bet when there is so much wine involved and I am what is known as a “cheap date”.

Dinner was at O Adade, which seems to be a local place as they could not find an English menu for me, even though it said there was one on the door. This is often the best kind of place. The waiter was young and could understand English, but not confident enough to speak it. With the help of the cook, I was told that their meat dishes were their specialty, not fish, and they particularly liked pork. So I ordered something called The Secret of Black Pork with the house red wine. When I asked what it was they could only pantomime that it was from the pig’s leg. I wonder how many of us know what part of the animal we are eating?

The restaurant was small, you could watch the cook work and inspect most of the pantry from your chair. The place is spotlessly clean, more than I would expect from a local restaurant. The walls are wainscot in a blue tile with a much painted stucco above. The tablecloth and napkin are linen. With my wine, I am served toasted bread, a column  of soft “cheese” and a plate of individual tubs of butter and sardine pate’. The cheese is later described on the bill as queijo fresco, fresh cheese. It tasted like whipped Crisco, but I have had fresh cheese made in the Indian style and it has much the same lack of flavor. With trepidation, I tried the sardine pate’ and it was actually good. You have to be careful with these “starters” since they aren’t offered free. If you eat them, you will be charged and you can be quite surprised by the price.

The Secret of Black Pork turns out to be a simple, pan fried pork steak. Fatty but flavorful. But if you are concerned about fat, don’t order pork!  I did some trimming of the meat, but honestly it would not have been much improved by a sauce. It was served with lemon wedges which cut the fatty taste. I also got a salad of lettuce, tomato and shredded carrot (no dressing) and french fries. For dessert, a mango mousse.

Not much of a meal, but a nice evening.

Now I am back in my room. I’ve rinsed out a few things and they are drying at the open window. I carry laundry soap and a braided clothesline that needs no clothes pins. I don’t carry many clothes so I expect to have to wash underwear and socks myself.)

I have managed to learn three words: Ola which means Hello and is pronounced just like the Spanish Hola (Oh la). Adeus, Goodbye. And Obrigado, which is Thank you. I remember it because it is so like the Japanese word for the same thing. Why would that be?

Day 4 in Lisbon 5/8/09

I was rushed this morning. My tour started at 9am, with a pick up at my hotel. I barely got yesterday’s travelogue sent!  Problems with the power here at the hotel—not serious, just a glitch.

We drove directly to Sintra, the site of the summer palace. I would have loved to have visited the mountain above the palace where the ruins of the original Moorish fortress stands. Several of my photos have this as the background. The town of Sintra is probably lovely, if you could manage to get the tourist out of the way long enough to see it. Again, lots of shops and nothing I was interested in buying. My guidebook warned that the place could get crowded in summer or on weekends. If this was NOT crowded, I would hate to see what that would look like.

Sintra was the summer retreat of Portuguese kings from the 13th to the late 19th  centuries. Before that it was a small Moorish town. Many of the doors and windows contain these influences. The  palace is easily recognizable by the twin chimneys, which I found very odd, even out of place. Joan (John) I built the majority of the rooms of the palace in the 15th century.

We had a tour guide for the palace, a lovely woman named Clara who had to conduct the tour in Portuguese, French and English. She claimed English was her worse language, but the only English word she didn’t seem to know was “trident” when referring to a statue of the god of the sea. My Portuguese and French should be so bad.

The palace is lovely. Highlights include the lovely tiles on the walls, some original, some added in the 17th century and some reconstructed to replace those damaged in the earthquake of 1755. They talk about this event like it happened just a few years ago. They are still reconstructing and repairing from it. Also, I loved how the rooms were constructed around several inner gardens and accessible to the outside.


We stayed in Sintra for lunch and I chose the lovely Cafe Central because I could sit outside under an ancient tree and view the entrance to the palace. Later, they explained to me that this was the Tree of Tilea and a tea can be made from it’s leaves. The cafe had chains draping the branches and I’ll bet at night they hang lanterns. It must be lovely.

I ordered the special of the day—a bread casserole. I’d never even heard of such a thing. It is essentially a wet stuffing, made with lots of garlic and olive oil. On top was an outer ring of perfectly steamed and peeled shrimp, an inner ring of cilantro leaves and a raw egg yolk in the center. The waiter, asked to serve me. When they say that, just go with it. It’s always the right choice. So he took about half the shrimp off the top and put it on my plate. Then he mixed the cilantro, yolk and remaining shrimp together thoroughly before scooping some on my plate. “I have been practicing my ‘flourish’. What do you think?” It was such an adorable line, I practically applauded. The meal was excellent!  If—like me—you prefer the stuffing to the turkey on Thanksgiving, this is the dish for you.

The hostess who seated me was quite impressive. She was from Brazil and I heard her speak English, French, Spanish and Italian. She told me that the hardest language was Portuguese from Portugal as her native Portuguese was nothing like what is spoken here. She asked me if i liked the coriander in the dish and it took me a minute to remember that Cilantro is the LEAF of the coriander plant.

For desert I was offered either cheesecake or chocolate cake. Both sounded too heavy. I had heard so much about the local pastry. When I declined the waiter said he would bring me something special. “Just a bite!” He came back with a small torte filled with sugary egg custard, and a large rolled pastry filled  with an almond paste. Goodness, what if he had brought me a large serving and not a sample?  They were wonderful, of course. When I complained that he had not charged me for the pastries, he looked offended. “It is a gift! I offered it to you. No charge.”  And hardly anything will get you a larger tip that THAT.

Up the hill from the Sintra Palace is the Quinta da Regaleira. Quinta means “farm”. This is an unusual and extravagant summer home built in the neo-maneline  decorative style for Carvalho Monteiro, described in my guidebook as an eccentric millionaire. The house is amazing—especially the carved wooden ceilings. The “book tower” was nothing but a room room with shelves, but they had carefully placed a ring of mirrors about 6 inches wide on the floor abutting and reflecting the shelves. It looked like the floor was suspended between two towers of books. I had to touch the glass to be sure. The gardens and grottoes were even better, particularly this time of year when everything is fresh and green or blooming—particularly the bird of paradise. I took way too many photographs. If you want to see them, you will have to sit through them all.

From there we drove to Cabo da Roca, Cape Roca, the westernmost point in Europe. The road there was narrow and winding, so that’s what I thought the driver was referring to when he said, “this is the most accidental place in Europe.”  I thought this was just a quirt of learning English. Later, when I checked the brochure, I realized he had said “occidental” which translates in Portuguese and Spanish as “western”. Silly me. Glad I didn’t “correct” him.

Cabo da Roca, can best be described as rocky and windswept. At first I thought the place was landscaped because there were different flowers everywhere. The ground is mass of succulents, which happen to be in bloom, along with the occasional spreading juniper and century plant—like a giant agave. The driver told me they call the flowers “smiling” “because it bring the rain”. He had to spell the word for me: Choroes, pronounced Sure ORANGE. It was just a 10 minute stop, but I got a couple amazing photos.

From there we drove to Boca do Inferno, the mouth of Hell. It is an area where the waves hit the rocks so hard that the spray could drown you. Basically, it is an interesting, windy, tourist trap. The entire coast here is nothing but black, craggy rock with the occasional beach. I was surprised to see so many fishermen with long poles. It must be a dangerous sport, what with the wind and unpredictable waves. On the beaches were kite surfers—a sport I am far too chicken to even think about trying.

Then a short drive to Cascais (cash KA-EYE-ISH, run all the last three syllables together) a small beach with a big casino. I dipped my toes in the Atlanta, which is surprisingly cold for a place with palm trees. We drove around the Casino Estoril and were told it is the  largest in Europe.

The route we took back to Lisbon was along the coast and the weather had cleared by then, so it was a beautiful drive. I was seated up front with the driver. This is one of the lucky accidents of being a single traveler because usually the driver feels obligated to talk to you. (In Puerto Rico the driver sang to me!) And I think I fell a little in love with my driver, Jose’. He is 51, a widower. His only child is a woman of 30. His life sounds very hard, though he did not complain. His regular job is as a taxi driver from 5pm to 5am. He works 6 days a week. He only drives for the Mr. Friend tour company one day a week, which means that he will not sleep for a day and a half. The money is good and he hopes to drive more regularly. He confessed that he felt terrible lying to his regular boss about the tour work. He gets back late and doesn’t start the taxi until 6:30, but he has convinced his boss that he is seeing a doctor for mysterious “treatments”. Like most of the world, Jose’s income was small and has gotten smaller in the current economic downturn, so he feels he needs the extra work.

Jose’ may be the most sincere man I have ever met. He told me that he goes to Fatima every year to light a candle for the health of his child, who he says has a hard life and lives 200km away. Still, she drives to lunch with him every Sunday. He said he was sure her continued health was because of the Lady of Fatima. He made me take his phone number in case I got lost at night so that I could call him. Jose’ promised to rescue me in his taxi and he would not charge me. Based on his complete refusal to accept a tip from me, I think I believe he would do this.

And I decided not to go to Fatima tomorrow. After witnessing his complete devotion, I feel it might be wrong to visit. I am not such a believer, nor even a seeker. I’m a tourist.

Pointless, but interesting things today:

You know you are an American when you wait in front of the elevator, just assuming the doors will open for you. In old buildings, elevators were installed well after construction and resemble a closet with push buttons. The door often looks just like any other door and you have to open it yourself to get in or out.

At breakfast, I saw a French woman peeling an orange with a knife. I had an orange for the same bowl and the skin was thick and peeled easily.

On the way to Sintra, I was struck by how much of the roadsides just outside the city are tilled for gardens—it is spring and you can see young plants.

The orange trees are full of fruit. Our driver explained that in much of the world the orange is known as portcullis—literally “coming from Portugal”. The word for tea here is chai, same as China, though pronounced with a hard K sound.

The hotel staff must like me—I got a bathmat!  The bad news is that there is a sewage smell coming from the sink. No U trap on the sink. Fortunately I carry a universal sink stopper—since these sinks have typically lost their stoppers long ago. I normally use it to wash out socks in the sink.

Day 5, final day in Lisbon, 5/9/09

I was finally successful in figuring out the metro, though I never did figure out the buses. I managed to find a station from my hotel, negotiate two different lines and get off at the right stop: The Metro Oriente, literally the east most station on the subway line. This is also Santa Apolonia Train Station. My train wasn’t until evening, but I had to check out of the hotel and this was the best place to leave my bag for the day.

And I was starting the day with a disadvantage—lack of sleep. This is a difficult place to rest at night because of the police station and hospitals and their sirens. And since the air had not been turned on yet, you have to have the widow open. This hard enough, but it seems that the louder travelers are all on my floor. At 3am, I woke to laughing, giggling and loud talking in the hall. After 15 minutes, it was clear that this was young people flirting in about 3 languages, none of which was English, so it was pretty uninteresting. The ear plugs didn’t cut the sound, so I got up, stepped out the door and said in a commanding tone the “some of us were trying to sleep.”  I may even have threatened to call the front desk. They were all properly chastened and said that they were about to go out anyway, as though this is the time everyone leaves for the clubs. But as they turned away, I saw on their faces an expression I’m sure I once delivered well: You poor old woman, don’t you remember what it was like to have fun? When you were young?  Like us?  Ick!  That kept me awake longer than their talking.

The train station is along the river at the base of the Alfama, the oldest residential district. The Arabic sounding name and the warren of streets are proof of its Moorish origins. The street plan remains mostly intact from those times. Not a single building, except for bits of the castle, survive from the years before “Reconquest”, as the 1147 campaign of the Christians to defeat the Moors is called. Technically this neighborhood was probably poor fisherman and sailors along the river and the higher you climb, the more prosperous houses. From what I read—and what I’m about to say is considered heresy—Alfonso Henriques didn’t do anyone any favors. By all accounts, Muslims, Jews and Christians lived side by side in peace for hundreds of years before he came to “save” everyone from the Moors. And we are still fighting.

After I found a locker for my bag—it cost 4.5 Euros for all day—I headed up the hill to the Campo de Santa Clara. Campo is the same word in Portuguese, Spanish and Italian and it literally translates to “field” but it has come to mean a small town square. Here I found the weekly Feira da Ladra—The Thieves’ Market. It is a combination of flea market, antique bazaar and yard sale. In addition to cloth, jewelry and leather goods, I spied solid wood furniture, gilded picture frames, porcelain doll heads, old tiles, used bras, musical instruments, old coins and a gas mask. My favorite find—a Soviet era flack suit with helmet. I actually considered it, but those outfits are so hard to accessorize.

I’m not a shopper, but I enjoy the unusual items for sale and the sounds of haggling, even if I did not inherit my mother’s penchant for it. I did buy an inexpensive, funky necklace for myself.

Back down hill toward the dome of Santa Engracia, now the Panteao Nacional (pronounce the “c” as “th” and you get the Castilian list)—The National Pantheon. The dome is a standing joke for those from Lisbon. It was finally added in 1966, only 284 years after construction of the church. The Portuguese have a saying, “a job like Santa Engracia” for any project that takes just this side of forever. There is a 2.5 Euro admission, though if I were staying on more day the admission is free on Sunday. (Note to others:  Lots of museums are free on Sunday, closed on Monday)   The interior is marble with almost identical marble sarcophagus(sarcophagi?). My guidebook calls them cenotaphs so there is a word I must look up when I have internet access. Regardless, most of them in the central area are empty. Vasco de Gama and Henrigue de Infante (Prince Henry, The Navigator) are there in name only as both are interred at Moesterio dos Jeronimos (though after 500 years, I wonder how much can be left?)  The side chapels held Portugal’s politicos and artists, though everyone has plenty of room to spare—nothing like Westminster Abby.

A lovely older couple were putting fresh flowers on the tomb of Fado singer Amalia Rodrigues. They were devoted, but dignified, groupies. I had not intended to take a photo, but they were just finishing up arranging the third bouquet when I came in. At the sight of my fancy camera, I was told, “Um Momento” as the woman made the finishing touches. I raised my camera. I was considering just pretending to take the photo. “Nao!” , she yelled. (it sounds like nown  and means “no”) She pantomimed that another second was needed. Then she got down on her hands and knees to scoop up a fallen leaf and some debris from a fern. How could I not snap the picture now?  So I framed the photograph very seriously and took two, at different settings, so the couple would know I was serious. The gentleman knew a few words of English, about as many words as I know of Portuguese. “Amalia! To singing the Fado. BEEE U TEE FUL!”  Amalia died in 1999, so these people may have seen her sing, may even have known her personally. She was moved here in 2001.

The other memorial thing about the Panteao Nacional is the bathroom, or WC. They are without a doubt the most inconvenient and poorly marked ever. There is one room, shared by all comers (goers?) located up two flights of stairs with signs pointing in every direction except up. Clearly the restroom was an afterthought. The doorways up are dangerously low.

Back at River level, I went to the Museu do Fado—The Museum of Fado Music. Before I decided to come to Lisbon, I had never heard of Fado. In my research, I had read bits and pieces about it and wanted to know the official story. The museum is a series of new displays in an old building that also houses a school. This essentially Portuguese music began in the early 19th century and the first documentation seems to be the 1830’s. Fado was the music of the ruffians of the streets. An 1860’s description of a fado singer, fadista, portrays a heavy drinking street brawler, sporting tattoos, a knife wound or two, and having spent time in prison. His girlfriend was always a prostitute. Over the years, it became a respectable art form for both men and women. The songs are only in Portuguese and read like poetry.

The museum was sparse, but the entrance price included an audio tour, in English. There were stationary displays, as I expected, but this one also had film clips projected on the walls. If you saw one you liked, you could punch the number and the music would join in progress. I listened to several, but without an English translation I was lucky to catch a half dozen words, and those were the words I know from Spanish. One of these audio visual displays was of a popular current singer, Carlos. If you are famous enough you only need one name. He is the Cher or Madonna of Fado. This song I listened to twice because it had the English translations and because this was more than a film clip—it was a music video. The song was achingly, painfully beautiful. He likens the city of Lisbon to a flower, one that does not bloom for him. He wanders the city at night, loving the streets, the energy. He is wistful but not regretting his devotion. But in the fall of his life, on this night, as the moon sets and the sun rises, the flower blooms for him. Lisbon finally loves him.

OK, so it sounds sappy, but it was lovely.

I took a late lunch at a cafe along the Rua de Jardim do Tobacco (the Tobacco Garden Street). I started with the toast and sardine pate’. I never would eat this at home, but here somehow it seems just the right thing. For soup I ordered the Acorda, Alentejo style. Originally a poor man’s soup from along the Tejo River area: Al en Tejo. Personally, I think “acorda” is short for “according to what you have” because the soup started as only hot water with garlic and oil, a bit of old bread and an egg on top. More was thrown in if you had it to spare. My soup was a rich broth, probably chicken. A slick of olive oil floated on top, along with a few shredded cilantro leaves. The garlic was fresh minced and abundant. I pity the person who sits near me on the train tonight. On top of a raft of bread was a coddled egg with a runny yolk. It was served piping hot, as all food is here. Simple, perfect food. I loved it.

The main course was chargrilled sardines. They were served with a simple lettuce, carrot, red cabbage salad, garnished with tomato slices, vinegar and oil on the side. Two cold, boiled potatoes, that had been finished in the pan with butter and salt, sat on one side of the plate. These were not the tiny tined sardines covered in mustard that my father loved. (My mother would refuse to kiss him when he ate them.) These were 6 to 7 inches in length and about as big around as three of my fingers.

I have little practice eating fish prepared with the head on. It is a meal to be eaten slowly, thoughtfully separating skin and bones from flesh. I quickly found that I needed to completely remove all traces of the green stomach/intestines or suffer with the bitter taste. The English would refer to this as the “wobbly bit”, the animal part you want to avoid, but can’t, or perhaps don’t want to, identify.

When in doubt, I order the dessert I can’t pronounce. Today it turned out to be a rich walnut layer cake. Between each of the 4 layers is an impossibly sweet buttercream frosting—which may have been made with lard—and a generous layer of crushed walnuts. Whole walnuts and a drizzle of caramel on top. Yum-O. The whole meal, including bottled water, coffee and tip came to 15 Euro.

I was sitting outside the tiny cafe, facing the square in front of the Fado Museum. This is slightly off the tourist route. Sitting in the shade on the bench were two old men. They reminded me of the pensioners I saw in Italy. They sat smoking, following the movements of the passersby with faint interest. They were silent. One was rail thin, his mouth hung open and he was in need of a shave. His hands were calloused, his skin leathery from a life spent out of doors, though he now looked fragile. I imagined him as an old fisherman. He wore an ancient, frayed sweater, but the second sweater, draped over his shoulders, looked brand new. The backs of his leather shoes were broken down to make them more slippers than slip-ons. I did not see him walk, but I suspect he shuffled.

The second man was almost, but not quite, portly. He was in better health, smoking a pipe and wearing a woolen suit jacket that had probably been his best at one time. He was shaved and wore a shapeless, black cap, with gold rimmed glasses. I imagined him as a retired businessman, drinking a single glass of port at the corner bar before coming home to his wife each night.


Though they did not talk, I felt they were long acquainted and their’s was a friendship that didn’t need trite conversation. Both the men and their clothes were faded to the color of the bench so that they seemed to become part of the square, fixtures, statues. As my dessert was being served, however, I saw their faces light up. They were looking at a laughing child of perhaps a year old, thrilled with his first wobbly steps. The child shrieked with enjoyment each time he plopped down in the campo (square). Then a single “Ha!” when he regained his feet, helped by his father who held one hand. The old men looked at the child and smiled. Then they wordlessly exchanged a knowing nod ….and a shrug. The gesture said it all: In the blink of an eye the child would be running, driving, and—if he was lucky enough—holding the hand of his own wobbly child. They had seen it all before, done it all before themselves. And I got the feeling they would do it all again if they could.

After lunch, I walked to the Museu Nacional do Azulejo—The National Tile Museum. The way I remember the word for tile is that most early tiles were blue (azul). The Turkish word is similar. This museum is beyond the Alfama district, much farther than I realized, and by now it was raining. I walked 2.5 km before I came to it, though it was along the river and fairly flat. Still it is amazing how hilly “flat” can be when you are walking in the rain and don’t know how much farther it will be. The museum is housed in a former convent. I enjoyed the exhibit on how to make tile, though it is really a type of pottery. I recognized tiles from the Sintra Palace. The extensive collection of Moorish and Portuguese tile was lovely, but frankly I was museum-ed out by this point and should not have attempted it. I did enjoy the Manueline cloister—now glassed in to protect the collection, and the visitor, from the elements. And the small Madre de Deus Church, no longer an active place of worship, was stunning.

As I type this I am at the Train station. I had to confirm my ticket since it is “internationale” and not regional. I followed the signs that said to walk to the far end of the station to porta (door) 54, the furthest from the entrance. Porta 54 was locked tight. There was a sign saying that this was permanently closed and I needed to go back to the entrance and check in at line one. Well, they are still busy with the reconstruction from the earthquake of 1755, so what can you expect?

Pointless observations:

People here have better knees, or at least their knees get more of a workout. The seat of the average bench is little over a foot off the ground.

Bullfights in Madrid, 2009

Where the Portuguese were essentially silent, the Spanish are not. Ever. Everything must be discussed endlessly, preferably at top speed and volume. At the exit of the station, taxis were lined up. I went to the head of the line, presented the hotel address to the taxi driver. The address was passed about and discussed by no less than 6 drivers, each of who knew a better way to get there. My own driver insisted he knew best, waved the others on with a scowl and helped me into the car. When we got out of sight of the others, however, he pulled the car to the curb, reached under his seat and pulled out a navigation system!  He punched in the address, winked at me, and we were off.

At the hotel, it was not yet 10am and my room would not be ready for another 2 hours. I really wanted a shower and a nap, but instead let them hold my bag while I went to orient myself. I take two precautions for my first excursion. I grab the hotel business card and I have the desk clerk mark on a map the location of the hotel. I am staying at the Hotel Lorenzo on the Calle Cavel, just steps from The Grand Via, Puerta del Sol and at least 2 metro stops. If I had known that (if I had bothered to check my Metro map) I would have skipped the taxi and used public transportation. In 20 minutes, I had bought a two day pass on the double decker tour bus system, my favorite way to get oriented. Despite occasional showers, I went around one full turn on the bus, seeing the main sites from the top. The audio guide is only fair, but better than the one in Lisbon. I find that I cannot take in all the information in on one round, so I plan a minimum of two. A second day ticket was only 3 Euro more, and the bus can serve as cheap transportation for Monday.

By the time I got back to where I started, I had time to grab a quick Jamon y queso sandwich (ham and cheese) and check into my room. To say that the room is “small” would be to risk over-estimating its dimensions. It is the size of a walk-in closet. I have to open the shower door to make room for my knees when I sit on the commode. But it is clean and I was grateful to shower and put on fresh clothes.

My plan was to get back on the tour bus, this time getting off at one or two stops. I grabbed my guidebook to help me decide which when I suddenly remember it was Sunday, the day Madrid has bullfighting!  The front desk confirmed this and I quickly got directions for the 7pm show. That left me with enough time to go one more round with the tour bus and then a nap.

I can’t tell you how very hard I sleep at times like this. I didn’t move, and I wonder it I even breathed. It took a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) before I was confident I could negotiate the subway. With the help of the desk clerk, I had practiced how to buy a ticket. “Por favor, un Metro-bus, de diez viages.”  (one Metro ticket with 10 trips). This is the best deal. But when I arrived, the ticket gate was locking up and I was pointed toward the bank of ticket machines. I must have looked mystified, because an older gentleman took me by the arm and walked me to them. I delivered my rehearsed line. “Bueno!”  He applauded. I felt like a good student. He pushed all the buttons for me, “aqui e aqui” (here and here). I handed him a 10 Euro note for the 7.50 fare—the man could have taken it—but he put it in the machine and out popped my ticket and change. “Voile!”  (OK, so that’s French, but it really is the perfect word and no other language has it.)  I was so thrilled I kissed him on both of his stubbly cheeks.

The metro ride was a straight shot and once I was sure I was headed in the right direction, I could sit back for the 20 minute ride and people watch. I have done a fair bit of traveling to Spanish speaking countries, but this is Castillian Spanish, the birthplace of the language. To my ears it is quite different, a combination that will take some getting used to. It is on the one hand a more expressive, expansive tongue. The addition of trills and rhythms not dreamed of in American English. But the Castilian “lisp” adds an effeminate touch and almost leaves me laughing, especially when I heard it from the lips of a bodybuilder on the train.

The bullfight area, Madrid, Spain
The bullfight area, Madrid, Spain

My faith in my ability to navigate a subway is restored. No trouble getting to the Venta Metro stop—Madrid’s Bullfighting Arena. This one was built in 1929 to hold 23,000 people. It is a Moorish design, of brick and trimmed in tile. I first had to purchase a ticket, but the initial price I was given was staggering—120 Euro. But I was prepared, “Caro!” (Expensive!) With a wave of my hand I was ready to walk, which was a fairly safe bluff since there were other ticket booths.  So he just kept showing me tickets until we came to a price I would pay, 22.50. But where was I sitting?  “Donde esta?” (Where is it?) Fortunately the man at the gate replied with one of the few things I could understand, “Puerta Proxima.”  Next door!  From there, you get pointed each step of the way, so I was safe, though I’d have never found it alone. But I have the same problem at a Braves game, so that doesn’t mean much.

This is before the seats filled up
This is before the seats filled up

The seats are concrete and so narrow that sardines in tins have more elbow room… if they had elbows. I had forgotten the word for “shade” so it was just luck that I ended up there; the sunny seats looked uncomfortable. The rain earlier in the day had cleared and now there was not a cloud in the sky. And I was glad I got there early since the arena was near capacity when the band struck up at 7pm sharp. Who knew anything started on time in Spain?

I can’t remember if the root word for “arena” is Latin or Greek, but I do remember it means “sand” and refers to the sandy floor of the coliseum. I also remembered why sand was used—to soak up the blood. Let me say this up front:  Bullfighting is cruel. Still, if you visit Spain, you should go. Once. Part of me hopes that it is a matter of time before the world becomes a kinder, gentler place where blood sports are outlawed. And part of me feels that it is a very special, very interesting sport and it would be a shame to see it pass into history. Since I won’t be the one to decide, I can stay conflicted.

Madrid May 2009 Bullfight 53

And now that I’ve been, I may never go again. I was rooting for the bull, the ultimate underdog, with absolutely no chance to survive. Six bulls will die in a two hour spectacle. Rome gave the people “bread and circuses” with each event more bloody than the last. Every day they had to come up with newer, more exciting ways to kill both man and beast, just to keep it interesting. I can see why. By 8:05p I’d seen three bulls die and I was a bit bored.

Madrid May 2009 Bullfight 42I should have studied the art of bullfighting before I went, so I’m sure I’m not using the correct names for things. The event starts with a parade of the matadors. All wear toreador pants and pink socks and most carry a two colored cape, yellow and pink. Only the main matadors carry a red one. And they all have sequins and that silly hat. I can’t decide if they are resplendent or dressed in drag. It strikes me that making them  wear so much pink gives them a chip on their shoulder, something that makes them have to prove their manhood, like naming them Sue or Jayne. At the back of the parade are those who assist, including men on horseback. I could see that the horses were covered with a thick blanket, like a quilted armor. I had no idea how important that would be.

Madrid May 2009 Bullfight 26The ring is cleared and the first bull is released, black and snorting, his horns look fierce. He has ribbons tied to his withers (the hump where his neck joins the body) which I thought were decoration. It turns out to be a target. First the bull is taunted by a half dozen matadors. At this point, the bull is fresh and the matadors must be swift to out run him. Just like in American rodeo, they have a partition they can slip behind for safety. One matador had to clear the fence to keep from being gored, but these are young, lithe men, high on testosterone, so there is little danger. This is all for show. Then the padded horses come out and I notice that the rider has a pointed stick. At first I think it is horrible that the bull attacks the horse, raising its front feet off the ground and almost knocking it over. I am relieved when the man with the stick uses it to “push” the bull away. Only later do I realize how much the bull is bleeding. This occurs with every new bull. It is all part of wearing him down, weakening the bull. I’m amazed at how calmly the horse takes the abuse. It’s the second bull before I notice that the poor horse is blindfolded.

This is a terrible sport.

Madrid May 2009 Bullfight 60Only now does the main matador appear. He is flashier than the others with extra sequins. He carries a red cape and all the bravado he can muster. He is the poster child for testosterone poisoning. Now is when it becomes clear that this is theater, and it is being played big for the cheap seats. There is a lot of strutting, arching of the back, wide sweeps of the arms.  The matador makes exaggerated expressions and movements. He laughs. He flounces the cape like a flirting woman’s wide skirt. The point seems to be to get the bull to charge the cape in tight circles 3 times or more while the crowd yells “ole!”. It’s a bonus of the bull turns so sharply that he falls down. Then the matador turns his back on the bull, as though he has no fear of the animal and struts away to applause. I notice the matador keeps the bull in his peripheral vision. He may be proud but he is no fool. Now the half dozen lesser toreadors return. Three of them are holding matched sets of short, decorated spears. They take turns taunting the bull. As he runs for them, they plunge the spears into the neck, again aiming at the withers where a major artery lies.  The crowd boos if one falls out. By now, the bull looks like a pincushion and the blood is pouring.

Madrid May 2009 Bullfight 54The main matador comes back and brandishes his red cape for the bull a few more times. Even in his weakened state the bull continues to be attracted. He charges it each time, but he is weaker, losing the battle. The matador points a sword at the bull and you realize the end is near. The bull is panting and blood is dripping down his forelegs and hooves. On the next pass, the matador stabs. Twice the blade went in so far that only the hilt was visible. The other matadors are close by to distract the bull if needed. The stabbing continues until the bull falls.  When he does, his throat is cut with a short knife. The crowd applauds. The matador soaks in the adoration. The sand soaks in the blood. The clean up crew bring in the draught horses. They tie leather straps to the horns and drag the bull’s remains from the ring. Then the crowd stands and stretches while men with rakes and wheelbarrows clean up the blood.

As most of you know by now, I was raised on a farm. I know there are patterns with animal behavior, and if you learn them, you can keep yourself safe most of the time. You can use these patterns against the animal, to make him do what you want most of the time. If you want to know what a horse is about to do, for instance, watch its ears. Forward means it’s attentive. Laid back against the neck means watch out!  You can keep a horse from bucking if you hold tight to the reins and don’t let it drop its head. A n animal’s actions are mostly predictable. Knowing this, it’s clear to me that the bull follows the cape, not the man. I have no idea why or how anyone figured it out, but if the bull has an ounce of fight left in him, he can’t resist charging the cape. All you have to do is wave it in front of you and then when the bull charges, step aside. My brothers could have done that. Heck, they probably did!  A matador has learned these rules and uses them to his advantage to keep himself safe. If he never breaks the rules, he is unlikely to get hurt. Let me stress “unlikely” because the audience is there to see bloodshed—the matador’s or the bull’s. It’s just like NASCAR. If no one gets hurt, it isn’t much of a race.

To avoid the crush of the crowd, I left before the death of the last bull. I’d seen enough.

Day 2 in Madrid, 5/11/09

It is such a thrill to wake up in a new city after a good night’s sleep—my first since leaving my own bed in Georgia. This hotel is quiet. With my open window, I could hear the snoring of the Frenchman from across the narrow courtyard, but this was nothing like the sirens and chattering from Lisbon. The weather is clear but cool, I can smell desayuno (breakfast) cooking down stairs. And Madrid doesn’t have nearly so many hills to negotiate so my walks should be easier. The only blot on the day is that since it is Monday, few museums will be open.

After the Desayuno Ingles (English breakfast) and cafe con leche (coffee with milk), I jump onto the tourist bus. I stop at the Templo de Debod—a real Egyptian temple. It was boxed up and sent to Madrid as a thank you for Spain’s contribution in the effort to save Abu Simbel from the rising damn waters on the Nile. Then the Plaza de Oriente (Eastern Plaza) in front of the Placio Real (The Royal Palace) and the Catedral de la Almudena (Cathedral). This is one of the few spots that is open and everyone visiting seems to be in line to see the palace. It is only 9am and the wait to get in is over an hour. My guidebook warned me not to try it on a Monday. It also warned to buy the MadridCard on the day I want to see the most popular museums. It’s expensive, but lets you breeze past the lines for over 50 museums. Looking at the line, I decide it is worth the extra cost. I’ll get one for later in the week.

Next the Toledo Gate (Puerta de Toledo) the gate to the city, the most recent, built in 1827, really a triumphal arch, and one of the symbols of the city of Madrid.

The Plaza Major (may OR) has a rich history. The guidebook says it was built in 1619 to hold 50,000 people, but I doubt it would fit so many now with expanding waistlines. It has been the site of bullfights, open air theater, tournaments and religious executions of the Inquisition known as Auto-de-Fe’. The latter starts with a day of taunting and ends with being burned alive, so it really should change your definition of a bad day. The buildings around the square were the headquarters of important guilds such as the bakers, who controlled the price of wheat. It’s an interesting observation that the gallows stood beside the Casa de la Carniceria, the meat market. Ick. Today the Plaza Major is undergoing renovations. You can barely see the statue of Felipe III in the center for all the scaffolding. The street performers were mostly the silent, statue types. Available today: a white rabbit with heart shaped sunglasses, Darth Vader (very cheap costume), and Charlie Chaplin. My favorite was a man playing what the sign called a “Chinese violin” with had an eerie, but oddly soothing, sound. I tossed a few coins into his hat.

Next the Museo de Jamon. That’s right, if you remember your 8th grade Spanish, this is the museum of ham. Pork is a very respected meat here and thinly sliced ham is available in more varieties than you can shake a frying pan at. They are classed by the age and diet of the pigs, the highest prices going for pork fed on wild acorns. It is less a museum than a restaurant, though, and there are at least three around the city.

Then on to the Puerta del Sol. This was the site of the main gate to enter the city which is long gone. This busy intersection was the first to have electric street lights, trams (which are no more, sadly) and in 1919 Madrid’s first underground metro station.  Clearly it is undergoing another transformation. Most of it is inaccessible with massive construction.

This is also where I rejoined my tour bus, though I had to wait through 3 before one came by that was not already full. The buses move slowly, are overcrowded, and there aren’t enough of them through the middle of the day. The running commentary is recorded, often badly timed and after a second ride you can repeat it. On this particular one, I was shoved aside by a Frenchman and nearly knocked off my feet. But a very large Italian man simply stepped onto the bus, picked up the Frenchman by the collar, removed him from the bus. Then, without a single word, took my hand and helped me onto the bus. My hero!

You’ve heard of the game you play with kids, “Where’s Waldo”?  At the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, they play “Where’s the Guernica?”  For those who have forgotten their Survey of Art class, Guernica is arguably Pablo Picasso’s most famous work, certainly his most political. He painted the huge canvas in a space of about 2 months as a statement against the bombing of the defenseless civilian population in the Basque town of the same name during the height of the Civil War in 1937. The Reina Sofia is a huge art museum. Its four floors contain a staggering number of Modern Art pieces, mostly Spanish. Frankly, I’m not that crazy about Modern Art. I really just wanted to see the Guernica, and it was OK if I managed to stumble across a Dali or another Picasso. Clearly, this is the museum’s biggest fear. To guard against it they have no brochure to guide you and almost no floor layouts. The elevators only say whether a floor has a permanent or temporary collection. I followed the crowd to the second floor where I almost left when I saw all the construction and the huge line. The few English signs did not indicate until I had reached the entrance to the room whether or not the Guernica was available to view. Those who were leaving did not have a suitable “reverent” expression, so I was ready to bolt at any moment. Every time I was really to walk out, the line would move forward just enough to tempt me to stay. But suddenly an armed guard arrived and began waving people in. I usually see the opposite result when uniforms and guns are on the scene, but I moved forward with the crowd.

After passing two rooms of “postscriptos”, preparatory drawing for the final painting, I found my way to the masterpiece. Students sat on the floor in awe. People had sketch pads and were working frantically. No one made a sound. My reaction? Meh. I like the story behind the work. I appreciate what the painting did and what it represents. But I can take or leave the actual work of art. I did enjoy a quick perusal of the preliminary sketches, many of which were in color unlike the final work. Perhaps Picasso felt only black and white could convey the destruction appropriately. I also enjoyed the series of photos taken over a month long period as Picasso was working on the canvas. He made several major changes as he worked.

Then a late lunch at Casa Luciano. Since it was the house specialty, I ordered the national dish of Spain, Paella Marisco—rice with mixed seafood. Today that meant rings of squid, whole shrimp, mussels, and crab claws with peas and red peppers. In place of dessert, I order a horchata—sweetened almond milk with cinnamon.

To burn off the huge lunch, I took a stroll through the Jardin Botanic (Botanical Garden) where the iris was in bloom. The highlight was the old world rose garden. These may not be as perfect as the heavily cultivated varieties, but the scent of the air was heaven itself. Unfortunately, shortly after I entered the garden, I began to sneeze. I seem to be allergic to something in bloom at the botanical garden. It kept up until I exited the park and I was cured within 10 minutes of leaving.

Then a stroll through the cities largest public park, the Retiro. It is to Madrid what Central Park is to Manhattan—a green oasis in the city. Once only royalty was allowed in the gates, and it was where the king “retired,” hence the name. In 1757 it was opened to the general public as long as they were “washed and properly attired.”  Technically it is the Parque de Madrid, but no one calls it that. The oldest and most striking feature is the boating lake, The Estanque. According to my guidebook, when the lake is occasionally drained for cleaning 6,000 fish must find temporary home!

From here I road once more around the city on the tour buses, then back to my room to type all this up. Tonight an early night as I have plans that require me to be up early tomorrow.

Thoughts apropos of nothing:

My favorite building is the Palacio de Communicaciones (the Palace of Communications) Plaza de Cibeles. It is a palace, too—gleaming white limestone, four floors, ornate ionic columns, a tower and a stained glass roof. It is more prosaically known as the General Post Office.

I have encountered several Americans, but no Ugly American. This is a relief as I noticed several on previous trips, particularly in Italy. Based on this trip, the crown is being passed to the French.

I think I’m noticing changes to the language. I see the “la” and “le” being dropped on signs, menus and information plaques.

If you have to write or read a date in Europe, remember that they have a different order. May 11, 2009 is written 11/05/09.

Tuesday, Day three in Madrid 5/12/09

Today I am up by 7am. I’m dressed and in the lobby by 7:30am. I tried to book a tour last night, but the night clerk is a handsome young man who clearly is doing as little work as possible. He is very successful at it. So I’m early in order to catch another person and book the tour this morning, if I can. But the man at the desk speaks no English. It takes half an hour to book the tour and give me directions to the pick up point with my limited Spanish. Anther 5 minutes to make him write the address and name of the tour company down, which he clearly thinks is silly. He underlines three times that I must be there: 8:30a. It is now 8:05. I am not sure of the way and I’ve had no coffee. A very bad combination. I pass a Starbucks in the Puerta del Sol and it is not even open yet. This cuidad (city) starts late. I’m disappointed–not because I want Starbucks, I would prefer a local coffee shop–because this will be the ONLY place in Madrid that serves coffee to go, called “take-away.”  I need coffee.

After asking several very kind people “Donde est?” and pointing to my piece of paper, I find the place. I have time to spare and they point me toward an espresso machine. The day is getting better!

Fortified, I locate the woman I believe to be my tour guide, but when I show her my ticket, she says that no, she is leading another tour. “Esta perdida.” (I am lost)  She laughs and explains that I should use Estoy and not Estar. Estoy is for temporary things and Estar is for things that are permanent. “Si!  Estoy semper perdida!”  (Yes! I’m always lost!)  When you can joke in the language, even a bad joke, you are beginning to get the hang of it.

I get to the right bus!  But for some reason we don’t move. The Spanish loudly discuss everything. But if they get quiet, smile broadly and keep insisting that everything is OK, look out. Eventually the problems were worked out, though we never knew what they were. I suspect the tour came dangerously close to being canceled.

And I’m on my way to Escorial, the palace Felipe II (Phillip) built into the Sierra de Guadarrama Mountains. Felipe Secondo’s plan was to build a monument for his father, Carlos I (known to most of us as Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor–assuming you didn’t sleep through European history, or like me didn’t take that class because you were too busy with all that math and physics). Felipe was a religious nut. A Roman Catholic religious nut. He won his one great battle over the French on St. Lawrence’s feast day in 1557 and so this is the patron saint of Escorial. Lawrence was the saint who was cooked to death over a grill. He is reported to have told the guards to turn him over because he was already done on that side. Nice story. The Catholics are always ready with a good story. (In truth, Lawrence was beheaded. Lawrence is always shown holding a grill, so if you come across a statue or painting of a saint with a grill, you can show off your knowledge.) To honor how Lawrence died, the grounds are shaped like a grill, with the palace as the handle. The place is severe but majestic, built mostly from the granite of the surrounding mountains.

Escorial is mostly a church and monastery because Felipe wanted to have a minimum of 30,000 masses said for his father every year. To make sure there would be plenty of monks to say the prayers, he included a primary school, secondary school, and seminary to train them, plus quarters for 100 monks and a retirement home for their old age. The “palace” is austere by royal standards. When the Bourbon line took over, they refused to live here and built new, posh quarters. Felipe had just three private rooms and his bedroom led directly to the high alter. Escorial was begun in 1563, shortly after Felipe had moved the capital of Spain from Toledo to Madrid. Our guide, Sofia, kept emphasizing that it was completed in only 21 years.

When I get home, I want to study more about this king, but according to the guide, he was a well traveled monarch who was prepared from a young age to take over the throne. He was the most important king of his day and met anyone who was anyone, including Michelangelo. He married 4 times. The first marriage led to a son who was deformed, Don Carlos, not suitable for the throne. At 27 he married Mary, Queen of England, aka Bloody Mary. She was 38 and past her childbearing years, a serious problem for both of them. When Mary finally died of a stomach tumor (not a 15 month pregnancy as she believed), Elizabeth I came to the English throne. She refused Felipe II, so he married another Elizabeth (Isabella?) but she died in childbirth. His forth marriage, to Anne of Hapsburg, finally gave him the heir to the throne he desired, Felipe III, plus 4 other infantes (royal children). After Anne’s death, it is rumored that the 70+ year old monarch proposed again to young princess, Anne of Austria, but she wished to become a nun and refused him. Wouldn’t you?  Felipe II’s kingdom included most of Europe in addition to parts of India, Africa, South America and the Philippines.

Our tour was probably truncated due to our late start. After checking my guidebook, I see that some sites were skipped. Entrance to the Basilica was barred due to construction which was only supposed to be 2 or 3 months, but has already lasted 6.

Highlights of the tour:

Felipe’s bedroom, including the bed where he died. It is said he died while listening to the children sing the dawn mass. From his bed he could see the high alter of the church to his left and the mountains from a window on his right.

The sedan chair that he was carried in on his last trip to Escorial. He was suffering from gout and could not ride a horse. A carriage (before the days of suspension systems) was too rough. So he was carried for 7 days from Madrid. He died of gout which has to be a bad way to go.

The Chapter House where the “lesser” paintings were hung. They include paintings from El Greco, Valazquez, Titian and Tintoretto. The “better” paintings now hang in the Prado.

The Pantheon of the Kings, a circular burial chamber made of marble where the royals are stacked directly beneath the high altar of the Basilica (i.e. LOTS of stairs). The rows of identical marble, bronze and jasper vaults are divided down the middle, like a wedding party. Monarchs on one side and consorts on the other–but only if they were the mother of a king.

The next stop was to Valle de los Caidos, The Valley of the Fallen, only 10km away. This is a monastery and basilica on a grand scale—the huge concrete cross on top of the mountain is 500 feet high and can be seen 20 km away. It was built by Dictator Franco, who is buried there (He died in 1975. I only know this because of the Saturday Night Live skit). The basilica is dug into the side of the mountain and feels like a bunker. The “fallen” are those who died in the Spanish Civil War, though since there is no list of their names and no individual monuments to them, it did not seem like much of a memorial to me. The dead are in the walls, in vaults covered by Flemish tapestries. (The originals have been replaced with copies.)   The basilica and crypts are one long tunnel cut into the center of the mountain, so that the altar is directly below the huge cross on the top of the mountain. Originally, the entire walkway was to be considered sacred ground, but that would have made it longer than St. Peter’s in Rome and the Pope would not stand for it. So a metal gate was installed about halfway down the passageway. The troops that were loyal to Franco are buried in the church section. Those from the opposition side are buried outside the gate, near the gift shop. Goody for them.

Lunch was back in Madrid, at a cafe overlooking the Teatro (theatre) that borders the Plaza de Oriente. I ordered what looked to be a simple dish, a concha, described as “seafood and fishes au gratin”. It was served in a large scallop shell on a bed of coarse salt to keep the shell from tipping. Yum.

Without realizing it, I had signed up for a Panoramic Tour of Madrid as part of my tour—one of the causalities of conducting business in a language you don’t speak. I decided to go anyway. It was only a fair tour, but did drive me through some of the newer sections of Madrid. It probably gave me a better idea of the size and feel of the current city, rather than only the history.

My forth and final full day in Madrid, 5/13/09

Let this be a warning to you: never leave something you absolutely must see for the last day. I got up early, walked to the Palacio Real (Royal Palace). It was 9am, when they should have been opening. My first clue that something was wrong was that the square was empty. I checked the signs which indicated in perfect English that the palace was open today. So I went to the information booth. The woman was surly, probably because she faced an entire day of turning tourists away. (Which would be better than accepting them, I would guess?)  “Affairs of State! Come back tomorrow!” But for me, there is no tomorrow.

Inconsolable, I took the Metro to the Atocha Train station, a 10 minute walk to the Prado Museum. I got there just as it opened and walked right in, no line. Along with a map and an audio guide, I spent the next 5 hours viewing rooms of art, mostly Spanish painters: Goya, El Greco, Titian, Tintoretto and Velázquez. Add, to those some Rubin, Bosch, Caravaggio, Brueghel and a Rembrandt or two. All amazing. Mostly over my head, I’m sure. Some explanations are in English, but mostly the descriptions are in Spanish. Without the English Audio guide this would not have been much fun. It is an impressive place, but not much to write about. Among the great paintings I saw: Las Meninas, by Diego Velázquez; Both Maja (clothed and naked!) by Goya; The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch; The Third of May by Goya; The Knight with His Hand on His Breast, by El Greco and many more. I was in art overload for the rest of the day.

I ended my afternoon, before my siesta, at the Plaza de Espana with its statue honoring Cervantes, author of Don Quixote. To my room and a shower and brief nap. My feet almost feel fresh again.

This evening is proof that I should schedule less on trips and wander more. I found myself with a free evening and an empty stomach. I decided just to wander to the Puerta del Sol which is surrounded by pedestrian walking and shopping areas. It was 7pm and still light out.  I looked at the pastries in the windows, some from the Convent of the Sisters of Santa Clara who are so cloistered they are not allowed to be seen by the public. My guidebook says that they have a turntable in a door that they use to exchange sweets for money. But the money first!  (Trust in God, all others pay cash?)

I was searching for a small cafe when I turned the corner and into a parade. There were larger than life puppets of kings, senoritas, knights and matadors. They were followed by a brass band. Everyone on the street stopped to watch and take photos. Among the photographers was a man in a third balcony window, wearing nothing but tighty whiteys and a t-shirt several sized too small for his cerveza (beer) belly. I guess he thought no one would notice? The puppets were leading the way to the Plaza Mayor (may JOR) where clowns and face painters were waiting. A stage was set up around the scaffolding and the crew was still setting up, doing a sound check. It was an opera, Carmen, which is the only one I could have recognized by the singing. I took a full turn of the plaza to see all the street performers, even a Spanish guitar and flamingo dancer.

The parade band had kept moving through the plaza, stopping on a street corner on the other side of the plaza. They circled and started playing. First the children started dancing. Then they grabbed their parents into the ring. By the end of a single song the entire crowd was dancing. Even me. That’s what’s missing in my life—dancing!

I stopped at a Cafe & Te, a small string of shops serving, you guessed it, coffee, tea, pastries and sandwiches. I had a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) and a rombos (a small sandwich served on toasted baguette) filled with barenjena e quesos (grilled eggplant and cheese). It was just perfect. Why do we supersize everything in The States? This small sandwich cost 2.40 Euro, a bit over $3. It was perfect for a small appetite for dinner or just a snack. The Spanish eat small meals—this is the home of tapas—but they eat often.

This is a Wednesday night and the streets and pedestrian areas are completely full at 10pm.  Most of the shops are just closing and the restaurants and bars are just getting going. The air is cool, the sun is down and even with the crush of people it feels safe. I am sure there are pickpockets, but violent crime is rare.

I leave tomorrow morning. I will be very sad to leave this beautiful city. But I have to come back—I haven’t seen the palace yet!

Taking the train from Lisbon to Madrid, 2009


The trip to Madrid begins with the train from Apolonia Station in Lisbon. I successfully found the right line, coach and seat. It didn’t appear to be full and by the time we left, I had established that no one in my car spoke more than a few words of English. Most were Spanish speakers. The train left at 10:30pm and the ticket collector was very officious and spent a tremendous amount of time reviewing each ticket and checking off a series of lists on a clipboard. Once he was gone, my plan was to sleep until Madrid.

Or that was my plan. I had taken 2 melatonin, donned earplugs and eye shades, so it took awhile for the yelling to bring me fully conscious. And what yelling!  I awoke to two men calling each other names and posturing in the aisle less than 3 yards from me. One was larger and more aggressive, very cocky. The other was smaller and wore a wool cap over his close cropped hair. Their profanity was creative and spanned several languages. I really thought this was all it would be. Eventually one would back down and suffer injury to his male vanity and that would be that. But the cocky guy backed the wool cap guy into a corner and slapped him. Just for a second, everyone held their breath. In The States, slapping is something beauty queens do, prelude to a girlfight. I had only read about it, but even I knew it was much worse than an insult here, akid to spitting on someone. Wool Cap lost his composure, closed his eyes and began swinging like a child on the playground. By the smile on his face, this was what Cocky was hoping for. Fists began to fly, but before they got too many punches in, four train officials came to break it up.

The official in charge looked like a Spanish Danny DeVito—short, broad chested and arrogant in a classic Napoleon Complex kind of way. This is when the more productive yelling began—at least for me—because I could pick up a few words. Money was missing, 100 Euro, though I didn’t know whose. Despite the fight, it wasn’t Mr. Cocky’s money. Also a small Asian man was missing his electronic device, though after 10 minutes of questioning no one could determine if it was an Apple phone or an iPod. When no one has a common language, they quickly move to English, which puts them all at the same disadvantage. Bonus for me. Unproductive for them.

Spanish DeVito ordered a brawny young attendant to hold Wool Cap down on the ground. Something was wrong with his ticket and they may have said that he had a prison record. There were references to his buzz cut and that this proved he was a thief. He had been pronounced guilty, but where was the money?  DeVito began at the front of the car and questioned everyone, asking to go through baggage. It was clear that if you refused, he did not have the right to force you, but he would make it quite uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand him, but I started to open my purse for him to look through. My bag was locked in back and frankly I didn’t have much with me to steal. But the couple in the seat beside me explained to me that I had not once left my seat and was sleeping since we left the station. I was happy to be ignored. There was a plastic bag in the overhead ledge that no one claimed and DeVito snatched it and went through it. It was suspicious, though I couldn’t understand why, since it didn’t hold the missing money or electronic device. He confiscated it. And then DeVito pounced on the man sitting nearest the bag. The man was being suspiciously quiet and he had not been seated there when I fell asleep. He was also Italian, smallish, with glasses and frankly he did look guilty. He acted guilty. Or it may have been that his Spanish wasn’t very good. The Italian screamed that he was being persecuted and refused to let them go through his bag. He kept saying that the plastic bag had not been his, but he clutched his messenger bag in his arms as though it held his life.

DeVito pronounced him guilty, though I don’t know on what grounds. He stood in front of the Italian and kept repeating that the police would pick him and Wool Cap up at the next station, at which point Wool Cap would let out a cry. Cocky kept egging the two prisoners on and DeVito encouraged it. At one point, Cocky grabbed the little Italian by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall threatening him with harm. The Italian squirmed and repeated he was being persecuted. Cocky actually head bumped Italian like this was an American Wrestling match. Or Soccer.

Finally we arrived at the next station and four policia boarded. They took Wool Cap away in handcuffs and dragged Italian by the arm—still clutching his bag. People were questioned, though only those who spoke Spanish. Someone pointed at me and said, “No Espanol.”  I was dismissed again. Happily.

After 30 minutes, we went on our way. I managed to get a bit more sleep before we rolled into Madrid late.