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Published: December 22nd 2007
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Luton
From my videocamera -- our five star hotel on the floor of Luton airport -- at least the beds were king sized :-) I wake up half-dazed on a shuttle plane with golden light creeping through the window by my seat. Daytime again! The cold and rainy labyrinthine paths through sausage-stand infested streets in Picadilly Circus are behind me. I still see them in my head and feel the cold in my bones while I gaze down at light glittering from the crystal waters around Lisbon's harbor. Such a contrast with lively, cold London nights! As far as I'm concerned, I am still in Luton until this plane lands. I am still on the double-decker laughing at a Kiwi sweet-talk five Icelandic girls, trying to convince them he's not Australian. In clearer words, this transition, from England to Portugal, feels so smooth I just don't quite grasp the reality of looking down at mainland Europe. But I am. How? I don't know. I'm too tired and don't know how I got on this plane -- and its landing in a Portuguese-speaking country I've never been to! ... What happened to shivering in rainstorms while I looked for the shady orange-coloured hostel I checked in to? Where did my marble "bed" in Victoria Station go? Where were the American girls from Dortmund? The
A Lisboa square
The beautiful bright colors and architecture of Lisboa, Portugal. A very trick spot in the city for foreigners. I've been offered everything here from overpriced souvenirs to drugs stories from the Denver journalist about his 2 months in Myanmar before crossing Siberia to reach England? Where were they?
And the Luton airport! While I stare at the jagged shape of Lisbon's coast, I feel the chill tiles and rugged backpack filled with miscellaneous items I slept on. Backpacking...it gives you this "maverick mindset" where life becomes so fluid, and time becomes such a casual thing. The elephant in the room. You forget when you leave a place, like there's a part of you still where you were. I glance over to Casey and see his eyelids cracking open. We're landing and he's still recovering from our night-trek through Barnes (a story for another entry). And here we go again...
I land in the Portuguese-speaking world on hunt for anglophones. There weren't any, so I ran straight to a newstand hungry for English-Portuguese booklets to pick up basic phrases.
Now fahloo baim purtoogaish is the pronunciation of the phrase I figure will get everyone to cut me slack. Everyone is strangely unaware of my accent, my inability to speak Portuguese. I blend in, I'm taken to be an ethnic Portuguese with Cape Verdian roots or origins in
Jesus
Christ the Redeemer statue! I thought this was only in Rio de Janeiro...shows what I know. :-) Mozambique. Then I speak and my cover is destroyed, but the Portuguese comes out surprisingly well. That felt like enough Portuguese , so I go to experience the moment I had been waiting to experience since arriving in continental Europe: switching from the pound to the euro! At last!! Time to save money, until the man at the desk informs me they won't accept British coins.
This leaves me a little short on money and anxious to reach my next destination. Better do it all quickly before Casey reaches full consciousness and realizes the situation we are in. "How do I get to Santos from here?" I ask a lanky man reclined at the tourist info desk. He looks spaced out by the fado from his mini boombox and barely discerns what I say through the cloud of my accent. I say it again -- slower -- the third time's a charm.
"Santos??" He pulls out a map and my heart skips. Maps? Santos is a big place, and he's a native...
right? "Santos is on the other side of town, south from here. The older part of Lisbon. You need to..." get on
A pathway
The mazy, brightly-colored streets of Lisbon, with a talented guitarist or fire-breathing street performer on every corner. The steps lead to a famous Catholic shrine. this bus, take this path from that stop by this landmark which can be found at that point by the other point over here, he smiles, he points at a microscopic dot on the map. I dart a glance at Casey and his eyebrows shoot up. Taking the map from the man, I thank him for his help but can't afford to waste anymore time. Diogo's waiting -- a portuguese lawyer friend who just returned from China with stories to tell. He must be wondering where we are. I know I am. We have arrived in Lisbon a little late and had no cell phone and no coins to use the payphone.
But when I stroll out of the airport with Casey tagging behind, the beautiful warmth of sun rays and palm trees numbs the nervousness of not knowing exactly where I am or where I'm going. The area around Portela airport had a tropical feel to it. From different angles, a Californian charm of light and ocean backdrops. Palm trees lined smooth pavement with rose-like flowers and greenery abounding. The streets lead to market squares dotted with pink, blue, and yellow buildings that had a certain antique rust
Wide awake
Ah, so now Casey's awake! lol, j/k to them. And in the middle of this is the lovely Estadio Jose Alvalade, . With all these tourist distractions, still I'm lost. "This is the kind of experience I was looking for," I reassure Casey and myself. We bask in the suns rays, and take the situation as a mixed but beautifully mixed welcome to Portugal...Santos here I come...
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