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At this point, I must compliment my wife on her excellent planning. When we left our Tia Fernanda (hopefully allowing her to regain some semblance of calm and order after our invasion), we landed in Lisboa proper and into the waiting arms of the "This is Lisbon" hostel. I had wondered what Maria had been doing all those days before we left, hunched over in front of the computer and printing off pages to be inserted into the The Pink Book. Well, the Book became a light in the darkness, let me tell you. Me and the kids would be staring into the distance, likely whimpering or arguing, whilst Maria would be coordinating a) a solution to some unforseen problem or b) a delight to enjoy of which we could scarcely imagine.
The "This is Lisbon" hostel was a delight of which we could scarcely imagine.
The staff was excellent. The showers hot and the water pressure of a massage-like quality. The guests were interesting and talkative. On the night we arrived, a bossa nova concert (complete with meal and robust jugs of wine) was planned. Just like that. Of course, Fernanda had done her taxidermy on me and
I was so stuffed that I could have been rolled down the hallway to our room. Nonetheless, the soft, percussive sounds of Brazilian guitar soothed my grumbling tummy as I lay like a beached whale on my (tremendously firm) bed.
Upon awakening, did we loll about and share croissants with the fellow Eurotravellers? No,no,no. That is the pursuit of mere mortals. The Pink Book did not allow for reverie and sloth! Yes, we were back at our punishing schedule of pleasure. To Sintra then, to see castles and step on ancient stones!
Again, I must mention my wife's excellent planning. Sintra is a place that has more than one can possibly see. I would have simply got off the bus downtown and followed the crowd to the likely pleasantries propped up for tourists. Our destinations were popular choices (a fleet of Chinese diplomats paid a visit while we were there), but they were inspired choices, distilled from hours of research and careful consideration.
Our first stop took us up the surrounding mountains and to the Castelo dos Mouros. We have romanticized castles in our culture of today. But castles were originally defensive structures designed to hold an
enemy at bay.The Moors built this fort on the most easily defensible and hard-to-access location on the mountainsides surrounding Sintra. It was constructed in the 9th century and was so effective in its role that it held on for 250 years. This is hard, solid rock dug into the sides of an unforgiving slope. Caches of food were buried at strategic points and towers lined a serpentine path that would expose any invader to a barrage of arrows from a number of different vantage points. Hiding places would allow snipers to pick off the rearguard as they passed. Pluvial cisterns the size of small apartments allowed for the collection of rainwater in such a way that the reserve would never be breached by foreign forces and subjected to poison. This was a place constructed by invaders, those who knew that someday a resentful underclass would rise up to strike them down.
But the story of this place began long before. The post-Moorish settlement involved the construction of a church and an attendant graveyard. Archealogical digs have revealed not only burial sites from Christian peoples, but a mere three feet down was found the relics of a Neolithic settlement.It seems
The washrooms
Every thing was very cleanthat the mountains outside of Sintra have long held those seeking solace, some for reasons unknown, some for motives grounded in political interests, and some for the private silence of the soul.
Up the hill we went, to another structure that poofs away all those notions of hard defence and the struggle to survive. No, the Palacio de Pena is rather the feverish hallucination of an artist-king, Ferdinand de Saxe Coburg-Gotha.
If I could describe the structure via baking terms, it would go as such: a foundation of Black Forest cake topped with a strawberry shortcake, then a lemon meringue pie on the side with petits forts and fondant icing strewn about in big droopy loops.Really, the place has the look of several projects that were undertaken at once, with the respective crews doing their best to outperform the others at fantasy and grandiosity.
The best punchline is that the Palacio was officially designated as a hunting lodge.I could not imagine a day at the hunt, a fine stag the reward and evidence of the marksman's skill, being finished up by a visit to the home of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Might dampen the burning thrill of
This is Lisbon
First Night
Caldo verde and Live Brazilian Music
manly swagger, don't you think? But royalty has always been a bit out of touch, and I imagine a king with artistic tendencies(and,let's face it: who knows what manner of stimulants the man could get his hands on...)must have been quite the dandy indeed.
The interior of this jumble is as mind boggling as the outside.It is simply crammed with things, one helpful plaque told of how the Palacio reflected " the obsession to collect and the horror of empty spaces" that was common to the era. The notion of a hunting lodge begins to make a shade more sense when one sees that the Palacio is a collection of trophies from Portugal's explorations and conquests. The India room, the China room, a liberal smattering of furniture, paintings, and statues from the four corners of the globe....Yes, as much as this building is the spin of a man's imagination, it is also a showpiece of the spoils of colonialism. In its own way, it is as much of a relic of man's inhumanity to man as the Castelo dos Mouros on the hillside below.
As someone who has worked with my hands all my life, I could not
Hostel
Not all Hostels are for kids, but ours love it. There are so many young people from all over the world. They really enjoyed talking to them. help but marvel at the tremendous amount of labour involved in the construction of the Palacio.The stonework itself offers many examples of what must have been the life's work of many a single craftsman. The multitude of building styles makes for a new view with every glance you take, and one can appreciate that ol' Ferdinand never tired of admiring its many faces.
There is also a sense of gradual privacy that makes the Palacio interesting.After I saw it, I realized that this is probably the common habit of all solitude-starved royals, though perhaps not to the degree exhibited at the Palacio.There are a multitude of rooms that were used to stay visiting guests. As one was granted closer intimacy with the royal host of one's choice, you were moved into rooms of closer and closer proximity until you achieved your desired audience with the representative of the throne. Perhaps the process could take days, I don't really know. I reckon that many visits were aborted completely should news of the visitor's secret intentions or governmental connections turn out to be less than favourable.
And down the road they would go, contemplating their failures and the certain rebukes
that awaited them.
Our trip down the winding road created a similar sense of disappointment. It was not that our expectations had not been met, oh no,but simply that the elements had turned on us. Rain, remarkably demonstrating a water pressure similar to the massage-like quality found at our beloved hostel, pelted us and soaked us through. We waited for the bus. And waited. Leering taxi drivers trolled past the ever-increasing line of soggy folks standing in the muck.We knew the bus would come. Had he not just let us off here a mere two hours before?
Murmurs and rumours of public transit strike action began to circulate among the crowd.
The ground became slick with water, yet Maria would not budge. Nay, why spend good money on a cab when we had a perfectly good (and prepaid) bus ticket in the clutches of our moisture swollen hands? No, instead they just huddled under my substantial frame until the headlights came up the hill. Pity that the Pink Book hadn't mentioned the possible necessity of an umbrella.
But then again, I can't expect Maria to guess against everything.
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