Day 113 Leaving Italy

Back in Rome, we got a room at a cool hotel overlooking the expensive designer boutiques by the Spanish steps. The names read like a Vogue magazine: Yves St. Laurent, Prada, Georgio Armani, and so on. The prices read like misprints: jacket $3600, pants $1200, belt $390, and so on.

Our last night in Rome, we did our favorite things. Drinking water out of the fountain at the Spanish steps, eating gelato at Trevi fountain, and just admiring the ancient city flooded with modernity. The gelato we had was notable. We both had honey flavor, which was spectacularly tasty, and I also had armangnac flavor which was nothing short of phenomenally delicious. (Armangnac is a like cognac, but from a different region). It was a great end to our gelato quest. The only problem is that the bar has been raised so high, I am sure our future will be full of disappointing gelato consumption.

We had an early flight and had to pack the night before. One whole suitcase was not enough to hold everything we bought. It was my first ominous clue as to how much I spent. We ended up having three bags to check and three to carry on the plane. Oh wow, we bought a lot of stuff. For me, leaving wasn’t a big deal since I will be returning for a more extended exploration. For Eric, he was torn as most people are at the end of a vacation; longing to get home to the comforts of his own bed and reluctant to part with the thrill of the new and different.

And then we went back to Portland.

Day 112 Pisa Italy

It felt a little sad leaving Venice. The dramatic beauty of the canals, architecture, and charming winding streets exert a pull on the uncharted, romantic depths of the brain. Turning our backs on the city and entering the train station was not something we longed for, and we lingered on the steps outside, watching the parade of people and boats along the Grand Canal, and feeding the pigeons the last crumbly bits of our lunch.

The train to Pisa was uneventful except for one stop where a young woman, dressed shabbily and toting a sign in Italian, stopped by our seats, pointing at her very large “pregnant” belly. I would not have minded parting with some small change if she actually looked pregnant. She aggressively pointed at her sign and then Eric and then me, yet her skinny little face looked not the least bit preggers. When she puddled spit on her lips, threatening to spew it on me, I waved her away, saying, “Vai! Vai!” Thankfully, she gave up to harass someone else.

Pisa is a small town with little other than the tower and basilica so we only stayed one night. I was happy to see prices, except at the tower, were less than anywhere we had been. The tower was expensive at $45 and worth every penny. We didn’t really get an appreciation for how much it was leaning until we climbed the narrow spiral stairs to the top. The nearly window less stairs are deceiving to the senses because without a point of reference, you cannot tell which way they are leaning, so you end up falling against the walls as you ascend. To add to the fun, the steps are so worn by millions of tourist footsteps, they have 3 inch curved indents, making it hazardous to not watch your step. I had envisioned lovely marble floors on each level and was thus surprised to discover the center of the tower is an unadorned shaft. It is only a bell tower. A near fatally leaning, heavily touristed, rightfully famous, bell tower. That was cool, now back to Rome.

Day 110 The Labyrinth of Venice

We again faced the question of what to do on Christmas day. Well, some of the day. After eating and then shopping at the strangely large number of open shops, we head over to feed the pidgeons at Piazza San Marco, Eric's absolute favorite activity. For only one euro you get a packet of enough dried corn for about 3-5 minutes of bird feeding frenzy, depending on your distribution technique. The birds are accustomed to people and have no qualms about landing on your head, shoulders, or outstreched arms. When there is a bird sitting on your shoulder, looking you in the eye from four inches away, and Hitchcock's movie, The Birds, doesn't run through your mind, you are either too young or crazy. It didn't bother me to have them land on me, but staring at a sharp little black beak that close to my face bothered me.

Eric loved being buried in birds. He wanted to stay there all day, feeding money to the birds. We ending up stopping there everday and spent more than I want to remember. Oh well, that is the cost of fun.

In the evening, I thought of something fun to do. There are about 3,000 streets and alleyways in Venice, many too small to map, and hundreds of little bridges. What better to explore the city by running at full speed through the narrow, underlit stone streets, taking turns at random, with the intention of getting lost? We ran at a breakneck pace down incredibly narrow alleyways, twisted and turned, and crossed countless bridges, hit deadends at canals and doorways, ran back, jumped off or over anything possible, and ran some more. It was a fun way to get a massive dose of the beautiful nightime city of Venice. We got lost and took the first vaporetto we saw, and ended up right back at the Rialto bridge. Running with Eric through the city was one of my favorite experiences in Italy.

Day 107 Pasta and the Pantheon

The concrete 142 foot (43m) half dome roof of the Pantheon looks as if it was build yesterday despite being almost 2,000 years old. It is about 23 feet (7m) thick at the base and only two feet thick at the 30 foot (9m) hole in the top. The hole at the top, the oculus, serves as an oversized clock as the circle of sun traces its way across the marble floor. Engineers still don’t know exactly how they did it in one single concrete pour. That is some impressive concrete! Our modern concrete has no chance of lasting that long. So much for our superior high technology.

Much of the outside of the Pantheon was stripped for materials over the centuries and so its humble exterior belies the splendor that has remained untouched within. Definitely a must see. It is free too.

Maybe I should not be surprised that the pasta in Italy is so good. It is like gelato, I can’t get enough. Far and away the best pasta I have had was in a small family run basement restaurant. It was a little on the upscale side but I felt like splurging. I inquired about the house specialty and was told something in Italian I could not understand and was then directed to look at a big black cylinder in the back of the dimly lit stone restaurant. Sure! Why not? Eric ordered lamb chops and we feasted on spindly bread sticks, soda and wine until the food arrived.

The waiter wheeled over the cart with the ominous black cylinder perched upon it. It was a giant wheel of cheese! How can you go wrong with that?! He dumped a bowl of incredibly hot pasta noodles and sauce into the hollowed out center of the cheese and furiously stirred, scraping cheese from the walls of the cylinder. He then scooped the steaming mass of noodles, sauce, and cheese out and into my bowl. Oh my! It was strewn with pancetta bits! (Its like bacon) It was without a doubt the best pasta I have ever had. I could not get enough and had to force myself to eat slower. Oh my god, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Mmmmmmmmmm.

We topped it off with caffe lattes and panna cotta drenched in a dark chocolate sauce. Wow! The trip was going much much better now.

Day 106 Oh Heavenly Gelato!

Let me start by saying that gelato is not ice cream.

Not even close.

Good gelato is a divine semi-frozen concoction that delights the senses, stimulates the brain, improves the mood, satisfies hunger, cures leprosy, holds down inflation, and makes you not care that you should have should have changed the oil in your car 8,000 miles ago.

Now, this does not apply to any gelato; in fact Rome is overflowing with gelaterias that insidiously pass off pathetic imitations to oblivious tourists. My favorite is pistachio from Old Bridge Gelateria just across from the Vatican, shown above. Skip the Sistine Chapel, just suck on a fantastic semi-frozen bit of pistachio flavored heaven instead. The lines are shorter and it won’t hurt your neck so much.

We visited the Coliseum and Roman forum today. Seeing the massive ruins of both and imagining what they were like when they were new and covered in beautifully endless marble and elegant statues is difficult for the mind to grasp. To think that they did these incredible structures with only simple tools and back breaking labor is too much. I can only imagine what it would have been like for a peasant from the country side to wander into Rome and see these God-scaled buildings. It would have been the equivalent of watching a spaceship land.

We are still exhausted and walking is more effort than it should be. We came back to the hostel early to sleep.

Day 101 An Inauspicious Start to Italy

Things were not starting off as I had hoped and we had not even left Portland yet. I was tired after flying from Brasil and getting sick with sinus congestion and a cough. Eric had just got off a flight that was rerouted due to weather and he had spent many sleepless airport hours trying to get back to Portland so we could fly to Italy. Neither of us slept on the plane to Newark. His biological clock told him to be awake and I was too sick and uncomfortable to sleep. One interesting side note; I almost walked into Lyle Lovett at the Newark airport. He looked better in person than I expected but it still doesn’t explain the Julia Roberts thing.

The Alitalia flight to Rome was uncomfortable despite the bountiful legroom and wide seats. I was achy and tired and coughing and uncomfortable no matter what. Eric was still too awake and excited to sleep. Luckily, the dinner on the plane was very good. We had pasta with cheese and bacon chunks, sautéed chicken with vegetables, cold green been and ham antipasto, lemon chiffon cake with sliced almonds, Tillamook cheese, crackers, coffee, and yummy wine from first class because they ran out of the cheap economy class wine by the time they got to me. It was a brief highpoint--things went downhill from there.

A stone faced immigration official stamped our passports and we were officially in Italy. Yeah! (or so I thought)

On the half hour train from the airport into central Rome, the need for sleep caught up with Eric. He turned from an excited, “ Wow, I’m in Italy” mile-a-minute talker into lifeless zombie in the first minute on the train. Still able to walk if guided, he stumbled along like a drunkard to the metro, his wheeled suitcase barely hanging from a boneless arm. The problem was that we were too early to check in to the hostel, by about four hours. Wanting to kill some time and to take advantage of the weak winter sun to wake us up a little, we plodded the eight blocks from the metro stop to the hostel, still arriving three and a half hours too early. We sat on the marble stairs for a while, we sat at the hard wooden bar tables for a while, we sat on the wooden benches a while. I was completely exhausted and feeling very very unwell. Eric was just plain delirious at that point. He kept talking about wanting to be in his own bed and feeling like he was going to vomit. It was the longest three and a half hours I have spent in a long time.

Finally, at two in the afternoon, we collapsed into our dorm beds, sleeping fitfully for about five hours, at which point I thought we would try to see something to help get our time clocks adjusted, so we jumped a bus to the Vatican, the closest point of interest. It was a shame we were still so tired because St. Peter’s Square, Bernini’s graceful and superhuman scaled piazza, is truly stunning at night. Almost entirely alone in the chilly night air, we marveled as best we could with our glazed senses. Things were going much better than they were early in the day and I was feeling optimistic. That should have been my first warning.

We headed back to sleep some more and start the next day fresh. I wish that was what happened, but no. I was aching all over and coughing. Eric couldn’t sleep at all because he was so over tired and feeling out of place in the hostel dorm. He was sick all night, pacing the room, threatening to vomit, and begging for his own bed. Miserable doesn’t begin to describe the experience. Only at about six in the morning did he fall asleep. I would have been thrilled sleep away the day with him except that this hostel locked everyone out of the rooms from 10-2 so they could clean. Oh joy. I was so tired then that I cannot now recall what we did during those four hours other than eat gelato. We were back in bed promptly at two o’clock, sleeping until seven-ish. We got something to eat, I don’t remember what, and went back to bed. Fortune smiled on us and we managed to sleep until morning.

This wasn’t how I had thought the first two days in Rome would be. I was disappointed because I wanted this to be so fun for Eric and until this point it was about as un-fun as it gets. If I have learned anything about travel so far, I have learned that you have to roll with whatever happens and keep going--things will get better. Or worse. I am shooting for better.

Day 97 Leaving Brasil

Heading back to the USA, I am sitting aisle side on a flight headed south from Brasilia to Sao Paulo. Sure it is the wrong direction I want to go, yet somehow it seems appropriate that I go the opposite direction for a couple hours and then turn around and go back. From Sao Paulo I go to Dallas and then Portland to get Eric and go to Italy. I will only be in Portland two days, brief enough that the time change of six hours from Brasil won’t screw me up before we head nine time zones to Italy.

Leaving Brasil is hard for me. Even though I have only seen one other identifiable gringo during my month and a half here, making me feel like I really stand out, and almost no one speaks English, I have felt very welcome to be in the country. People have been very considerate, and thankfully, tolerant of my pitiful Portuguese. And it is always hard for me to leave a place with good food.

Patricia’s family treated me as one of their own, looking out for me, and really going out of their way to make me feel at home. The cohesiveness of her family was remarkable to experience. Their weekly family gatherings were chaotic, lively, frequently loud, and fun.



Hardest of all, is of course leaving Patricia. It will be a long five months until I see her again. Thank God for Skype.

On the positive side of leaving Brasil, I haven’t seen Eric for ninety-seven days and I miss him very much. I can’t wait to explore Italy with him.

Day 78 Clubbing and Travel Update

The other night we went out to a nightclub and saw a local band with Patricia’s sister Priscila and her husband Dede. Can tell by the picture that I had the best view of the stage? The large Brasilian woman leading the band started off by doing a surprisingly uncanny imitation of Michael Jackson singing Billie Jean. I was impressed…at first antway. Later, intermixed with the capably done Brasilian top 40, they attempted to do a few other American songs, most notably was the worst rendition that I have ever heard of Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes. It was painful. Of course a good part of that pain was due to our position directly in front of the speakers at the front of the stage. At times it was so loud I almost felt as if someone was scrambling my brains.

An interesting bit about clubs here is that they record your ID and give you a card on your way in. They mark the card as you buy drinks and then you pay on your way out. Some all you can eat restaurants do the same. Whatever you do, don’t lose the card or you are in for a hassle. Particularly if your Portuguese is as bad as mine.

Travel update:

I am staying in Brasil until 12 December and heading back to Portland to pick up my son Eric and then we are off to Rome, Italy and then Venice for Christmas. After that I take Eric back home and go back to Madrid to continue my exploration of Spain, Morocco, France, and Italy, until I head back to Washington DC in March for the Foreign Service Assessment. Eric will be flying out to spend spring break with me in DC and then I will be off to Brasil again for a month to see Patricia again. From there I head back to Rome to finish going around the Mediterranean.

I had not planned to fly much on this trip, but life happens. To put this deviation in perspective, here is a summary of my air travel from the beginning of the trip through my return to Rome in May:

Portland-JFK-Baltimore-JFK-Dublin-London-Faro-Porto-Madeira-Porto-Madrid-Miami-Sao Paulo-Brasilia—Sao Paulo-Dallas-Portland-Newark-Rome-Newark-Portland-Chicago-Madrid-Rome-Munich-JFK-Sao Paulo-Brasilia-Sao Paulo-JFK-Vienna-Rome.

That is a total of 27 planes, 61,500 miles and over 6 days of actual flight time. Whew! And yes I did sign up for frequent flier miles.

I have also been on 5 different metro systems, 7 long distance buses, and 5 trains.
If I calculated how much time I have spent waiting in line to buy tickets, waiting on metro platforms, and waiting for buses and trains to arrive/leave, I think I would be scared. Patience is definitely a virtue for travel.

Day 75 More Culture

Coming from a culture where labor is expensive and technology is cheaper, it took me a while to understand the cultural implications of cheap labor in Brasil. The huge division between the people with money and those without creates a labor market that makes services, that only rich people can afford at home, accessible to middle of the road people like me. It affects many aspects of their lives here that I never have considered.

For example:

Most middle-class and higher people with children have live-in maids, even in apartments, and sometimes drivers. It is around $200/month for a maid that cooks, cleans, does laundry, and cares for your children. The impact this has on the lifestyle of working parents is huge: your meals are waiting for you and your children on the table and you leave the mess for someone else to clean up; no making beds, vacuuming, wiping counters, moping floors, cleaning windows, or doing laundry; if you are late from work or want to go out, someone is there to care for the children; and you have someone watching your house during the day. Basically, you get more quality time and peace of mind with your children. However, maids usually get the weekend off so you are on your own for a couple days a week. Oh, how rough! Having a driver for your children is also cheap and a great idea. He can take the children to and from school, wash and vacuum the car, and also do things around the house, including serving and cleaning up at dinner parties.

A side effect of this affordable luxury is that since cooking is relegated to someone else, the kitchen is not a focal point like in America. The kitchen is frequently hidden and purely functional. Food preparation is often only a communal event at family gatherings. It is needless to say that this is strange for me, coming from a culture that entertains in the kitchen. They actually use their living and dining rooms here! I don’t want to give the impression that they don’t like gourmet food, they just go out to eat rather than making it themselves. That said, I have to say that I have only seen half a dozen homes/apartments and have had limited exposure on which to base my observations.

Another effect of cheap labor is the lack of a do-it-yourself attitude here. Why would you want to fix things for yourself when it is so inexpensive to have a skilled person do it for you? Even things that, to me, are incredible easy to fix are left for the “appropriate person” to do. This is good and bad. It frees up people’s time and creates employment, but often things are left in need of repair because they have not gotten around to getting someone to fix them. Not surprisingly, there is a much more relaxed acceptance of broken or damaged things here. They don’t have a driven task orientation and need for perfection as Americans do. If something does work correctly, that is okay, it will get fixed…eventually.

Time is not money here; relationships are more important.

Here in Patricia’s parent’s house we have two maids, a driver, a gardener, pool guys, and other people that come as needed. All this and they are not wealthy people. It is a lifestyle to which it is delightfully easy to grow accustomed. Now I am off to take a dip in the pool while thinking about how cold and rainy it is back in Portland. Life is good!

Day 65 Brasilian Culture Notes

This is my new favorite bridge in the world, the JK Bridge (Ponte JK)named after former president, and visionary builder of the city Brasilia, Juscelino Kubitschek. It is a beautiful and graceful creation that is best viewed while driving over it at night.

My collection of interesting Brasilian culture tidbits is vast and will have to be spread over a few entries. My favorite topics are touching, personal responsibility, and the entreprenurial spirit.

The very first thing to strike me as different here is the personal contact comfort level and expectation. We Americans tend to like our personal space and draw a very specific line in the sand about what is acceptable invasion of our bubble. The Brasilian bubble is smaller and more flexible.

I thought I was prepared for the cheek kissing when I came; afterall, I had known Patricia in DC and spent time in Spain. Even so, the sheer quantity took me off guard. Everytime you come or go, it is expected to kiss all female friends and family or it is rude. Men get a hearty handshake and a pat on the shoulder, or a manly half hug. As a touchy person, I was very pleasantly surprised with all these people who seemed to share my affinity. The real surprise for me as a North American was in the pool at Caldas Novas. Patricia's family all stayed very close in the pool and I was often touched by peoples legs or grabbed on the arm or leg with no thought whatsoever. And I don't mean touched as in bumping against each other, I mean resting against one another up close and personal. It did not bother me, but my own cultural alarm bells automatically went off the first few times. The same thing in a pool at home would have been awkward. Brasil is definitely a good place for people who like physical touch and a nightmare for germophobes.

The Brasilians, luckily, have yet to discover the benefits and drawbacks of overly-efficient personal liability lawyers. Anywhere I go, I see accidents waiting to happen. Maybe it is only my building management experience talking, but I have seen many things that would be begging for a lawsuit in the states, for example: pool side tile at a resort that is so slippery when wet, it is nearly impossible to walk on safely without being very careful. I saw several people fall and dozens almost fall. Also, holes, open grates, sharp objects, and tripping hazards are normal for walkways and sidewalks at businesses. In general, people are expected to watch out for their own safety. After having heard of so many frivolous lawsuits in the states, I can really appreciate this difference, although, I think the best situation would be somewhere in between. There are a lot of negligently unsafe conditions here and there are a lot of negligently inattentive people in the US. Hopefully Brasil will go halfway and stop.

Do you need a cloth to mop your floor? Sunglasses? Newspapers, candy, water? What about cheese? These are only some of the items that are offered to you while you wait at stoplights here. People sell all sorts of items everywhere. All they need is a table and product. Sometimes not even a table--just a cooler and a chair--or in the case of the guys standing in traffic, just an armload of product. Notice I didn't say a "sign." This last part is the most perplexing to me as a foreigner; often I have no idea what they are selling or for how much. Take for example the minivan on the side of the road with the back open and a couple of plastic chairs and tables. People are gathered around eating something out of paper wrappers. I can't see what they are eating and there is no sign whatsoever. Or even better, is the guy with a chair and a cooler on the sidewalk. Everyone around here knows what these people sell and for about how much so they don't bother with signs. It turns out that it was hotdogs and fruit salad respectively.

Another fascinating example of the entreprenurial spirit running contrary to American sensibilities is the parking arrangement at Patricia's work. Ostensibly, it is a city lot in which it is free to park. In reality, there are five guys that manage the lot. They laid claim to lot and charge people to park there. I know my fellow Americans can feel their indignation rising in their throats at people with such unashamed audacity, but wait. The lot has spaces for about 60 cars. The payment arrangement is this; for 10 dollars a month you park where they tell you and you leave your keys with them. They double or triple park the cars, moving them as needed when people come or go and they can double the amount of cars that fit in the lot. With limited parking available this is a fantastic service. And not only that, for a couple dollars, they will wash the inside and outside of your car while you work. For a whole 20 dollars a month, you get to keep your keys and they always give you a good spot (because they cannot move your car). The whole arrangement is smooth, benefits everyone, and is completely against everything Americans would expect. Here it works very well.

Day 57 In Hot Water in Brazil

We went to the city of Caldas Novas for the weekend, about a four hour drive. The drive itself was an experience. I would describe it as either a formula one race on narrow and occasionally marginal roads with oncoming traffic or as a chance to drive the way we really wish we could drive.

In Brasil, stop signs don't mean stop. They mean slow down if there are other cars, and if not, ignore them completely, just like a yield sign. Speed limits are supposedly enforced; although, you would be hard pressed to find anyone that was going anywhere near that slow. Another fun aspect is that the acceptable distance between cars is very different than in the US. If you want to pass, it is normal to get within, say 8 to 10 feet, sometimes less, when you are going 80 mph. You just get real close and edge out into the other lane so you can see if any cars are coming and then you go for it, nevermind about passing zones, curves, or bothersome things like that. If you think you can make it, go! The thing that makes this work is that people let you back in the lane even if there is almost no room. The drivers here are very accommodating for merging and pushing your way into traffic. They know you want in and they let you in. It is both chaotic and very civil. I had to laugh when we were in a line of maybe 20 cars going about 70mph and as soon as the oncoming traffic passed, most of the cars jumped into the left lane and floored it.

Into Hot Water

Gifted with prolific natural hot springs, the town of Caldas Novas is comprised of vacation resorts and tourist shops. It feels exactly like a beach town even though it is a very very long way to the coast. We rented an apartment in a resort and spent almost everyday at the resort next door, which was nicer. We didn't sneak in, (I know that is what you are thinking, Mom) Patricia's sister was staying there and the owner is a friend of their dad's.

I don't have any good photos, so picture lush green tropical environment with many big pools of warm mineral water, pool bars, water slides, live bands poolside, and buffets and you can start to get the picture. I particularly loved the fresh, nearly frozen coconuts that they machete the top off and stick a straw in so that you can drink the coconut juice. After you are done, they hack it open so can then eat the soft young coconut inside.

When I think hot springs, I think of water that is so hot, you can only stay in it for 15-20 minutes. These varied in temperature from body temperature to maybe 10 degrees warmer, allowing you to sit in them very comfortably all day long, drinking, eating, and playing in the open or under big pool umbrellas. And yes you can eat in the pool. The band was great. They adeptly covered the Brasilian popular music as well American and British music. Forget 20 minute sets, they played for almost all day, switching between people as they needed.

Prices for most things are about the same as in the US except for the food. One all you can eat restaurant was $2.75/person. I'll describe the Brasilian food another time, except for one notable item. At the fore mentioned restaurant, I eyed some interesting roasted potato like foodstuffs and threw a few on my plate. I am always up for trying new things. They had a nice yellow sauce and looked delicious.

The first warning I got went unheeded. It was from a nice woman in line next to me that spotted me as a non-Brasilian and was attempting to tell me something in Portuguese. I thought she was saying that they were spicy and I thanked her and said that I knew and I liked spicy foods (in English of course). The second warning piqued my interest. Patricia saw them on my plate in passing and said not to eat them or I would get into trouble, I ignored her still thinking that they were spicy. The third warning really got my attention. I was mid-bite when she yelled, "stop!" I was told not to bite them under any circumstances. What? Why would they be in a buffet line if not to eat? I was finally shown the proper way to almost consume them. I say almost because all you can do is scrape the 2 millimeter thick soft exterior off with your teeth. If you bite them, you are treated with a mouthful of a thousand painful spines that you will regret for a very very long time. Not exactly my idea of a 'fun' food and the taste was bland too. Apparently, it is a regional thing.

I didn't take many photos because it was so wet, either from the pools or the pleasant light rain that fell much of the time. Sorry.

Day 55 Halloween is Only in My Mind

I don't know why I expected to see Halloween here. Maybe because it is so ingrained in me as an American or maybe because of the witch costume hanging in the closet of my guestroom. I found out that they do dress up here in costume here for parties, not for Halloween. At least they do Christmas in a big way here, although I will be in Italy with Eric at the time. Perhaps this is good because not having Halloween and spending Christmas in shorts might be too much culture shock for me this early in my trip :)

The Capital City of Brasilia:

The city was entirely planned before this site was anything more than fields and trees. Shaped like an airplane, the three branches of government occupy the cockpit, the government ministries form the body, and the wings are the commercial and residential sectors. The whole city is incredibly uniform and divided into very simple to understand quadrants. The plan of the city shown above is misleading as to the size; the city is big. The buildings are far apart and cars are the preferred transportation, even though there is a metro and bus system.

Postive reactions: A beautiful singular city. Easy to find your way. Streets have numbers rather than names. The consistent layout is reassuring when venturing into new areas. The climate is great year round.

Negative reactions: The city is not at all geared for tourism. It is not a good walking city with few crosswalks and great distances between things. The bus system is completly baffling and not signed or labeled in any self explanatory way--and no maps or schedules. The sameness of the designs tends to be impersonal with no neighborhoods standing out as unique. Overall, the city is dsigned for government workers and few others.

I am staying at Patricia's parents to the left of the cockpit, across the lake. The nightime view is very nice sitting on the veranda with a glass of wine, looking over the pool and across the lake at the illuminated capital. They have servants that wash my clothes everyday, make my bed, make all the meals...I am liking Brasil.

Day 53 Brasilia, Making Voting Look Easy

I was lucky enough to witness Brasil's presidential election on my second day in the country. I was impressed with how easily and quickly Patricia and her family voted. With only half an hour before the 5:00 deadline, we headed to a local school and were out within a few minutes. No lines, no confusion, no fuss. The final results were ready in less than two hours. The whole process is electronic and consistent over the whole country and surprisingly for me as an American, there were no major news reports of voting irregularities or broken machines or disenfranchised voters. A nice neat election. Of course, the wrong person won according to Patricia, but she was justly proud of the efficiency of the process. It seems the whole world is intimately familiar with our voting woes and recounts.

Another interesting thing about Brasil is that if you are between 18 and 70, you are obligated to vote. If you don't, they can deny you a passport and other documents. To me this appears to be a double edged sword; you get massive participation, but you also have an uniformed group of people voting just to fulfill their obligation. According to some Brasilians, the latter is why Presidente Lula was re-elected.

This photo is of the Brasilian Congress. The whole city is like a huge modern art museum with graceful curves and minimalistic design almost everywhere. It is the first completely planned city in the world and is truly singular. You could not get lost here if you tried. More about this later after I explore more and try to get lost.

Day 51 Recipe for Meeting the Parents

Start with one part boyfriend already suffering from nerve wracked exhaustion; add three nearly sleepless plane trips: Madrid to Miami to Sao Paulo to Brasila for a total of 24 hours; stir in one lost bag containing almost all of his worldy possessions, add in 5 hours time difference in the wrong direction, mix thoroughly until completely exhausted; within several hours of getting off the plane, serve raw to his girlfriend's extended family and friends with a topping of almost no common language. Results may vary.

Even with this inauspicious start, I was welcomed by Patricia's family with an openess and warmth that was more than I ever expected. The Brasilian people are a warm and gregarious people in general and her family is especially so, making me feel like one of them. They struggled through language difficulties with patience and kindness. I struggled to stay upright and conscious as I was plied with wine and food until what was 8 am for me, when I retired to my own room with a private bath and balcony in her parents house. I was warned to lock my door for reasons I did not understand at that time. I was too tired to care.

It wasn't until morning that I found out why I was told to lock my door. It seems that in the Brazilian culture, they do not see privacy the same way Americans do. People feel free to wander into rooms as they wish, with only locked doors indicating a desire for privacy. Luckily, I didn't accidentally expose myself to the servants or family before I found this out.

I was thrilled that I managed to meet her family and friends without making a total fool of myself. I think so anyway, maybe they were just too polite to point it out, I don't know.

Day 50 Life Happens

This is Patricia. We met in Washington DC where she was visiting from Brasil to learn English better. We clicked, spent three weeks together, and then went our seperate ways. After spending a month in Portugal and Spain, I desperately wanted to see her again. Can you blame me? What to do? Go to Brasil of course!

I searched and searched and finally found airlines that would give me e-tickets; apparently, some airlines still don't have e-ticket systems. I bought the tickets and located the Brasilian Consulate in Madrid. I wanted to make it to Brasil in time for her birthday party and the Consulate's website said I could get a visa in 48 hours. I had 5 days before I flew and everything was going fine...

Cue the ominous music.

I got an email five hours after I bought the expensive tickets. It was Expedia telling me that, " due to technical problems beyond their control," they were sending paper tickets to me--at home. This was a problem since I was in Madrid, Spain! Okay, what to do? A little research indicated that it is possible to have my Mom get the tickets and expedite them to me via UPS worldwide services, giving me leeway of one day. If everything goes fine, it will work. That solved, I headed to the Consulate, waited for 3 hours and was told it would take 10 days and they have no expedited services for visas. Problem number two.

Now what do I do? Beg of course! And to my great surprise they were very pleasant and flexible, telling me that if I showed them the tickets they would give me a visa in 48 hours. Problem number three.

I did not have the tickets. I went back to the hostel, found an internet cafe and printed the documents that I needed for the visa, and also a confirmation email from Expedia, in hopes that they would accept that. I returned to the Consulate the next day and waited 4 hours to beg some more. They said they would do it! I was thrilled. It would have cost another $1500 to change the tickets to a later date.

I was checking the tracking number for the tickets every few hours. They finally arrived two days later in Vancouver at 5:00--a half hour past the last UPS international drop off time, costing me another day. My one day leeway was gone. I was nervous.

So far I had seen almost nothing of Madrid: a few blocks around the hostel, the metro, the Brasilian Consulate, and the train station. I had one day where I could do nothing but wait, so I went out. It finally stopped raining for a bit and I went on an obligatory museum trip and saw Picasso's massive Guernica and many of his other works. As powerful as Guernica is, the best paintings for me were the Salvador Dali pieces. I have seen many of his works in pictures and posters and found him interesting; seeing his paintings in person was an experience not to be missed. No reproduction can capture the vivid and incredibly small details that completely change the viewing experience. The man was a genius and completely insane. I stood there, stunned, for a long time trying to wrap my mind around his hallucinogenic scenes. It didn't work. I left reeling mentally and wanting more.

I was dead set on getting some classic Spanish paella and managed to drag my friend Adrian (ex-special forces guy from Seattle) to what is reputed to be the best paella place in town. I was not dissapointed. It started off well, being seated in an elegant courtyard, drinking excellent sangria. Plus, the other patrons were exclusively Spanish, a very good sign. What arrived was a massive black shallow pan, over two feet across, filled with saffron colored rice, a bounty of seafood, and chicken. It was all that I had dreamed of and more. I was about half done when realized that I could scrape the crunchy layer off the bottom of the pan--pure, undulterated, culinary heaven! It was worth the trip just for that.

We headed out later to see the biggest Irish pub in Europe. It was infact, very big, solid smoke, and boring. Off we went to find some foosball action and ended up at a very local bar filled with animated middle-aged men in business casual wear. We played a few games of foosball until a 60-ish guy in a suit showed up and wanted to play. Adrian had been bragging about how good he was (except for a female Dutch bartender that gave him a good beating once, but that is another story) and he did beat phillip and me easily. Not so with the the old local guy. The guy must have been playing all of his life, his play was astoundingly controlled, accurate, and powerful. I think Adrian only got the ball to the other side of the table once. It was hilarious how hard he got slapped down. I declined being humilated myself. We couldn't drag Adrian away from his new friends and we left him there, drunk and getting more so. We headed to another Irish pub and then another local bar. This is the point at which I thought that maybe we should not let the Irish guy lead us. I managed to get back to the hostel by 3 am, not in the best shape, but at least not mugged.

I was up at 7 am to hit the Consulate and get my visa. I stood in line, with great effort, for an hour and a half and picked up my visa with a very big smile and many thanks. I slept most of the rest of the day and stayed in the hostel bar that night. The tracking website said that my tickets were in Germany.

The next morning I was up, packed, and waiting for my tickets to arrive by their promised 10 am deadline. I had to be at the airport by 1:00 pm and I was more than a little concerned. At 10:30 i had not seen any sign of them. I checked the tracking numbers again, discovered that they had just been delivered, ran down to the reception desk, and had my hopes crushed. The tickets were indeed delivered--to the wrong address. The desk clerk called UPS on my behalf since I cannot speak Spanish other than to order food. They said they would work on it....

While I was hanging on to a glimmer of hope, I was resigned to the fact that all my efforts came close, but not close enough to make it on time and avoid forking out a big chunk of change. The smooth meshing of very different systems on different continents was too much to ask for. I was on Skype at about 11:30 telling my very beautiful and dissapointed Patricia that it was unlikely to happen, when the unlikely happened--life smiled on me--and the desk clerk handed me the tickets.

And I was off.

Day 48 Rain in Spain

In Spain it rains mainly on the plains, mountains, coast, cities, and everywhere this time of year. I arrived in the dark and took the metro from the train station to within two blocks of my hostel. The metro system here is fantastic with about 191 stops and about 11 different lines. The hostel is the high-tech MAD Hostel with wristbands that operate the doors and lockers in the rooms. The beds are too small and close together, but they have free breakfast and wi-fi. At $20 USD/night, who can complain?

One of my roomates, Phillip from Ireland, was mugged just outside the door of the hostel last night. He was walking along about 1 am, enjoying a good beer buzz and particularly tasty and messy kebob, when someone grabbed him in a choke hold from behind. He woke up laying on the cobblestone one camera lighter. Listening to Phillip, it sounded as if his seeing the kebob laying in the street with its juicy goodness violated was what most bothered him. Fortunately, they must have been in a hurry, they left him with his wallet. All humor aside, he was shaken by the experience and it was an unpleasant warning to the rest of us to be careful in the dark and narrow streets.

My other roomate, Jake, a 18-year-old Austrailian is a refreshing change from others I have met. He is very young and naive about the world, yet he ventured out on his own to see it for himself, which is unusual for the pack-mentality that is normal for Austrailians. He also broke one of our stereotypes that we had of Aussies--he didn't like to drink. Luckily, there were plenty of his fellow countymen around to uphold their reputation. And they worked very hard at it.

I went out to get some good Spanish food with Jake, Adrian (Seattle), Sarah (American Peace Corp worker) and against my protestations ended up at a Lebanese restaurant. It was cheap and we got what we paid for. Although, I must say that the sangria was absolutely delicious. The interesting part was watching them smoke a sheesha (spelling?) They are big water pipes in which they smoke flavored herbs mixed with a small amount of tobacco. I tried a little just to experience it and was not overly impressed. The smoke was completely cool and tasted minty instead of like tobacco. I just don't see the attraction other than that people like to look cool sitting around sucking on the things and blowing smoke. After a while it made me feel a little sick. It might have been the food too.

At this point, I have not seen anything beyond a few blocks of the hostel.

Day 46 Vigo Spain, A Birthday Bore

Day 46 –On to Madrid

On getting back into Porto, I jumped on a four hour train ($15) north to Vigo, Spain, arriving at about 10 pm. I splurged for my birthday the next day and got a decent hotel room to catch up on sleep and veg. It was the hotel Chess Mexico whose only relationship to Mexico was the Aztec design in the foyer. For only $50/night I got a hotel room that would go for 3-4 times that at home. I spent my the first half of my birthday walking the boring town of Vigo, which is mostly a seaport/ship broker town. It was Saturday and almost everything was closed because they are more evening oriented there. I did have a very good and massive fried calamari sandwich for $3.50. The second half of the day I stayed in my room and relaxed with my complimentary hotel wi-fi.

I wanted to go see the Islas da Cieres, the legendary vacation spot of the gods, but it has been doing nothing but rain and the visibility is poor. So I am off to Madrid on a eight hour train right now, in a first class cabin. First class was $18 more to get better seats, a movie I can’t understand, and more legroom. For such a long trip, it is definitely worth it, except for the movie. I have an offer by a Lisboa friend to use his Madrid couch to crash on while I am there so maybe I can save some money. We’ll see, I was supposed to give him more warning, I just didn’t want to spend another day in dreary Vigo.

My Portugal average daily expenses:

Algarve (south) $45/day
Lisboa/Porto $62/day
Madeira $198/day including airfare

Day 44 Leaving Madeira

Madeira was a very pleasant change for a few days. The island is almost entirely tourist focused and for good reason. On the south side it is warmer and tropical with banana, cherimoya, passion fruit, chestnut, and avocado trees, sugar cane, and other crops all terraced up the steep mountains that created the island way out at sea. I was on the 4th floor of an inexpensive hotel in the capital city Funchal. The room was more than I needed with a TV and phone, except it had no internet connection; I am getting used to very basic accommodations. While I was looking at the tram that ran above my balcony to about 2km up the mountain, I thought I would try to see if there was wireless in the neighborhood and lo and behold, if I stuck my laptop out the window I could get the lowest possible connection. With the assistance of a chair straddling the window sill I was able to have the computer safely outside the window. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Since I was only on Madeira briefly, I opted for a minibus tour (42 euros) of the west end of the island. There were only five of us and I got the front seat with operable window so I could take pictures. The island is all up or down except for a small plateau near the top of the island. I saw very few two-wheeled vehicles because, according to the guide, it was too difficult or dangerous with the steep streets. And when I say steep, I mean STEEP at times. It would be a great place to open a clutch and brake shop.

We stopped at the second highest sea cliff in the world at about 1500ft. Took a few pictures hanging off the edge and moved on to a small, not particularly notable, beach town, and then climbed over the center of the island to the north side, which looks like the mountains from “Land of the Lost.” I won’t bother trying to describe it, because I won’t do it any justice. I will only say it was awe inspiringly beautiful and lush green impossibly high mountains. At the top we were in clouds that changed by the second, allowing limited pictures unfortunately. We headed down to the sea and stopped at the, according to the guide, “the only souvenir stand I recommend.” Which of course means that he gets a cut of anything we buy. This was confirmed by the way he stood near the cashier anytime one of us made a purchase. The prices were still cheap, so I could not complain. I bought a small, molasses colored cake that was made with sugar cane, honey, and Madeira wine—very rich and tasty. For a dollar, I also tried a good sized glass of the local drink Poncha, made fresh at the stand. It is honey rum and lemon juice and goes down like punch and has a heck of a kick.

Next at Port Moniz we had lunch at a very touristy restaurant where I had scabbard fish, a very traditional meal on Madeira, and one of my new favorite fishes. The naturally formed lava rock swimming pools were closed because of the high tide had swallowed most of them. The sea was incredibly blue and the waves were huge and hypnotic to watch. Back over the mountains we saw a few of the several hundred cloud enshrouded wind turbines that cover the plateau and provide the electrical power for the island. It was weird to go up and up and up and then hit a very flat 23 sq mile plain.

Later that night I went out for the “Typical Night” tour for 30 euros. An older couple, a younger couple with a small boy, and I were the tour group. They spoke almost no English, but once again that did not prove to be a problem. It was an interesting night right from the start. At the restaurant the first thing I noticed was that there was a coat rack or two sticking 5 feet out of the middle of every table--a little odd. Dinner started with some Madeira wine of course. Garlic bread, pitchers of red and white wine came next, and then French fries, and milho fritos, which are mashed corn that is formed into cubes and fried (very tasty), salad, and then came the meat.... Four foot long skewers of sizzling beef where hung off what really are meat racks on the tables. One chock full skewer for every two people and if you managed to eat about half the skewer, they brought more. Ooof! That was a lot of meat. That was followed by your choice of fruit salad or ice cream. I opted for the green apple ice cream. The meal ended with espresso and aguardente (a brandy) and licor de aniz. Plenty of meat and alcohol that preps you for the traditional folk dancing and fado show that follows. I passed on the 5x7 picture (5 euro) of me sliding meat off the oversized skewer, just as I passed on the picture of me sitting on the tram, just as I passed on the picture of me eating dinner in Port Moniz with the traditionally dressed waitress. Like I said, they are tourist oriented and have figured out how to squeeze the maximum out of us. Well maybe from the people from the QE2 anchored in the harbor but not me.

Leaving the this morning, I was chauffeured in style to the airport as part of my package deal, got on the plane and had a slightly unnerving experience. We were about to leave when the stewardess announced that we had to wait for the ground crew. They opened the door back up and a few guys in fluorescent vests went in to talk to the pilot. After a few minutes, all but one of the crew, including stewardesses, went outside. I looked out the window and about a dozen people were standing around a guy laying under the jet engine. They opened panels, fiddled for a while, and some of the crew came back on board. The rest stood way back while the engine was cycled on and off, at times to great speed. During this procedure, the cabin systems were going on and off with lights and bells and emergency illumination blinking. This went on for about 40 minutes with not a word of explanation to the increasing anxious passengers. Then they shut the whole plane down and turned it back on again, like a Microsoft reboot. Apparently satisfied, they said, "sorry for the delay," and we took off with still no explanation. Now, I have been on many planes and I know what a jet engine sounds like. This was not normal sounding. It was a bit too motor boatish for my tastes and those of my terrified seatmate. One of the bad things about being on a mountainous island is that when you take off you are over water the moment you hit the end of the runway. Bad I say because no one has ever survived a water landing in a commercial aircraft in the history of aviation, anywhere. Those floating seat cushions are merely to make you feel better. Obviously we lived. Although for the first half hour my seatmate would sit sharply forward every minute or so and nervously verify the engine was still attached to the wing.

Day 42 Madeira

I spent the first half of yesterday doing two things: Going to the mall for free internet access, unfortunately, the wrong mall and I could not connect (the other mall was much further away), and also trying to find a box or tube to send a couple cool posters home. The post office doesn’t have boxes, only envelopes, and none of the dozen people I asked had any idea where to find something. It is as if the people of Porto never mail any packages. I don’t understand. I ended up taking a cardboard box out of a recycling pile and making my own triangular mailing tube. I used my pocket knife and a pen and cut and folded my way into being a public spectacle—I had an audience of about eight people that were baffled by what I was doing. It was hilarious. Then came the problem of needing tape which is also not available at the post office. I wandered until I found a hardware store, but they did not have tape to sell. The proprietor spoke no English at all, yet we got along fine and he used his own tape to carefully secure my package, refused any payment, and shook my hand with a smile.

This has been typical of Porto. A bus driver guessed that I wanted to go to the hostel and let me off right in front because I missed my stop a block back; another driver let me ride for free because he didn’t have change for a $20; other riders asked me if I was knew I the bus wasn’t going to the city center where most tourists go; shop people were always helpful; restaurant people didn’t treat me like a faceless tourist; and so on.

The second half of the day I wandered across the bridge to the Port caves, a 10 minute walk. I went in a few and settled on Vasconcellos, which is a small, high-quality, family house. I was the only one for the English tour and got personal treatment, and a very nice bottle of Tawny before I left. There was no way I was going to Porto with buying a bottle of port; besides, it is so much cheaper from the family that makes it than after a few middlemen in the states. I spent 20 euro for a bottle that would have cost me twice as much at home.

Today I flew to Madeira on a plane (made by Airbus) that had more leg room in economy class than I could believe. I actually was able to cross my legs comfortably! I was almost disappointed it was only a two-hour flight. It was nice seeing a driver holding up a sign with my misspelled name on it. Normally, I have to scrounge for transportation. My room is big and has a separate enclosed balcony with a view of a small park, old town Funchal, and fog shrouded mountains above. At my balcony table, I ate roasted chicken with rice and port and enjoyed the view as the sun set in vibrant colors over the tropical paradise of Madeira. Wow.

My internet connection is only 1 Mbps with the lowest signal possible, so I don’t think I will be getting pictures online. I’ll try, no promises though.

Day 40 Porto

I stayed in Lisboa one more day and drove through rain up to Porto with my roommate Ricardo, a Porto resident. He was very generous and proud of his city; we went out to eat, drove to the hostel, got me checked-in, hit the tourism office for maps and info, went to a travel agency and arranged a trip to Madeira, and then drove back to the hostel, all the while he helped me communicate with people in Portuguese and gave me an guided tour of his home city. At the end, I had to force money on him for gas.

I have to say that my first impressions of Porto have been very positive. I am told that the Port wineries are within walking distance of the old town, and have free samples! Things just keep getting better.

One negative is that I cannot get online with my own computer at the hostel so I have to go to the shopping center to upload anything. That means that I have to find it again (we stopped there briefly to check wi-fi access) and take a bus or two quite a way to get there.

I am going to Madeira from Wednesday to Friday. It is a two hour plane ride to the island and includes airport shuttles, hotel, breakfasts, and was only $300 for everything. It is good to travel in the off season.

In the massively tourist laden Lisboa, I was only able to identify maybe half a dozen American couples. According to Ricardo and others, Americans don’t go to Portugal much, particularly after 9/11. Ricardo says he only sees two or three Americans a year in Porto. I have yet to understand why this is. I know that my impression of Portugal before I came was that it would be much poorer than it is. People here may be less well off than others in Europe, but they are not burdened by the endemic poverty that cripples countries like Mexico. Overall, Portugal is doing well.

Day 38 Leaving Lisboa

In my last post I described the Palacia da Pena as not obscenely large; yesterday, I went to the National Palace in Mafra and it is more than obscenely large. If the 1200 plus rooms in the palace and monastery are difficult enough to visualize, add the small detail that I went through only 40 rooms and I walked two kilometers (about a mile). The king at that time had asked the Franciscans to ask God to help his wife bear a child, promising that he would build them a monastery if it happened. Buying off God worked for him and his wife bore a child the next year. Such a self-important man wasn’t about to build a monastery for only 13 monks and built it for 300 instead, and an enormous basilica, and a small 880 room “hunting palace.” During one of the 33 years it took to build, they counted 52,000 workmen at the palace. To make it worse, the royal family spent a total of three or four days a year there. It is impossible to use that many rooms with anything less than an army so most of the enormous furnished rooms were nothing more than hallways between used rooms. The “hallway” between the king’s and queen’s rooms was about 700 feet long (223 meters). Pictures were not allowed so I did not take any, but since we only had six people in our tour, the tour guide took a picture of me sitting on a Charles V bench!

The bus driver to Mafra was the most reserved I have seen, opposite of the driver I had to Cabo da Rocha. That guy must have been Mario Andretti’s suicidal brother on meth. We careened through a dozen small villages at amazing speed considering that at times it would have been generous to say that it was a one-lane road. Delightful stucco buildings painted in muted pastels take on a much more menacing appearance when they are within two inches of your bus window at 35 mph (60 kph) on twisty village lanes. I have to give him credit, he knew exactly how big his bus was. Roundabouts were like going to Six Flags from where I was in the back of the bus, it was wild.

Being a pedestrian here can be dangerous. Some drivers will slow or stop for you if you are in a crosswalk and others will speed up to discourage you from crossing. Never assume you have the right of way.

It is my last full day in Lisboa and I am spending it catching up on posting pictures, planning my trip to Porto, packing, and resting.

Day 36 To the End of the Earth and Back

I bought a one-day pass ($15) for unlimited travel by bus and train in the Lisboa region and jumped a train to the touristy little village of Sintra, about 40 minutes away. Tourist cash has kept up the city well, almost too well, since it feels charming yet a little too picturesque for reality. The main attractions are the National Palace (closed while I was there), the Castelo de Mouros (Moorish Castle), and the Palacio da Pena (Disneyesque palace). The latter two are just up the hill and are worth the trip.

Little other than most of the outside wall is left of the Castelo de Mouros. It rambles over the top of the mountain like a mini great wall of China, with views of several villages and the Atlantic ocean in the near distance. The interior is overrun with an untamed verdant splendor that is a wonderfully relaxing break from the masses and hectic pace of Lisboa.

The Palacio da Pena is the former home of Kings and Queens of Portugal and was built by incorporating the remains of an ancient monastery. On first seeing the facade, I half expected to see Donald or Mickey pop out at me at any moment. The color scheme and ornate, turret intensive architecture screams Disney. Closer inspection reveals a much more elegant and regal structure. Unfortunately, they don’t allow any photos inside the palace. And contrary to what my mother has said, I don’t ignore “No Photo” signs. I respect the need to preserve antiquities that can be damaged by flash cameras. I only sometimes ignore the signs when the only reason they don’t want you to take a picture is that they want to sell you theirs. The scale of the palace is very human, not the oversized, god-like grandeur that I normally think of when I think “palace.” The rooms are modest and even the ballroom is not obscenely large. It feels like a home. The detail, on the other hand, is definitely royal, clearly showing both the money and labor that it took.

Stopping at a large, circular window on the stairs, I couldn’t help but imagine a king standing in the very same spot and gazing across his domain, his brow furrowed by some pressing issues of his time. I didn’t envy his station or burden, but felt thankful that I was only passing briefly in his shadow.

I went by bus to Cabo da Rocha, the westernmost point of Europe. Also once thought to be one of the edges of the world, there is little to see other than tour buses of people and a gift shop of course. It lacks the sharp drop-off of land as that of Sagres, the most Southwestern point. Cabo da Rocha is one of those places you can tell your friends you have been. I saw the view for 5 minutes and waited for the bus to Cascais for and hour.

Cascais, vacation home of Portugal’s rich, is overrun with sports and luxury cars, fine hotels and restaurants, and overdressed people. It is a nice waterfront city but too expensive; I headed back to Lisboa on the train after about two hours.

I will add more to this entry later.

Day 34 Lisboa

During the five days I have been in Lisboa, I have seen the Castelo Sao Jorge (Castle of St. George), the Aqueducto Aguas Livres (Roman aqueduct), many plazas with grand statues, public art everywhere, a few ornate churches, an assortment of towers and other monuments, a few interesting historic neighborhoods, and enough cobblestone to cover New Mexico. Not a single museum in the lot. I have intentionally been avoiding museums in order to avoid tourist trail burnout. I like museums; I just have wanted to soak up the local culture as much as possible first.

The Castelo Sao Jorge is on a hill right in the middle of town in the labyrinth of the Alfama neighborhood. Some of the nameless alleyways are so small that you cannot see them until you are standing in front of them. If it wasn’t a sunny day, allowing me to keep a sense of direction, I am sure I would have gotten lost. It was sunny when I was there and if there had been a wind to blow some of the smog in the distance away, the view would have been spectacular. The castle is surrounded by what is now a graceful meandering park filled with shady trees, benches, and of course, cannons. It is a lovely place to spend a few hours relaxing. Up at the castle itself, I wandered around the high walls and watched a group of small preschool children, all with matching red hats and pink smocks, play in the courtyard, climbing trees and frequently alarming their guardians by fearlessly scaling the crumbling stone walls.

In one of the castle towers is a camera obscura installation that is very cool. It is a dark room with what looks like a nine foot (3m) white bowl in the middle. When the guide operates the mirror and lenses in the top of the tower, it projects a live view of the city into the bowl. As he pulls or turns some hanging levers, he can turn and aim the mirror to see all the way around the city. I wasn’t supposed to take this picture, but I did anyway and was promptly told not to do it again. I figured it was without flash and didn’t hurt anything so I would gladly take a mild scolding so I could get the shot.

I was also a little bad at the Roman aqueduct. It is impressively large but not much to see once you get on it. You walk about half a kilometer across the top to the other side of the valley and there is a locked gate with a park on the other side. I wanted to get the two feet to the park without spending 40 minutes walking all the way back and taking a bus to get there,. I figured that since they have built everything for shorter people, like the metal hand holds at my forehead height in the metro (bumped my head five frickin’ times so far!), I should take advantage of my long arms and legs so I quite easily swung off the side of the walkway and around the barbed barricade. So there!

I was going to go out with a group of people here to see some Fado last night, which is the Portuguese performance art of heart wrenching singing and narrative poetry, but after some inexplicable delays we ended up spending the evening playing pool and talking in the hostel bar. Maybe it is for the best because I was told we wouldn’t get back until 8 or 9 in the morning! When they go out here, they go out late.

The parking laws here are very strict; they say that if you can only park if your car fully fits in the space. If it doesn’t fit, you have to park on the sidewalk, or double or triple park, or park perpendicular in a parallel space with half your car sticking out into the street, or in the middle of the street, or anywhere else you happen to stop. If you can’t park in any of those places, you absolutely cannot park. Actually, the only real rule is that you have to leave just enough room on the street for another car to squeeze past you or everyone will honk and yell.

Day 30 Lisboa Portugal

The bus to Lisboa was the nicest bus I have ever taken. It was like a Cadillac of buses with ergonomic leather seats, fold down trays, a water dispenser, and a movie to watch. It was luxurious. The view was disappointingly uneventful and only mildly scenic. Getting to the hostel from the bus station was only a matter of walking down some stairs, paying 13.20 euros for a five day metro/bus pass, two transfers, and walking a block, losing my metro pass and receipt in the process, forcing me to buy another, oops.

The central Lisboa hostel ($20 USD/night) is old and stately on the outside and ultra-modern on the inside. All the plumbing fixtures are stainless, including sinks and vanities, toilets, and urinals. Perhaps most strange for a hostel is that the furniture is in good shape and all matches. The hostel even has a fashionable full bar with a pool table, video games, and cheap drinks. The downside is that it doesn’t have a kitchen for the visitors to use, leaving dining out the only option after the free breakfast.

Lisboa itself is beautiful. Almost everywhere you look is postcard worthy. The hard thing is that things are so close together, it is hard to get good pictures of everything I want. The city feels very old, but not ancient as I expect will Rome to be. Many of the buildings are covered in ceramic tiles, a Moorish influence I think, and have a unique character that I haven’t seen before. I’ll try to get the Portugal gallery going soon.

My Portuguese is pathetic still and I have to rely on English or body language for most things. It hasn’t stopped me from going to the tiny local cafes with minimal signage and cryptic menus in illegible handwriting. I have had a few classic Portuguese dishes: whole sardines (some organs intact) cooked over a wood charcoal grill with roasted potatoes, olives, and some local beer; some of the most fantastic grilled chicken ever, served with crunchy home-style potato chips and local beer; and of course, bacalhau, which is a salt dried cod that came with chick peas, olives, salad, and local beer. Notice the common theme? To avoid getting fat, I have been working hard to avoid the ubiquitous pastelerias (pastry cafes) but for 50 cents for a high quality espresso and another 60 cents or less for the pastry, my will power has faltered, repeatedly.

I feel very comfortable here. For a big touristy city, the people here are pleasant and helpful. The temperature has been between 68 and 75 degrees, very nice.

Research note:

There is one question that I have been asked repeatedly, "Why did you elect Bush?"

Day 28 Lagos and Sagres

I am sitting in Lagos in a comfortably shabby hammock and enjoying the cool afternoon shade of a palm tree with nothing pressing to do other than drink ridiculously inexpensive and delicious local red currant beer and catch up on my travel blog. I wish life was always this rough.

Lagos is entirely a tourist town. It is similar to Cancun, Mexico in its draw for young people to party. It seems that everything is geared for summer youthful hedonism or off season geriatric sight seeing. Not really my scene.

Yesterday, I threw a rock off the end of the earth. Well, it was once thought to be the end of the earth. I took a bus (3 euro) 32 kilometers to Sagres, the farthest southwest point of Europe. The continent ends, appropriately enough, very abruptly with a 100 foot tall cliff that plunges straight down into what looks like very deep ocean. It is no wonder people thought that the world ended there; beyond is only azure curve of the ocean as it meets the horizon. After walking about 4 kilometers in a round about fashion to the point, I walked another 6 kilometers to Cabo Sao Vicente, the third most powerful lighthouse in the world, and had a 270 degree view of unobstructed horizon from straight north all the way around to the east.

At that time, two things happened. First, I was astounded by the sheer number of older British tourists that ceaselessly piled out of tour buses that arrived every few minutes. Second, a visual memory hit me quite suddenly; the bus schedule listed both Sagres and Cabo Sao Vicente for most of the day, but only went to Sagres at the end of the day. It was of course, the end of the day when I realized this. I tried hitching a ride with no luck and ended up walking the 6 kilometers back to Sagres. It was rapidly getting dark and there was no way other than an expensive taxi to get back to my prepaid room and backpack in Lagos. I opted for a quarto for 25 euro, a single room that is sometimes with a family, but in this case was entirely private with a shared bath. At a deserted café, I had a beer and a shrimp omelet that came with fries and a tomato and onion salad for 6.50 euros. I was tired, but had a bed and food--nothing to complain about. The next day I missed the first bus back to Lagos by about 20 seconds. Oh well. I had an espresso and pastry and sat for 2 hours, until the next bus, looking beyond the rows of palm trees to watch the sky and ocean slowly exchange hues of blue.

When I got back to Lagos I went three doors up from the hostel to get a haircut at a salon. They spoke no English, yet we managed quite well. For 9 euros I got the best and most precise haircut of my life. It must have taken her a full hour to make sure that every, and I mean every, hair on my head was exactly the right length. Ears, eye brows, side burns, everything. She was truly meticulous.

Tomorrow I am taking the bus to Lisboa; a four hour ride for 15 euros. Even though, I like the relaxed Mediterranean life here, Lagos is not for me.

On a research note, I found the overwhelming opinion about Americans by Brits, Germans, Portuguese, Brazilians, and Spanish, is that we think we are better than everyone else. “Americans think we are number one in the world.” "They think they know everything." I got this from direct and overheard conversations. Before I came, I was needlessly worried that people would be hesitant to tell me how they really feel; they have been quite frank. I have yet to actually run into any Americans here so I cannot provide any personal observations of my fellow citizens.

Day 25 Praia de Faro

When I think of a city with an international airport, I think big. I am wrong in this case. Maybe it shows my travel inexperience. Faro is a cute little town with a small walled old city and only two hotels. I am told it is a booming tourist town in the summer. The old city takes about 2 hours to see fully and shopping holds little interest for me since I have to carry or post whatever I buy. Due to Faro’s surrounding wetlands, the beach is only accessible by a 20 minute bus ride. The beach is very nice though, with a course reddish beige sand and a the waves come in tall enough for some exhilarating body surfing. And thankfully, the water is a whole lot warmer than Oregon.

My new friends/dorm mates here are Andree from Brazil (living in Germany), Kay from Germany (lived in Brazil) and Luis from Lisboa. They all speak Portuguese of some form and English. A few other people we are hanging out with speak Spanish and rapid fire heavily accented Austrailian English. One of the most fun aspects of hostel life is communication. It is a always a source of laughs as we struggle with similar and dissimilar words. Conversations can take the strangest turns.

Day 24 Faro Portugal

Wednesday night with little sleep—not a good start; Thursday morning 4.5 hour bus ride to NYC with no sleep—doing fine; 2 hour bus ride to JFK with no sleep—doing okay; 8 hours on a plane to Dublin with maybe 15-30 minutes of sleep—I have felt better; 4 hours in airport with heavy breakfast and a pint—maybe not so helpful; 1.5 hours on a plane with no sleep—feeling rundown ; 2 hours in London’s Gatwick airport with no sleep—out right tired; 4.5 hours on a plane with a rowdy cricket team and 60 geriatric English tourist—wishing I was dead; Arrival at dusk in Faro—beautiful; taxi to hostel—10 euros; being dropped off in the dark at the wrong address—priceless.

I expected some difficulties and exhaustion so it wasn’t such a big deal, mostly because my driver only missed his mark by 50 feet. I walked in the right direction and saw the very small hostel sign on the next doorway. Whew! I checked in for 4 nights at $7/night including breakfast. I think my budget will be much easier to follow here. I was given breakfast coupons and a key to room four with the instructions to leave it at the desk whenever I went out. No problem…yet….

I settled into the room, taking a noisy top bunk, and after locking the door I went out to put my things in the hall locker when a 15ish Portuguese said in rough English that he needed my key to change his clothes in the room. He seemed nice and I was in no shape to argue. I gave him the key and he went to the common room to watch TV and laugh with his friends (???). After about 15 minutes of trying to stay awake I went out and asked for the key back. I was asleep when the knock came on the door. It was an English speaking hostel employee informing me that I had the only key to the room and I had locked everyone out. It was a shared key for all four people. Oops. I apologized for the mistake and slept for 10 hours.

Breakfast was 2 very large fresh crusty rolls, jam, butter, ham, cheese, cornflakes, yogurt, orange juice, and 50/50 coffee and hot milk. It was even served to us in a very clean cafeteria style line. Needless to say I was impressed after the pathetic and not free Danish at the DC hostel. With that good start I headed out.

The old town is only a couple blocks from the hostel, although it was too early when I went through; everything was closed. I wandered the streets a bit and went into a grocery store to get lunch supplies: grapes, a little round of some truly fantastic cheese, hot crusty bread, dried sausage, EV olive oil, a juice size box of wine (31 cents), and a six pack of Limao bottles (lemon drink). The olive oil drove up the price to 12 euros, otherwise it would have been 5 euros.

On my way back to the hostel I stopped in the public aviary park next door to the hostel and saw that they have free internet service. The internet at the hostel is 5 euros/30 min or 50 euros/week! No thanks.

Life is good. I am off to explore,

Tchau!

Day 23 Stuck in Dublin Airport

I took the bus to New York City bus terminal and then another to JFK. Traffic was awful, several people on the bus missed their flights. I barely made it in time to sit on the plane for two hours before finally taking off. My first view of Ireland was of the misty and jagged hills that crash suddenly into the ocean outside Dublin. I couldn't have asked for a better first glimpse.

Now I am in Dublin without enough time to run into the city and grab a pint. It just isn't the same at the airport. Of course it is 5 am my time so maybe that is for the best.

The British Airways queue leads to a temporarily different airline (TAP) I found out after waiting in line for half an hour. Even better, it doesn't switch over to the BA desk for another hour. Oh well, it gives me time to blog for 30 minutes at $7.

Add-on:

Ran out of internet time so I went and had an "Irish breakfast" of sausage, ham, egg, and black and white pudding(it was good, not sure I want to know what it was) and then rounded it out with a pint to balance out all the animal fat. Surprised? Probably not.

I paid another $7 for internet access while I wait. It is only money, right?

Day 21 Back in DC

We found a Spanish bar called Cafe Citron that not only had a little too delicious mojitos and great food, but a Flamenco dancer and singer. Now I have seen Flamenco in movies and was always intrigued; in person, it was captivating. The combination of the unique singing style, the pounding of the dancer's feet on the heavily worn floor, and the rythmic clapping, it was intense. Even better was being there with friends and having a great time comparing funny words that are not entirely suitable for this format. One of the best is the Brazilian word for the crack that shows when someone bends over with too low of pants--they call it a piggy bank. I had the urge all night to deposit some coins when the opportunity arose. It was a good night.

I have averaged $105/day in DC and Philly. It is more than I wanted for a few reasons. More expensive hotel stays in Philly, and perhaps most deserving of blame is the high cost of having a good time with your friends. Typically, $50/night is normal for food and drinks. I am looking forward to getting to a less expensive country. I leave for Portugal on Thursday, arriving on Friday night.

Day 19 Philadelphia Continued

Terror Behind the Walls! The old state penitentiary, an enormous, spooky, castle-like prison in Philadelphia is the site of one of the best haunted houses in the country and we went on the second day it was opened. And with the two for one special it was only $15 each, a bargain for what you get.

I cannot say enough of how scary the prison is in the first place with its rundown stone construction and rusted wrought iron bars. Add in intentionally scary lighting or at times, lack of light at all. Throw in 40-50 people dressed as gory undead guards and prisoners, and have them yell at, scream at, chase, or whisper to you as you are inducted as new prisoners running a guantlet that includes gun fire, countless loud noises, blast of air, and horrifying scenes including Abu-Graib prison reenactment, hanging dead bodies meat locker style--that you have to push through, very dark fog filled rooms with the undead looming close, whispering in your ear, a 3-D section (with glasses) that was very bizarre and fascinating, and countless bloody visages popping out at every corner. It was truly scary. What made it even better was Patricia screaming the whole time and nearly drawing blood with her death grip on my arm.

Afterward, we went across the street to Jack's Firehouse Bar and watched people expertly swing dance to a great live band. I had delicious pulled pork on sweet corn chips, very delicious with a few pints and a tapping foot. It was a good finish to the day.

Day 18 Philidelphia and Questioned Patriotism

After a three and one half hour bus ride to Philadelphia ($30) we took a taxi to the Club Quarters Hotel, arriving at almost 10pm. It is a nice little boutique hotel and my room was on the penthouse floor; sounds impressive, no? Quickly, I understood why my room was so inexpensive. It was right next to the hall bathrooms that serve the meeting/party rooms on that floor and I got to listen to people slamming the doors and talking loudly until midnight. The room itself was small, but nicely appointed. The best part was the supposedly inoperable window that lifted out of its frame, giving me access my own large and entirely private rooftop balcony with a great view of Philadelphia’s downtown (see the gallery photos). We had a quick dinner of Chinese food and retired.

The next day we went to the see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. As an American I was moved to feelings of patriotism and pride in my country to personally view such tangible history and walk through the very places where our forefathers risked their lives to create a republic where people could be truly free. I stood in the same places as George Washington, John Adams, Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and so many other great idealistic men. To stand in their places and imagine their struggle, which has brought us so much, cannot fail to touch the American heart. Other hearts are another story.

I was initially taken aback by the reaction of my Brazilian friend Patricia. She could not understand why Americans are so fascinated with these bits of history or why they are so nationalistic. Not having ever explained this before, I struggled to find words to express my feelings. What I came up with was something like this:

It is our democracy that gives us our freedoms and rights. We are brought up believing in that each one of us can make a difference in our government if we want to change it. Yes the impact of one individual is limited, but with a group of like-minded people the effect can be huge. We identify the struggle of our forefathers as a fight for what is fair and just, a fight of the few overcoming tyranny--very American ideals. Democracy is all about personal empowerment for the betterment of society. I added that even though it may be contrary to world opinion and sometimes history, Americans see their country as a force for good in the world. Even when we disagree with our current administration, we wholeheartedly believe in our form of government. Other countries have had very different histories and much less or no democratic government and so it is understandable that those peoples cannot understand the personal identification Americans have with democracy.

Well, I said something like that. Whether I answered her question satisfactorily, I don’t know.

Day 13 In the Shoes of an Assassin

There I was today, standing in a doorway, mere inches behind a now empty chair, overlooking the stage of the Ford Theater where over a hundred years ago, on a dark day in our nation's history, John Wilkes Booth stood in my place. From only six inches away, he fired a bullet into the back of Abraham Lincoln's head, stabbed his guest, Major Rathbone, and clumsily leaped the 10 feet down to the stage. Whereas the rest of theater is not worthy of any special mention, the spot behind Lincoln's chair changed the whole feel from ho-hum to eerie.

Yesterday, we went to the National Zoo. It was nice that it was free to get in, though based on the meager quantity of exhibits and animals, I think they should start charging admission so they can get something worth seeing. It pales in comparison to almost every other zoo I have ever seen. It would have been a waste of day if I hadn't had such good company.

I have been trying to get over to the National Portait Gallery and Museum of American art. Maybe today.

Day 11 Exhaustion Sets In

I have been trying to stave off exhaustion, yet is has found me. I have been resting today. The thing that has surprised me is how much time I spend doing the little details of life; I had envisioned spending all of my days out exploring. In fact, I spend a fair amount of time washing clothes, shopping for food and small items, waiting for the bus, waiting for the very slow hostel elevator, waiting for the metro, waiting in line for an exhibit, waiting for friends to get ready to go somewhere, waiting for the bus some more, waiting at the always packed hostel front desk, waiting, waiting, waiting....and waiting is tiring. My legs are also sore from the walking. I know that I will grow accustomed sometime soon--I hope.

After I move into yet another room, because I want a room with a locker inside, I am going to the National Portrait Gallery with some people of whose names I am unsure--luckily that is not required here.

Day 9 Bus Trouble

Since the last posting, I have spent the days in a few of the 14 Smithsonian museums and the Aeronautical and Space Museum. It is almost too bad that there is an overwhelming amount of amazing exhibits and artifacts here, because it quickly raises the threshold of what it takes to be impressed. I have broken things up with going to a movie, taking an evening Georgetown tour, and tonight a large group of us is going bowling.

Georgetown is picturesque, cozy, and thanks to the Georgetown University, rather high-spirited on the main street at night. I didn’t know what to expect other than a lot of old very expensive homes. We walked through the quiet, dimly illuminated, narrow stone streets, feeling like intruders on the carefully decorated parlors visible through appropriately fragile curtains. I felt the warmth of care in the faithfully restored facades, bountiful planting boxes, and neatly trimmed hedges. I also felt the exclusivity of the rows of luxury cars narrowing the already narrow lanes.

As part of the tour we hit one of the local bars where I promptly lost several games of pool to a Russian, Korean, and a Brazilian. Other than the dense clouds of smoke, we had a lot of fun. That is, until we tried to get back to the hostel. The tour guide, now gone, failed to mention that the particular bus we needed to take stopped running at midnight. Ever hopeful, we waited at a different bus stop with a number of locals that looked like they were expecting a bus anytime. After about 20 minutes the taxis were looking good. After about 30 minutes, we were ready to take one, and then a bus showed up. Using my slightly fuddled brain, I inquired with the driver before we boarded the bus to avoid ending up somewhere we didn’t want to be. He assured me that he was going to within five blocks of the hostel. Great! We got on. What I failed to ask the driver was for him to let us know when that stop of close proximity occurred. We had passed it a while back when we jumped off close to the National Archives and waited for another bus that the driver said would take us right to the hostel. After half an hour of waiting on the cold damp benches the bus of the specified number showed up, and dropped us off around the corner because he didn’t go the way we wanted. Exhausted, cold, and bleary-eyed at the current time of 1:30 a.m., we walked many blocks to the hostel, showed our ID and room receipts as requested and everyone but me went up to the rooms to sleep. I was told that I was checked out earlier that day and could not go back to my room. Even though I had paid for the room for another week, the computer didn’t show it and I had to plead with the desk clerk to go get my receipt from my room to prove I paid. I provided the receipt, but had to change rooms at 2 a.m. I was too tired to get upset, I just wanted a bed. C’est la vie, no?