The Furnace That is Portugal (Part Two)

Part Two
Douro Valley and Lisbon

Before we left home, I scanned Spud Hilton’s newspaper article, “Managing One’s Expectations When Choosing Destinations.” Sprawled on our couch, I read a traveler’s comment about Machu Picchu in Travel Advisor. “I don’t see the big deal with these overpriced ruins.  They are some stone ruins on top of a hill.” I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. There were other equally hilarious interpretations of monumental sites like a review of the Grand Canyon: “Very disappointing 5 hour drive for a hole in the ground.”  How foolish, I thought. How short-sighted, preposterous, even pig-headed.

Terraced vineyards above the Douro

But now I must tell you I don’t care if I ever again see the splendor of the Douro Valley’s terraced vineyards or sip their famed wine or sample a single morsel of Parma ham.  On a three day boat trip up the Douro River in 112 degree heat and the next day’s bus tour that included seven interminable stops at cathedrals, wineries and restaurants , a nasty case of food poisoning struck. At 3AM on day two, I stumbled to the bathroom naked, fainted, and collapsed. Falling against the knife-edge rim of a granite bathtub, I awoke to stabbing pain in the center of my face and writhing in a pool of blood.  I struggled to understand why Sailor Boy was calling my name. Blood was sticky in my fingers; the smell acrid. I lay in shock and terror.  How could this be happening to me?

A couple from across the hall who had heard the commotion came to the rescue. Sailor Boy called an ambulance. The man brought extra towels and held my hand, paramedics came, the woman pulled a dress over my head, an ambulance took me to a hospital, a surgeon stitched the wound on my nose, and I lay on a gurney with Sailor Boy at my side until an ENT doctor examined and released me eleven hours later.  All I wanted to do was come home.  I longed to recover on our couch, look out our windows, sleep in our bed.  But we had planned a three month trip.  We weren’t even out one month. In the days that followed as I slowly recovered from food poisoning, I was able to stand, shower, and dress with help. Sailor Boy and I agreed the trip of a lifetime would go forward. Lisbon was calling.

There we have it: not only managing one’s expectations, but managing the unexpected. There is risk in living as we all know too well from reading the daily headlines of world-wide tragedy, and there is also the moment when one is traveling and suddenly injured far from home. I will never forget the kindness of the strangers in the hotel and the people in that small town in northern Portugal and the care of the medical community. The blood bruises around my eyes and down my cheeks are nearly gone; the bump on the bridge of my nose is permanent.  My fingers worry its hooked ridge. My coat of cavalier colors has taken on a subtler shade.  It is a lesson in humility and most of all a reminder of how the stakes are raised when one goes on the road and all bets are off.

Lisbon

The airy, vibrant openness of Lisbon, with its wider streets, classical buildings, and plazas where crowds gather to joyfully join the street entertainment, allows me to breath deeper and walk faster. A harbor and river shoulder the city; a cool breeze washes over its seven hills. In the Chiado district, close to  Bairro Alto known as “High Town,” Casa do Barao welcomes us like a long-lost friend.  An engraved brass plaque on the tall, carved wooden door announces the handsome appointments inside. Sara, the manager, expresses genuine concern about the accident in the Douro Valley. She offers assistance to help in any way she can. I feel instantly at home. There is everything to love about this 18th Century, refurbished, elegant, small hotel, and although there are exactly sixty stairs again to climb to our third floor atelier that looks out over the city, I won’t complain. This is the ideal hideaway in which to recuperate and get back on my feet.  A little swimming pool in the garden beckons me.

Sailor Boy is of a mind that he can’t wait to ride the heritage wooden trams and funiculars running on old track lines that have been preserved and updated.  Tourists are captivated by them; locals use them as means of transportation.  He catches a six mile ride on Route 28 to cross through some of the most picturesque neighborhoods. Afterwards, I meet him at A Brasilerira, a 100 year old literary café, for a bica. Nearby, the bronze statue of Fernando Pessoa immortalizes the twentieth century poet and bohemian. Brazilian music from street musicians peppers the air. People watching is mandatory. Dark-haired Portuguese women are glamorous, long-legged, slim, and wearing the most wonderful shoes.

We take a solo ride with on a tuk tuk driven by an enterprising young man who shows us embassy buildings, gardens, churches, and points out irreplaceable handmade tiles on the face of homes.  We eat sushi prepared by Brazilian sushi chefs, Indian curry, and stop in at Time Out, a state of the art food emporium offering world-wide cuisine and liquid libation. We spend an afternoon in the Calouste Gulbenkian Museum.  Gulbenkian, an Armenian oil tycoon who escaped the Nazis in WWII, adopted  Lisbon as his home, and to express his gratitude he bequeathed his 5000 year old billion dollar collection of textiles, painting, ceramics, sculpture, and Lalique jewelry to the city.

Back at Casa do Barao, delicious, homemade breakfasts arrive every morning. You can order any coffee concoction or egg dish you wish in addition to helping yourself to fresh fruit and baked goods.  I meet people from around the world who inspire me.  Ramali Perera from Sri Lanka, and Kimmie Horikoshi from Japan who is traveling with her friend, Deborah Harris from NYC.  Deborah has purchased an apartment nearby and we share the adventurous spirit of her decision. Robbie, a Swedish international journalist and his wife, Marie, an equestrian and educator, are also looking to settle in Lisbon. On the street, we meet other people from around the world. Eventually it is time to remove the bandage from my nose, and although the stitching and bruising has not entirely disappeared, I am re-invigorated.  Lisbon has been more than good to us.  Father Time moves on, Greece awaits, and Sailor Boy is ready to go.