Catching a Pick-Pocketer: the Other Side of Iberia

Let's see, it began in the usual manner, the wide-eyed strawberry blonde with the all-too-professional backpack waiting at a bus station. But even from there I was having a great time. There were about 200 people crowding on the bus to the center of Lisbon from the airport on the bus. I was next to a blue-eyed Irish couple, who kept me entertained with their accents. I hadn't heard nuthin yet. Emerging from the bus onto Rua Augusta, I heard a symphony of the strangest language (next to Euskera) I have witnessed yet. It sounds like an eastern-European-French mixed with raw vivacity. Called Portuguese. And no, knowing Spanish did NOT help me understand it spoken. Some other things I witnessed in Lisbon:

• A plethora of pregnant women. I had heard the portuguese like to...have children.
• hills. Lisbon is built on seven, providing glorious views of the river from the castles atop each of them.
• Many 20-something fit businessmen in suits and ties. Thank you, God. The difference from the Basques? More of them were walking around with smiles.
• I met the funnest Philadelphia native ever. Her name's Maria, and she's taking a 3-month tour of Europe. Check out her blog! She's a riot! I miss her accent and ecstatic voice.
• Belem, the quaint suburb featuring the beautiful Torre, pure white jumping out from the storm-blue sea. The view was something wicked.

Day trips from Lisbon are as fantastic as Lisbon itself. Everything in Portugal is so close together that it's almost difficult to miss the good points if you have enough time. I went to Sintra, the fairy tale capital of Portugal, home of four of Portugal's most beautiful castles, all in the mountains. The Quinta da Regaleira, the garden of the national palace, was designed after Dante's inferno...a descent into hell and back again. We (Mari and I) had one episode crossing an algae-green forest floor on stones when suddenly a duck swam by us and we realied the floor was actually completely motionless water.
Cascais is basically Hawaii plus European history. Viny cobblestone mansions speckle the rocky shore. Lagoons spring out of harbors. Rich tourists take off their sneakers.
From there I headed north to Porto, the land of Father Rui, the Portuguese Jesuit I befriended at LMU, one of the sweetest souls on Earth, I'm convinced. It was he who convinced me to venture north from Lisbon to his hometown, where I met his most incredible family. They were out of a story book. The kind-eyed, whiny father Afonso, whose inner smile lit up the room; the busy housewife Deolinda, who kept her husband in line, the 86-year-old step-grandma with three teeth who ate more than her weight for dinner. They showed me the room where I could have stayed had I elected their house instead of a hostel. It was paradise. They fed me a four-course meal, then a cinammon cake for dessert, and sent me on home with a plethora of kisses and a bag of more food. "Don't forget to eat all of it," Rui translated for me, "or you'll get cranky."
I felt a pang of sadness driving away from them, even though we only interacted for five hours. Portuguese hospitality at its finest. I found it in other places: the cab drivers, who speak perfect English, the passersby who offer to take your picture whil you're fiddling with your camera, the kind old women who tell you to put your map away because they'd be delighted to take you "there" themselves.
I am in love with Portugal. Some more high/lowlights:
The amazing tram ride down from Castelo Sao Jorge. We spent 5 minutes in a packed tram with about 30 retired French tourists, slightly drunk, who sang all the way down, and took pictures of the cool Americans. One old man kept yelling "MADEMOISELLE" and "MERCI" out the window at strangers passing by for no reason at all. Another got angry at the conductor for making me pay the entry fee. "GRATIS!" he kept yelling. The driver wasn't amused.
One of my FAVORITE stories to tell: I almost got pick-pocketed after the 10-hour return trip to Madrid from Porto. I noticed a tall Hispanic man and his tall son approaching me from either side at the ticket machine for the metro. One of them asked me if this was how you get to the airport, and I kindly answered yes, then back away from them, asking for space. They apologized and let me alone for awhile, but as soon as I started taking out change for the machine, they approached again. Annoyed, and convinced they were harmless, I was sticking money into the machine when I felt movement in my purse. I looked down, and saw the father's sleeve covering his hand as it rummaged through the outer pocket. Here's the fun part. There were only dirty tissues in the outer pocket. I keep all my valuables in a money belt underneath my shirt. Nonetheless, I slapped his hand (more reflex than punishment...perhaps a bad decision in the end) and remember giving him the most venemous stare I could contain. "PERDON, POR FAVOR," I announced loudly. I could see his shame in his face, and he and his son quickly left the area. Nothing I had was stolen. Clever ploy, asking for help in getting to the airport.

Up next: Thursday night bus to PARIS.