I wake up again with a slight hangover but cure it quickly with a coffee from the hostel lounge. The sky was quickly turning from morning today as I once again wandered the cobblestone streets. This morning I had scheduled a city bike tour, and to my luck was only a few minutes’ walk from my hostel. The contrast between the sunlight and shadows against the buildings was dramatic, and the air had hints of salt and gasoline.
The bikes were electric and my body thanked me. Once my tour group was together, we introduced ourselves while mounting our bikes. There were two very chipper Canadian ladies, a cute young couple from The Netherlands, a middle-aged couple from Boston, and two old FIBs…(sorry Illinois I had to, they really were FIBs but that is a whole story in itself).
We rolled out on the electric bikes through the hilly and very bumpy streets of Lisbon. The late morning sun beat on my shoulders. Cruising through the colorful streets lined with beautiful tiles, felt like a dream—or better said a movie set. We don’t experience this too much in America since (compared to the rest of the world) we are still a young country. We don’t have structures like this at home, even in the oldest/most historic parts of America. I learned that the tiles on the buildings were more than just decoration—but were also a great insulator and kept homes cool. I also learned that having spikes on your building was also a symbol of wealth and to keep thieves out—kind of like medieval ADT.
Centuries ago when Lisbon had a population of only a few hundred people in a span of three days there was an earthquake, then turned tsunami, and THEN from the shaking of the ground, candles fell over in the churches across the city and many parts began to burn. They thought it was the apocalypse, and honestly, I would too.
We climbed the hills and up to an overlook of the city. Everything had a tint of yellow, and the smell of fresh garlic poured from the restaurants we passed on our way up. At the lookout, we parked our bikes and hung out for a while. A beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary covered with a rosary opened her arms to the view. Live traditional Portuguese music was played by an old couple, next to the railings filled with padlocks that hung with secrets and promises. I leaned against the railing and gazed at the city below me. In a way it reminded me of Kings Landing from Game of Thrones, but with cars instead of horses.
“Beautiful view, eh?” (I shit you not) one of the chipper Canadian ladies in my group said. I was caught a little off guard and thought “they really do say ‘eh’…lol”. “Want a picture?” She asked. I handed her my phone.
After the tour, I took a long nap to recharge for my evening plans. I was invited by a new friend from Argentina whom I met at the hostel to dinner. I met him at a bustling seafood restaurant just a few minutes’ walk from my hostel. We shared a glass of wine together while we waited for our number to be called. Apparently he had been waiting there for a few hours since the reservations are first come first serve, but I admired his determination to eat there, I frankly don’t even remember the name of the place.
Once our number was called we were led up a spiral staircase. The place was packed, and the volume of chatter trumped the music within. The dining room was bright yellow and decorated with cheap-looking 90s-style light fixtures. The tables were set up family style, and we were seated next to two middle-aged gentlemen that were both bald and had glasses. I could have sworn they were identical twins.
We placed our order of garlic shrimp, king crab, and a bottle of local white wine. The two bald gentlemen quickly became our friends. The wine caught up to me fast once I discovered they were from Norway. Naturally, I did the most annoying thing an American can do and say “I’m Norwegian!” I cringed as the words poured out of my mouth, but they smiled. I told them about celebrating Syttende Mai with bunads, along with expressing my love for lutefisk and lapskaus. They seemed to be impressed that I knew some of the lingo, and come from a pretty Norwegian family. Or they were being polite and nodding while I was rambling. I’ll never know, but I’ll pretend that they were impressed.
Seconds later I was hammering our king crab legs open with a little mallet. My friend’s crab shot across the room from hammering his. We burst out laughing, and the Norwegians cried.
Since the chatter was so loud in the restaurant and I couldn’t name a song for you: I want to imagine that Slow Song (St Lucia Remix) was playing.
