"Miss Devlin, I really have to put down the phone now, I have other applicants to inform..."
"Yu...yu..you! Of course you do. Listen I don't blame you. It's not your fault, into each life a little rain must fall and you; you sir are a mere messenger in these matters. What was it? Was it lack of financial awareness? Because I can get all Warren Buffett up in this bitch!"
"I'm not really sure I can be of any assistance feedback-wise..."
"Was it the "Who would you most like to interview" question? Because I swear the seance with Gadaffi was a joke! A JOKE! You hear me?"
"Goodbye Miss Devlin"
"No wait! I'll change! I can change godsdamnit! I have no scruples! Ask Putin!!"
".............."
"Oh, titties..."
The above conversation will be heart-achingly familiar to those of us who have read variations of the words "We regret to inform you" and possibly "Each year we recieve a huge number of very able candidates" and the ever ambiguous "We appreciate your interest in our firm." Job/Placement hunting's a painful process and my thoughts are with everyone who is nodding along, raising a glass and crying "Amen to that, honey. Tell it like it is woman!" Because in my mind you all come from the Deep South and permanently nurse iced bourbons on a white painted porch...
I can do nothing to assauge your woes but take you into my confidence and let you know my coping mechanism involves Nutella, a spoon and Barry White. I believe in miracles too Mr White...Actually it also involves getting lost in my interview with Michael Parkinson in which my sparkling wit wins many a TV viewer over. Now purists might point out that The Parkinson Show has been off the air for three years but they can sod off, it's my imagination. Sir Michael'll do the macarena in a sombrero and fake moustache if I want him to!
This time however the flatties have come to the rescue in a most spectacular fashion. The best ideas often spring from nights out on the town...and some of the worst because as Giovanni de Simone will attest trying to sketch an outline of a belltower after a few Amarettos led to generations of tourists taking kitsch photos propping up Pisa's blunder of the world....and it was with getting out of Madrid and taking in some sights and sun we decided to head off down the A12 to the little known Pantano de la Presa.
I say little known and we all know I mean what I say, for we hopped off the autobús in the middle of nowhere. The word of a little old man who tapped his nose conspiratorially and pointed into the distance was our only clue we weren't about to end up in some sort of "Deliverance" scenario. When the bus left the silence came washing back, the sun was scorching down and we set off past a field of sheep wearing honest-to-goodness bells.
The little dirt track let us up and up into the hills and it was on the crest of a peak (poorly used geographical terminology there) that we suddenly looked up and beheld the promised land...well, the promised water.
It was a lake nestled in among rugged hills dotted with those small trees I always see from the window of a Ryanair jet on descent and which I have no idea what they are. There were boats hanging out in a marina on one end, the sparkling water swept away into the distance on the other. You could see miles of blue sky and there was a rainbow corona around the sun, cause by I know not what. What I did know was that we were lucky sumbitches that day because we shared the little beach shaded by trees at the water's edge with a sum total of nine other people.
There was a lull there; a quiet broken only by the buzz of those wee airplanes floating out over the landscape. It was beautiful and had me despair of how to paint you a picture of it with such clumsy things as the words water, trees and green. So I'll stop trying and let my past self know just to relax, kick back and for Chrissakes put some suncream on or you'll have Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer sung at you by the wee terrors you teach! You're welcome...
Of course there's only so much reading and lolling one can do and we were for the lake like moths to a flame. Well, I took a bit more convincing, a bit more coaxing and a lot more towel right at the water's edge before I wandered into the water. But once I did...
....it was pure magic, lads. I've never swam around in a lake before. The bottom was sandy but littered with sticks and stones that made you jump when your foot landed on them. The water was green and clear as a bell. It got deep, quick as the sand shelved away from under you at two foot from the shore. You could swim around like a mad eejit and when I looked into the water it let the sun shine so far down I could see my painted toes waving at me. The splashing about kicked up silt from the bottom, but the predominant stone in the region were granite, see? That meant that suddenly the water was filled with teeny flashing grains of granite and it looked like the glitter of fools gold. That and the green hue meant I suddenly had the feeling I was splashing about in a Paddy's Day cocktail.
The view from the water would have done your heart good. You could see across the gleaming ripples to the hills on the opposite shore. You could also see the other Erasmo lads and lasses that had found the beach larking around and surreptiously 'aving a glance at the talent. The bikini clad beauties sunbathed, the lads threw rocks in the water to try and get at the wee fish I later made friends with but mainly to see if the ladies were a-looking. And the damn flirting were like cheesy lines out of a terrible sit-com. "Be careful or I might throw you too!" "I'd like to see you try" "You need me to do your back for you?" I made scorecards and held 'em up every so often. One poor San Franciscogian got null points every time. Come on lad, you dont suggest a lady'll get a better tan if she takes off the bikini top! You make her think it was her idea. I should run a course...
Anywho, speaking of null points I'm off to a Eurovision party! At the flat of a good friend celebrating the day of birth of another very dear friend! And I got me money riding on Engelbert Humperdinck to knock the socks off every act there tonight. Even Jedward, God help my lack of patriotism. But enough! I must go think of drinking games, use all my useless trivia and generally have a ball. But stay fast everyone. Next week we find the penultimate blog and a last hurrah for Spanishness entire!
xo
Saturday 26 May 2012
Sunday 13 May 2012
Keeping it Real Madrid
"Oh merciful Jesus, ah'll never drink again ah swear; oh the anguish! Sweet Lord ah'm dyin' now...help me now God! Take me now!"
Admittedly flopping around on my bed, throwing arms wide dramatically and turning up the volume on the "Mah great-granpappy didn't lay down his life for the South sir, so we could be a-colonised by dens of iniquity where high-tone liberals sip their mocha ventis (Hi Starbucks!) and plan to sacrifice the Ah-merica I love on the altar of socialism" voice isn't helping this thrice damned hangover. We went Lebanese and had cous-cous and hummus and shisha with vodka in last night to celebrate the halfway exam mark. I regret nothing.
We're back to life in Madrid which this week has seen some beautiful developments; mainly weatherwise when walking into the open air is cause for gasps and cries of "Heat! Heat!" and a retreat to short sleeves. First sunburn of the summer. Oh yeah...
In fact it is because of this heat that my tutoring job now consists in picking the child up from school and taking him swimming, an activity that both he and I have agreed is mutually beneficial. He gets to splash around with his wee classmates and I get paid to kickback and sip a Coke for an hour. Adding spice to those Wednesday afternoons is the fact that the glassed-off terrace where the parents sit above the pool is directly opposite the glassed-off gym and gentlemen, it's Speedo season. Hello laddies...
But I digress. It's not all fun and games and I eventually have to wean the boy away from distractions and actually get hime to do his homework. This was made all the harder last week by a birthday present from what is now presumably his best friend. A very powerful little bow and arrow set. We had been playing for a while, the flat was like an oven and not knowing how to work the air-con I cracked open a window. Remember this fact.
"Aiiiiii-leeeen, you will be Little John, jes? And I will be Robin Hood!"
"Do I look like a Little John to you? Give me a go..."
"NO! It ees mine! You can be Marry-on"
"Who the hell is that?"
"Marry-on! Marry-on! She ees the lady!"
"Oh, Maid Marion! And no! Sod your Spanish macho gender stereotypes, I want to shoot the arrow!"
(I actually do speak to the child in these exact tones with a little more fiddlesticks than fecks. Other than the swearing it does em good not to be mollycoddled. He loves me for it)
"NO!"
"Ay por dios; fine, verb and noun test, right now or vas a suspender todo and don't even think about coming crying to me!"
"Can I go to the bathroom first?"
"Go."
Now that the outer child is gone the inner child, my inner child surfaces and we reach for the bow and arrow in tandem. We nock the foam missile to the string. We feint a couple of times, whistling the theme of Prince of Thieves, then take aim, pull back the string, let go...
...and shoot the fucking arrow right out the damn window I'd forgotten I'd opened.
Time freezes, it's the window out into the inner well of the flat building. I run to it. I glance down in horror. The window of the kitchen on the floor below is open and I can see just inside, lying innocuously on the black and white tiles, the red and yellow foam arrow. Behind me I can see a ghostly Peter Kay clap his hands to his mouth and cry Mancunian-ally "Ho my God! What you gone and done that for?!"
I don't know Mr Kay. I don't know. I can hear the water running as the child washes his hands. Seconds remain to me. I panic...
"Okay Aiiii-leeeeen, I am here"
<looks up nonchalantly from her position on the sofa with Kindle open at current book> "Oh, right then, ready to get started?"
"Ah-where is my bow?"
"Well, I've just hidden it until we get the work done so you don't get distracted. I'll get it for you when I leave"
And so I do, and so I locate the bow and arrows and bang on time Dad gets home so I put them on his bed, bid them both farewell and run out of that building. The story is that I hid 'em to make the boy concentrate and can't remember where I stashed the fourth. As long as the neighbour doesnt rat me out I'm fine. Guilty, but I was raised Catholic and I can handle a little guilt...
A very good friend came to stay the weekend and we are a divil of a bad influence on each other. The Erasmus curse was in a fine mood so that as opposed to now, where even the cobbles are boiling, it wouldnt stop pissing down the whole time. Still, it meant that we were able to enjoy many a cafe con leche, in particular in a beautiful stained glass Art Deco café on treelined Recoletos. The rain drummed on the roof and I had wrapped my hands around the coffee. Eventually came the realisation that we could put off the wandering for no longer. I unclasped my hands, but the middle finger I had wound round the handle refused to budge...
A ha ha ha, funny loljokes, my hand is stuck, a moment please...
Well, <ow!> this is just a wee bit <bloody hell> embarrassing...
Enough joking, I can't actually get this damn thing off my finger...
And because a friend will worry with you, but a best friend will piss themselves laughing at your increasingly desperate attempts to prise the coffee cup off your damn hand we spent the next fifteen minutes in peals of laughter until I was free with one last violent tug. Oh Aileen, you so crazy...
So a week of not very much happening really. Well, we partied hard last night and the weather has allowed for some more appreciation of Madrid's beauty, but I want to get some authentic Spanishness in gear. I have wonderful plans involving flamenco and the ever controversial bull fight seeing as the season is upon us.
Until then exams are occurring, halls full of Spaniards scribbling, me laughing at the ridiculousness of my inadequacy. No, actually laughing; I had a giggling fit in the middle of Derecho Procesal because I began commentating on the exam in the style of Peter Kay in my own head;
"Vías concur-sah-les? What the 'ells that? I'm sorr-eh, I ain't got a flipping clue, there's no use looking at me like that Don Silencio of the exam hall. Get this done, get home, 'ave a brew. That's the plan. Let's see now, E-R-A-S-M-U-S, massive capital letters. That'll do. Maybe they'll go easy on meh."
Or then again maybe they won't, I've given up trying to devine the mind of the average Spaniard. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The AA has a cheery little acrostic for "fear". Face Everything And Remain. Unfortunately it could also be Fuck Everything And Run. Let us let time tell...
Now I'm off to get a smoothie. No coffees today, for the sun is shining, there are beautiful people nearly naked in the heat, there is a cool little breeze trilling around cheering all the poor overwarm people up. And Madrid is looking ravishing. I might go put my new sundress on and go out and be seduced by her shapely bouelvards and her charming fountains, her dapper terraces and winsome green spaces. Good idea, that woman. And while I'm at it I'll look for some Madrilena wonders not yet explored and so blog research can be my cunning excuse for trailing round licking a Cornetto and humming Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."
La vida es bella.
xo
Admittedly flopping around on my bed, throwing arms wide dramatically and turning up the volume on the "Mah great-granpappy didn't lay down his life for the South sir, so we could be a-colonised by dens of iniquity where high-tone liberals sip their mocha ventis (Hi Starbucks!) and plan to sacrifice the Ah-merica I love on the altar of socialism" voice isn't helping this thrice damned hangover. We went Lebanese and had cous-cous and hummus and shisha with vodka in last night to celebrate the halfway exam mark. I regret nothing.
We're back to life in Madrid which this week has seen some beautiful developments; mainly weatherwise when walking into the open air is cause for gasps and cries of "Heat! Heat!" and a retreat to short sleeves. First sunburn of the summer. Oh yeah...
In fact it is because of this heat that my tutoring job now consists in picking the child up from school and taking him swimming, an activity that both he and I have agreed is mutually beneficial. He gets to splash around with his wee classmates and I get paid to kickback and sip a Coke for an hour. Adding spice to those Wednesday afternoons is the fact that the glassed-off terrace where the parents sit above the pool is directly opposite the glassed-off gym and gentlemen, it's Speedo season. Hello laddies...
But I digress. It's not all fun and games and I eventually have to wean the boy away from distractions and actually get hime to do his homework. This was made all the harder last week by a birthday present from what is now presumably his best friend. A very powerful little bow and arrow set. We had been playing for a while, the flat was like an oven and not knowing how to work the air-con I cracked open a window. Remember this fact.
"Aiiiiii-leeeen, you will be Little John, jes? And I will be Robin Hood!"
"Do I look like a Little John to you? Give me a go..."
"NO! It ees mine! You can be Marry-on"
"Who the hell is that?"
"Marry-on! Marry-on! She ees the lady!"
"Oh, Maid Marion! And no! Sod your Spanish macho gender stereotypes, I want to shoot the arrow!"
(I actually do speak to the child in these exact tones with a little more fiddlesticks than fecks. Other than the swearing it does em good not to be mollycoddled. He loves me for it)
"NO!"
"Ay por dios; fine, verb and noun test, right now or vas a suspender todo and don't even think about coming crying to me!"
"Can I go to the bathroom first?"
"Go."
Now that the outer child is gone the inner child, my inner child surfaces and we reach for the bow and arrow in tandem. We nock the foam missile to the string. We feint a couple of times, whistling the theme of Prince of Thieves, then take aim, pull back the string, let go...
...and shoot the fucking arrow right out the damn window I'd forgotten I'd opened.
Time freezes, it's the window out into the inner well of the flat building. I run to it. I glance down in horror. The window of the kitchen on the floor below is open and I can see just inside, lying innocuously on the black and white tiles, the red and yellow foam arrow. Behind me I can see a ghostly Peter Kay clap his hands to his mouth and cry Mancunian-ally "Ho my God! What you gone and done that for?!"
I don't know Mr Kay. I don't know. I can hear the water running as the child washes his hands. Seconds remain to me. I panic...
"Okay Aiiii-leeeeen, I am here"
<looks up nonchalantly from her position on the sofa with Kindle open at current book> "Oh, right then, ready to get started?"
"Ah-where is my bow?"
"Well, I've just hidden it until we get the work done so you don't get distracted. I'll get it for you when I leave"
And so I do, and so I locate the bow and arrows and bang on time Dad gets home so I put them on his bed, bid them both farewell and run out of that building. The story is that I hid 'em to make the boy concentrate and can't remember where I stashed the fourth. As long as the neighbour doesnt rat me out I'm fine. Guilty, but I was raised Catholic and I can handle a little guilt...
A very good friend came to stay the weekend and we are a divil of a bad influence on each other. The Erasmus curse was in a fine mood so that as opposed to now, where even the cobbles are boiling, it wouldnt stop pissing down the whole time. Still, it meant that we were able to enjoy many a cafe con leche, in particular in a beautiful stained glass Art Deco café on treelined Recoletos. The rain drummed on the roof and I had wrapped my hands around the coffee. Eventually came the realisation that we could put off the wandering for no longer. I unclasped my hands, but the middle finger I had wound round the handle refused to budge...
A ha ha ha, funny loljokes, my hand is stuck, a moment please...
Well, <ow!> this is just a wee bit <bloody hell> embarrassing...
Enough joking, I can't actually get this damn thing off my finger...
And because a friend will worry with you, but a best friend will piss themselves laughing at your increasingly desperate attempts to prise the coffee cup off your damn hand we spent the next fifteen minutes in peals of laughter until I was free with one last violent tug. Oh Aileen, you so crazy...
So a week of not very much happening really. Well, we partied hard last night and the weather has allowed for some more appreciation of Madrid's beauty, but I want to get some authentic Spanishness in gear. I have wonderful plans involving flamenco and the ever controversial bull fight seeing as the season is upon us.
Until then exams are occurring, halls full of Spaniards scribbling, me laughing at the ridiculousness of my inadequacy. No, actually laughing; I had a giggling fit in the middle of Derecho Procesal because I began commentating on the exam in the style of Peter Kay in my own head;
"Vías concur-sah-les? What the 'ells that? I'm sorr-eh, I ain't got a flipping clue, there's no use looking at me like that Don Silencio of the exam hall. Get this done, get home, 'ave a brew. That's the plan. Let's see now, E-R-A-S-M-U-S, massive capital letters. That'll do. Maybe they'll go easy on meh."
Or then again maybe they won't, I've given up trying to devine the mind of the average Spaniard. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The AA has a cheery little acrostic for "fear". Face Everything And Remain. Unfortunately it could also be Fuck Everything And Run. Let us let time tell...
Now I'm off to get a smoothie. No coffees today, for the sun is shining, there are beautiful people nearly naked in the heat, there is a cool little breeze trilling around cheering all the poor overwarm people up. And Madrid is looking ravishing. I might go put my new sundress on and go out and be seduced by her shapely bouelvards and her charming fountains, her dapper terraces and winsome green spaces. Good idea, that woman. And while I'm at it I'll look for some Madrilena wonders not yet explored and so blog research can be my cunning excuse for trailing round licking a Cornetto and humming Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."
La vida es bella.
xo
Saturday 5 May 2012
Lisbon Voyage
There are worse ways to pass the time waiting for a delayed flight than playing a friendly game of Twenty Questions but when the game is played between three Cambridge students you would be hard pushed to think of them. Coca Cola is a mineral, Norn Irish readers you shall appreciate this witty joke. Everyone else, you will do what my companions felt like doing and mentally slap me upside my head.
We were headed to Lisbon, we don't know why, we don't know how but we were flying cheap and easy. Easyjet. I had my collar turned up and a fedora pulled down low should Michael O'Leary walk by. All that orange wasn't natural and that's not just because I kick with the other foot. Norn Irish readers, we're off again...
Portugal is sometimes largely forgotten by many but Lisbon is one of the oldest cities in the world thriving as a fishing port and trading centre before Rome was a twinkle in Romulus' eye. Granted we had one eye on the beach should the weather decide to turn unseasonably warm but what we were really there for was the culture, the sights and the food. Tourism's holy triumverate.
Our first experience of the left hand side of the Iberian peninsula was the language. We have long ago gotten over the fear of not knowing a language. After all, if language was cold hard cash we came out to Madrid with the equivalent of the change in our back pockets and have survived thus far. But the damn taxi driver assumed this complacency came from understanding every word of Portuguese he spoke. Which was a fallacy we left well enough alone. There is nothing more amusing than your means of transport from airport to hostel coming fully equipped with a rundown of countries that speak Portuguese and and a disheveled old driver lifting his arms from the steering wheel when cruising at a cool 80mph and declaring; "AL CENTRO!!"
Our hostel was the subliminal psychologically named YES hostel where we met an Estonian pro tennis official who had been to Mexico and loved their tacos. She was due to stay in Portugal for another three weeks. She had played tennis since she was a girl back in ze old country but the dream of playing professionally had been halted in its tracks and she now flitted from tournament to tournament acting as a trained umpire. I know you are wondering why and how I know all this but it's impossible not to listen to an Eastern European with a thick accent who's name you can't quite remember and who scares you senseless, even if she wasn't built like Leon Spinks...
We arrived in Lisbon late that Friday night and the next day we were up, filled full of hostel breakfast mainly consisting of carbohydrate, and ready to do some sightseeing. And to do that we had to get up close and personal with Lisbon's hills which were scaled by windy, cobbledy streets with ramshackle houses perched on top of each other higgledy-piggledy. We (read my more organised companions) had done our research. Tram 28 beckoned...
Tram 28, a €5 day ticket ride purchased, took us to the sights. It was cheerfully painted and chugged up those tiny, steep like a determined tank engine straight offa the island of Sodor. We got so close to the windows of the good citizens of the Alfama I could have shared a cup of strong coffee with the wee old women in headshawls enscounced inside.
That day we saw Lisbon from more angles than it's gynecologist. We clambered up to the top of a Moorish castle and looked at Lisbon from that. There was a little plaque that read "The Crusaders made their mark on Lisbon in 1096AD" Only 1096? Can only assume the lads were on an Erasmus year and looking to get as stocious and with as many local ladies as possible...
We wandered up to countless churches and looked at Lisbon some more. We viewed the Christ the King statue, identical to that in Rio, from the Iglesia do Graca. We viewed the huge suspension bridge over the harbour, identical to the Golden Gate, from the Sao Vicente monastery. We watched Lisbon like Clinton watched Monica Lewinsky walk away from him and like Clinton we like what we saw. It was ancient and lively and the sea air gave everything a freshness you don't find inland. Bougainvillea crept up the wooden posts which encircled white stone balconies that gave you a wonderful view of the harbour. And Fado music, which is sad and soft but sung by size 18 songstresses with the depth of Aretha and played by moustachioed guitarists. We know this must be a serious part of Portuguese culture because after having begrudgingly paid €3 each into the Fado Museum our merriment was hushed angrily by a guide who stated "Quiet, pleesh! I am tryink to make a tour!" Make all you want sister, Miguel Capucho's no Sinatra...
But the place that really stole our heart (apart from Portugal's version of a Chino which is an Indiano and where, on hearing I wasn't buying any sweeties unlike my companeras, the dueno gave me, then us all, some free bubblegum. I treasure that man in my heart of hearts...) was Sintra.
Sintra. Sintra was about 40mins outside Lisbon and was very dear to Lord Byron in his heydays. The place was full of palaces that were straight out of a Disney "happily ever after."
But ut was the main Pena palace that was a confection, filled with spires and turrets and painted pink, lemon yellow and soft green, commissioned by lovestruck Portuguese prince Ferdinand II for his schweetheart Maria of Braganza. It's enough to make you weep, I 've never even been gifted someone's last Rolo...
I can only hope poor old Ferdinand had less trouble getting his Maria all the way up to Pena. Even in our petrol fuelled days we wound our way round narrow roads where our driver thought an acceptable substitute for slowing down was to blare his horn before taking every corner like the Roadrunner. My whole life flashed before my eyes...it had less meaningful content than a rom com starring Jennifer Aniston...
When we eventually got there we were faced with the queue to end all queues. One booth tried to cope with a disgruntled busload. Until, that is, Borat came running into our midst, scooped us three out of the multitudes and professed "Cam with meeee, I weel help..." and ushered us in the gates.
This wasn't immediately encouraging. He turned out to be the keeper of Ye Olde Gift Shope and no one, not us, not the ticket office, not the security guard with his bewildered expression, not even Borat himself possibly, knew what he was doing.
"Do you llll-eeee-yke nay-choor?"
Do we like nature...should we answer?
"Eef you lll-eee-yke nay-choor eet is good to take the gardens."
Excellent advice Borat, well done. We shall take those gardens by storm. We will take them down to Chinatown. We will take 'em out to dinner and a show. We will take their vir...
Anywho, what I meant was that thanks to Borat we were able to get in ahead of all those chumps who queued in the light drizzle for as much as another hour. And we were rewarded with plenty of nature. More nature than you could shake a stick at. More sticks than you could shake a stick at for that matter... And a beautiful palace that surely couldn't have left Maria cold. Let's give a whey-hey and hope Ferdinand got to appreciate a bit of nature...
The beauty of Sintra didn't stop there. We came across some well nice gardens on our journey to fully appreciate nature. The type you could run round like hooligans; climbing mini towers, crossing rivers on stepping stones and wandering into caves so dark they testified to the lack of health and safety puritanical meddling. We were like children, loved every second, even the ones we screamed like actresses in a cheap B movie horror because we met some unsuspecting Spaniard coming the other way down one of those poorly lit subways. All in tremendous fun.
Back in Lisbon on that third day we fulfilled every tourists fantasy, that of seeing all there is to see and more. Of wandering round the Plaza Mayor, of making porcos of ourselves on the little egg custard pasteis pastries that were Lisbon's speciality and so would have been rude not to try. Once. Twice. Thrice. Several times. We went out to the historical part Belém with some lovely guys we happened to meet in le hostel. We immersed ourselves in religious imagery, homages to Portugal's seafaring past and tiny side street and cafés. We visited Eiffel's elevator, of lesser fame than his tower and we walked until out feet were mere stubs. But worth it? Oh yes...even if the taxi driver did rip us off shamelessly on the way back to the airport...
But to each his shady own! Back in Madrid once more the mind turns simultaneously to making the most of every instant until Cambridge calls us back/working like the divil himself so Cambridge actually does call us back... And more of how this paradox works to turn self into Bridget Jones anon, as the scene is set (whoops, slip of fingertips almost had me typing sexy and slippy mind almost had me leaving the typo) for my last few blogs in Madrid. And so help me Dios, they will be scorchers...
xo
We were headed to Lisbon, we don't know why, we don't know how but we were flying cheap and easy. Easyjet. I had my collar turned up and a fedora pulled down low should Michael O'Leary walk by. All that orange wasn't natural and that's not just because I kick with the other foot. Norn Irish readers, we're off again...
Portugal is sometimes largely forgotten by many but Lisbon is one of the oldest cities in the world thriving as a fishing port and trading centre before Rome was a twinkle in Romulus' eye. Granted we had one eye on the beach should the weather decide to turn unseasonably warm but what we were really there for was the culture, the sights and the food. Tourism's holy triumverate.
Our first experience of the left hand side of the Iberian peninsula was the language. We have long ago gotten over the fear of not knowing a language. After all, if language was cold hard cash we came out to Madrid with the equivalent of the change in our back pockets and have survived thus far. But the damn taxi driver assumed this complacency came from understanding every word of Portuguese he spoke. Which was a fallacy we left well enough alone. There is nothing more amusing than your means of transport from airport to hostel coming fully equipped with a rundown of countries that speak Portuguese and and a disheveled old driver lifting his arms from the steering wheel when cruising at a cool 80mph and declaring; "AL CENTRO!!"
Our hostel was the subliminal psychologically named YES hostel where we met an Estonian pro tennis official who had been to Mexico and loved their tacos. She was due to stay in Portugal for another three weeks. She had played tennis since she was a girl back in ze old country but the dream of playing professionally had been halted in its tracks and she now flitted from tournament to tournament acting as a trained umpire. I know you are wondering why and how I know all this but it's impossible not to listen to an Eastern European with a thick accent who's name you can't quite remember and who scares you senseless, even if she wasn't built like Leon Spinks...
We arrived in Lisbon late that Friday night and the next day we were up, filled full of hostel breakfast mainly consisting of carbohydrate, and ready to do some sightseeing. And to do that we had to get up close and personal with Lisbon's hills which were scaled by windy, cobbledy streets with ramshackle houses perched on top of each other higgledy-piggledy. We (read my more organised companions) had done our research. Tram 28 beckoned...
Tram 28, a €5 day ticket ride purchased, took us to the sights. It was cheerfully painted and chugged up those tiny, steep like a determined tank engine straight offa the island of Sodor. We got so close to the windows of the good citizens of the Alfama I could have shared a cup of strong coffee with the wee old women in headshawls enscounced inside.
That day we saw Lisbon from more angles than it's gynecologist. We clambered up to the top of a Moorish castle and looked at Lisbon from that. There was a little plaque that read "The Crusaders made their mark on Lisbon in 1096AD" Only 1096? Can only assume the lads were on an Erasmus year and looking to get as stocious and with as many local ladies as possible...
We wandered up to countless churches and looked at Lisbon some more. We viewed the Christ the King statue, identical to that in Rio, from the Iglesia do Graca. We viewed the huge suspension bridge over the harbour, identical to the Golden Gate, from the Sao Vicente monastery. We watched Lisbon like Clinton watched Monica Lewinsky walk away from him and like Clinton we like what we saw. It was ancient and lively and the sea air gave everything a freshness you don't find inland. Bougainvillea crept up the wooden posts which encircled white stone balconies that gave you a wonderful view of the harbour. And Fado music, which is sad and soft but sung by size 18 songstresses with the depth of Aretha and played by moustachioed guitarists. We know this must be a serious part of Portuguese culture because after having begrudgingly paid €3 each into the Fado Museum our merriment was hushed angrily by a guide who stated "Quiet, pleesh! I am tryink to make a tour!" Make all you want sister, Miguel Capucho's no Sinatra...
But the place that really stole our heart (apart from Portugal's version of a Chino which is an Indiano and where, on hearing I wasn't buying any sweeties unlike my companeras, the dueno gave me, then us all, some free bubblegum. I treasure that man in my heart of hearts...) was Sintra.
Sintra. Sintra was about 40mins outside Lisbon and was very dear to Lord Byron in his heydays. The place was full of palaces that were straight out of a Disney "happily ever after."
But ut was the main Pena palace that was a confection, filled with spires and turrets and painted pink, lemon yellow and soft green, commissioned by lovestruck Portuguese prince Ferdinand II for his schweetheart Maria of Braganza. It's enough to make you weep, I 've never even been gifted someone's last Rolo...
I can only hope poor old Ferdinand had less trouble getting his Maria all the way up to Pena. Even in our petrol fuelled days we wound our way round narrow roads where our driver thought an acceptable substitute for slowing down was to blare his horn before taking every corner like the Roadrunner. My whole life flashed before my eyes...it had less meaningful content than a rom com starring Jennifer Aniston...
When we eventually got there we were faced with the queue to end all queues. One booth tried to cope with a disgruntled busload. Until, that is, Borat came running into our midst, scooped us three out of the multitudes and professed "Cam with meeee, I weel help..." and ushered us in the gates.
This wasn't immediately encouraging. He turned out to be the keeper of Ye Olde Gift Shope and no one, not us, not the ticket office, not the security guard with his bewildered expression, not even Borat himself possibly, knew what he was doing.
"Do you llll-eeee-yke nay-choor?"
Do we like nature...should we answer?
"Eef you lll-eee-yke nay-choor eet is good to take the gardens."
Excellent advice Borat, well done. We shall take those gardens by storm. We will take them down to Chinatown. We will take 'em out to dinner and a show. We will take their vir...
Anywho, what I meant was that thanks to Borat we were able to get in ahead of all those chumps who queued in the light drizzle for as much as another hour. And we were rewarded with plenty of nature. More nature than you could shake a stick at. More sticks than you could shake a stick at for that matter... And a beautiful palace that surely couldn't have left Maria cold. Let's give a whey-hey and hope Ferdinand got to appreciate a bit of nature...
The beauty of Sintra didn't stop there. We came across some well nice gardens on our journey to fully appreciate nature. The type you could run round like hooligans; climbing mini towers, crossing rivers on stepping stones and wandering into caves so dark they testified to the lack of health and safety puritanical meddling. We were like children, loved every second, even the ones we screamed like actresses in a cheap B movie horror because we met some unsuspecting Spaniard coming the other way down one of those poorly lit subways. All in tremendous fun.
Back in Lisbon on that third day we fulfilled every tourists fantasy, that of seeing all there is to see and more. Of wandering round the Plaza Mayor, of making porcos of ourselves on the little egg custard pasteis pastries that were Lisbon's speciality and so would have been rude not to try. Once. Twice. Thrice. Several times. We went out to the historical part Belém with some lovely guys we happened to meet in le hostel. We immersed ourselves in religious imagery, homages to Portugal's seafaring past and tiny side street and cafés. We visited Eiffel's elevator, of lesser fame than his tower and we walked until out feet were mere stubs. But worth it? Oh yes...even if the taxi driver did rip us off shamelessly on the way back to the airport...
But to each his shady own! Back in Madrid once more the mind turns simultaneously to making the most of every instant until Cambridge calls us back/working like the divil himself so Cambridge actually does call us back... And more of how this paradox works to turn self into Bridget Jones anon, as the scene is set (whoops, slip of fingertips almost had me typing sexy and slippy mind almost had me leaving the typo) for my last few blogs in Madrid. And so help me Dios, they will be scorchers...
xo
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