I thought I was never going to get out of Lisbon today. I got stuck shopping. Yes, I got in the mood to buy some clothes. You see….. I have most of my things in a locker in Madrid and I have been wearing the same 2 outfits for the past 6 days, and washing my 2 pairs of underwear in the sink. Now that I do not plan to cycle with all my things on my back, I figure buying a pair of pants, a shirt and maybe a dress would be a great b-day present to myself…oh yes and the best part is new underwear!!
I finally arrive to my seaside destination after a quick train ride from Lisbon. I plan to ride up to the cost North and visit Portuguese Villages and see the countryside. As I step off the train in Sintra, I am grateful for the drop in temperature and the beauty of this place. I start to try to compare the winding roads that pass through tiled colored buildings, gardens and lush landscape that accent perfectly this unique place.
It is different that Italy or Spain, but equally in its own way just as beautiful. I am instantly saddened when I remember that I left my things in Lisbon. A night in this lovely village, getting dressed up in a flowing sundress, sitting outside at a little bistro table, watching the people interact; feeling the fresh air of the countryside would be ideal compared to the busy city that I must return to tonight. Fighting traffic, waking up to noise of sirens, and sleeping in the most questionable pension that I have stayed in, is my fait for this night.
I continue north and reach seaside villages that hug the cliffs. They are breathtaking. The Atlantic is angry, bringing the tide slamming against the rocks. The wind follows making a challenging crosswind, that requires me to increase my effort to move forward.
I am thirsty today, and the heat is intense. This results in me filling up my water bottles at a more frequent rate, in addition to finding a toilet.
I feel awkward hobbling into each bar or café with my bike shoes making the loud tap-tap- taping noise, sweat dripping off my face, my eyes blood read, and you cannot forget the outfit of spandex. Everyone turns in exact synchronization, and looks at me. They generally stare with an expressionless face, but some smile. I can almost hear a swoosh as their heads turn, then ending with a silence that fills the room as they all have their attention on me. It makes it allot harder for me to sneak off to the bathroom without being noticed that I am “not a customer”. Sooo…. I decide that I will be a customer at each stop as I progress through out the day. About each 1½ hour, I find a little café in a little quaint village, enter, have everyone stare at me as I eat the most delicious mini tarts, crème filled pastries, and fruit and chocolate cakes. Then I go to the bathroom. I am thankful that Portugal makes very small deserts, sometimes maybe a couple of bites; because I would of gained 5 pounds on this ride and made it back to Lisbon with a very sour stomach.
It is now 6pm and I have been riding for about 4 hours and have just consumed pastries, water and coffee. I decide that I better eat real food, so the port town of Ericera will be the place I will eat my supper for tonight. As I wind up and down the narrow cobbled streets that look to the sea, I realize that most restaurants are closed until 6. I go deeper into the village and find a restaurant with fresh fish in the windows. When you go to Portugal, you eat fish…fresh fish. So fresh that when you sit down in this restaurant, you order the fresh live, by weight, then they kill it, cook it…and then you eat it. It cannot get fresher than this. I choose shrimp as my table neighbors choose lobster.
I soon realize that time is passing quickly, and I have one hour to make it about 20k to the train station to make it back to Lisbon. As I wind up and down the hilly landscape, peddle into the wind, ask for direction about 5 times because the train station is not in a populated area, but a remote village about 10k outside a larger village; I miss the second to last train that goes to Lisbon, by about 5 minutes. As I explore the small village so I can pass the 3 hours that I must wait until the last train departs, I realize that this is a very very small village. No market, no round about, no hotel, no people…really. However, I do find a one-room shop with a few tables, an espresso machine, more pastries, beer, and random items that one may need such as cans of corn and laundry soap. This will be the place that I will reside until I hopefully catch the train that leaves at midnight back to Lisbon…that is if I am reading the train schedule right. So I sit with my non-English speaking elderly bartender/grocery store clerk in a small room and pretend to read the Portuguese paper as locals come and go and stare at me, say something in Portuguese, get a coffee or beer, and then leave.
It is about time to catch the train and by now I have realized that I have left my flip-flops back at the fish restaurant, and somehow my prescription sunglasses have disappeared during the time that I have been waiting for the train. It does not faze me, because I am really only worried about getting back to Lisbon. Finding a place to stay without my passport and without a hotel or pension within cycling in the dark safe distance, and my ability to speak Portuguese would make for an interesting night in Portugal.
I stand on the tracks and can hear the train approaching. I am tired, exhausted, and cold. The train is coming but not stopping. It is 2 platforms away and I instinctively start to run (remember in my bike shoes because I have no flip flops) after the train, throw my bike over my shoulder, and jump down to the tracks to make it to the other platform. Then I hear the breaks. I look up and people are pressing their faces against the windows staring and laughing. The conductor hangs out the door and says something in Portuguese. He giggles as I approach. I think maybe this is Portuguese humor. They torment tourists.
One hour later my comedian conductor is shaking me. I have fallen asleep and we are in Lisbon. Seems I made it into little ball shape perfectly wedged on the train seat, and crusted drool is on my cheek.
I think….I have never been so happy to be returning to my Indian run pension that has holes in the walls and one toilet that I share with about 30 other people.
Portugal is interesting.
Amore, Katelyn
I finally arrive to my seaside destination after a quick train ride from Lisbon. I plan to ride up to the cost North and visit Portuguese Villages and see the countryside. As I step off the train in Sintra, I am grateful for the drop in temperature and the beauty of this place. I start to try to compare the winding roads that pass through tiled colored buildings, gardens and lush landscape that accent perfectly this unique place.
It is different that Italy or Spain, but equally in its own way just as beautiful. I am instantly saddened when I remember that I left my things in Lisbon. A night in this lovely village, getting dressed up in a flowing sundress, sitting outside at a little bistro table, watching the people interact; feeling the fresh air of the countryside would be ideal compared to the busy city that I must return to tonight. Fighting traffic, waking up to noise of sirens, and sleeping in the most questionable pension that I have stayed in, is my fait for this night.
I continue north and reach seaside villages that hug the cliffs. They are breathtaking. The Atlantic is angry, bringing the tide slamming against the rocks. The wind follows making a challenging crosswind, that requires me to increase my effort to move forward.
I am thirsty today, and the heat is intense. This results in me filling up my water bottles at a more frequent rate, in addition to finding a toilet.I feel awkward hobbling into each bar or café with my bike shoes making the loud tap-tap- taping noise, sweat dripping off my face, my eyes blood read, and you cannot forget the outfit of spandex. Everyone turns in exact synchronization, and looks at me. They generally stare with an expressionless face, but some smile. I can almost hear a swoosh as their heads turn, then ending with a silence that fills the room as they all have their attention on me. It makes it allot harder for me to sneak off to the bathroom without being noticed that I am “not a customer”. Sooo…. I decide that I will be a customer at each stop as I progress through out the day. About each 1½ hour, I find a little café in a little quaint village, enter, have everyone stare at me as I eat the most delicious mini tarts, crème filled pastries, and fruit and chocolate cakes. Then I go to the bathroom. I am thankful that Portugal makes very small deserts, sometimes maybe a couple of bites; because I would of gained 5 pounds on this ride and made it back to Lisbon with a very sour stomach.
It is now 6pm and I have been riding for about 4 hours and have just consumed pastries, water and coffee. I decide that I better eat real food, so the port town of Ericera will be the place I will eat my supper for tonight. As I wind up and down the narrow cobbled streets that look to the sea, I realize that most restaurants are closed until 6. I go deeper into the village and find a restaurant with fresh fish in the windows. When you go to Portugal, you eat fish…fresh fish. So fresh that when you sit down in this restaurant, you order the fresh live, by weight, then they kill it, cook it…and then you eat it. It cannot get fresher than this. I choose shrimp as my table neighbors choose lobster.
I soon realize that time is passing quickly, and I have one hour to make it about 20k to the train station to make it back to Lisbon. As I wind up and down the hilly landscape, peddle into the wind, ask for direction about 5 times because the train station is not in a populated area, but a remote village about 10k outside a larger village; I miss the second to last train that goes to Lisbon, by about 5 minutes. As I explore the small village so I can pass the 3 hours that I must wait until the last train departs, I realize that this is a very very small village. No market, no round about, no hotel, no people…really. However, I do find a one-room shop with a few tables, an espresso machine, more pastries, beer, and random items that one may need such as cans of corn and laundry soap. This will be the place that I will reside until I hopefully catch the train that leaves at midnight back to Lisbon…that is if I am reading the train schedule right. So I sit with my non-English speaking elderly bartender/grocery store clerk in a small room and pretend to read the Portuguese paper as locals come and go and stare at me, say something in Portuguese, get a coffee or beer, and then leave.
It is about time to catch the train and by now I have realized that I have left my flip-flops back at the fish restaurant, and somehow my prescription sunglasses have disappeared during the time that I have been waiting for the train. It does not faze me, because I am really only worried about getting back to Lisbon. Finding a place to stay without my passport and without a hotel or pension within cycling in the dark safe distance, and my ability to speak Portuguese would make for an interesting night in Portugal.
I stand on the tracks and can hear the train approaching. I am tired, exhausted, and cold. The train is coming but not stopping. It is 2 platforms away and I instinctively start to run (remember in my bike shoes because I have no flip flops) after the train, throw my bike over my shoulder, and jump down to the tracks to make it to the other platform. Then I hear the breaks. I look up and people are pressing their faces against the windows staring and laughing. The conductor hangs out the door and says something in Portuguese. He giggles as I approach. I think maybe this is Portuguese humor. They torment tourists.
One hour later my comedian conductor is shaking me. I have fallen asleep and we are in Lisbon. Seems I made it into little ball shape perfectly wedged on the train seat, and crusted drool is on my cheek.
I think….I have never been so happy to be returning to my Indian run pension that has holes in the walls and one toilet that I share with about 30 other people.
Portugal is interesting.
Amore, Katelyn
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