Filhas da Puma

Until my trip from Madrid to Lisbon I had never ridden on an overnight train, or Trenhotel (as they dubbed them in Spain). I would profess to never ride another but I already have my trip back to Madrid booked, and SB’s said I’m going to be on the top bunk this time. I can only hope our two other turistas señoras are as nice next time.

We ended up with a mother and daughter from Portugal who kindly helped us cram SB’s two months worth of luggage into our tiny compartment, and then stayed relatively silent (as did we) for most of the trip. I can’t imagine being a large man – or even a normal-sized man – on one of those bunk beds. They were barely big enough for me. I spent a few hours trying to format a document for work and pining for the internet, then got too hot from resting my warm laptop on top of the covers and just lay in bed pining for the internet (the internet would indubitably have made the heat worthwhile). I also watched the sun rise over what was probably western Spain.

When we woke up we learned that our train had been delayed a little over an hour, so we went to drink coffee and tea in the cafeteria car. I brought my computer and we both pined for the internet, especially as I particularly wanted to respond to an email from my boss. SB struck up a conversation with an English cowboy type who informed us that “stray animal problems” were the reason for the delay. SB thought it was a squirrel or something, but he shook his head solemnly and intoned, “Cattle.”

I kind of thought we would have felt it if the train had hit a COW, but I just stared forlornly at my wireless status symbol and tried to soothe myself and my computer.

Eventually we did reach Lisbon, which must be the city with the steepest hills in the world. We were too early to check in to the hotel so we left our bags and went on a search for new walking shoes for SB, who only had every other pair of shoes invented in her bag (including running shoes which apparently are uncomfortable to walk in). After several stores disappointed us with their lack of Pumas (the only type of shoe that makes hills comfortable for walking, obviously), we wandered into a sports shoe store and SB chose a pair of white sneakers with red stripes. I wanted her to get black ones with white stripes, so she and I would match, or at least white ones with sparkly pink stripes so she would sparkle (and be pink), but she ignored me and got the ones with red. I hoped at least everyone would notice that we were both wearing Pumas, but as of this evening I had no such luck.

We strolled through the main streets and prazas in our Pumas fielding catcalls, which was certainly a result of our awesome sneakers matched with skirts. Upon taking in the cameras strapped to our wrists and my blond hair it was pretty obvious that we were hardcore American tourists, so the catcalls probably had more to do with men who wanted green cards than our shoes, but we pranced along anyway.

Until lunch we wandered around Lisbon’s main streets, hitting most of the main monuments and historical plazas in Bairro Baixa, including an accidental arrival at the coast and a stroll down Rua Augusta (we took lots of pictures beside the sign). We were determined to have lunch at Casa do Alentejo, a lavishly decorated Moorish home converted into a restaurant/historical site, so we spent about half an hour getting lost until we finally asked a waiter for another restaurant for his help. He stared at us like we were idiots and pointed across the street. Though I had asked him how to find the restaurant in Portuguese, he answered in English, making me feel even more like the American tourist I am.

Alentejo was worth it, though. We feasted for 15 Euros each on a three-course meal with wine, olives, and bread, surrounded by the intricately tiled interior of Casa do Alentejo, and left quite satisfied with our persistence.

We checked into the hotel and showered, and I changed into something a little less American – my Obama shirt. That evening we happened upon a Fado show in Chiado (called “Fado in Chiado”) that was tucked away on a side street in a theater far too large for the audience. I worried that the performance would be a bit sub-par in consideration of how few people turned up, but SB and I wanted to experience traditional Portuguese music, and Fado is about as traditional as Portuguese music gets, so we sat in the front and prepared ourselves for the possibility of fifty minutes of bad music. As it turned out, our worries were entirely unfounded – the four performers were amazing and the music was beautiful. At one point the male cantor asked if there were any Americans in the audience, and I proudly jumped up and down while SB shrunk further into her seat beside me.

We topped the night off with sopa de caldo verde and bachalhau com netas, traditional Portuguese food, before heading back up to the Chiado area for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. We finally fell into bed, exhausted, after formulating plans to head to Belém the next day.