Lisboa through the eyes of Iza’s camera

Lisbon, or 'Lisboa' (pronounced liszh-boa) to the locals has to be one of my all time favourite stops so far for two reasons: free cultural stuff, and fabulous food - there’s free concerts in museum courtyards; fabulous night life in Barrio Alto where people spill out into the streets with mojitos in hand; free entry to the museums on the ‘night of the museums;’ and who would I be if I didn’t mention the famous Portuguese tart??

Our time in Lisboa was made all the more special because we were able to catch up with two good friends from Santa Maria Animal Rescue Centre in Ecuador - Andreia, our very own local tour guide and hostess-with-the-mostess , who very kindly put us up, and took us here, there and everywhere; and Iza, who flew in all the way from Poland to see us for the weekend.

Iza, a serial photographer, captured every moment of our time here on film - the good, the bad and the ugly. So here is my week in Lisboa, photo book style... most photos courtesy of Iza.

We were introduced to the amazing city of Lisboa at sunset on our first night as we strolled through the triumphal arch on Rua Augusto towards the Praca do Commercio and the harbour. After watching the sun set over the 25 de Abril suspension bridge that we’d just driven over, we joined the locals at the ‘night of the museums’ – where all the museums in the city are free if your under 25. We chose to go to MUDE – the museum of design and fashion – that had an exhibition of old scooters and designer clothes from the 60s, 70s and 80s. After being verbally abused twice, once in Portuguese and once in English for taking a photo, even though the establishment lacked ‘no photo’ signs and being tailed for 20 minutes around the exhibition by the narky curators who took their job in preventing us taking photos so seriously that they were attempting spy manoeuvres and rolls around corners, we gave up on scooters and left, directed to a hidden 10 table restaurant tucked precariously in a side lane by Andreia. The lane wasn’t filled with the most distinguished types – across the way, men took quick glances over their shoulders before they snuck through a red velvet curtain that sat beneath a glowing neon sign, but the food was fabulous! After waiting patiently for other diners to finish sipping on their post meal coffees, we were seated and presented with a menu entirely in Portuguese. Our Spanish didn’t help a bit, but Andreia translated and soon a plate of lamb that fell off the bone (the national of dish of salted cod arrived for those with a more adventurous palate than my own) and a glass of ‘Vinho Verde’ or green wine, something unique to Portugal, was on the table in front of me. Yes, you read that right, but no, the wine wasn’t actually green. The name refers to the the grapes youthfulness rather than its colour. Not my favourite drop, but when in Rome…

 

Getting a Portuguese reading; and sampling ‘green wine’

The next day, after the welcome addition of Anna, a friend of Andreia’s from vet school to our trio we all took the ferry across to Lisbon for a day of wandering – we should have taken our sneakers - Lisbon has a lot of ups and our calves were soon screaming in agony as we chose to take on the hills. About half way up, we gave up, and jumped on the touristy yellow Tram 28 that rattled us up the rest of the way to Amalfa – a maze of ancient pathways that snakes its way through crumbling, bent houses, designed to make life difficult for the invaders trying to make their way up to the St George Castle. After a refreshing beverage – a mini beer – and a ham and cheese pastry, we had the strength to keep going all the way up to the castle where we enjoyed a birds eye view of Lisbon as the sun began to set before heading for delish noodles at restaurant Nood, a welcome change in cuisine.

 

From top left: Andreia enjoying her mini beer; the lanes of Amalfa;
and waiting for Tram 28.

After more than enough food, including a to-die-for chocolate brownie dripping in hot chocolate sauce, we were taken by the locals, Andreia and Anna, to a ‘site seeing spot’ to have a couple of drinks before heading out. Lisboa has a fabulous culture of ‘open air’ drinking. Sitting at a viewpoint high up over Lisboa with a glass of wine in our hands and the sound of a jazz band in the air, we joined the Lisboans as they took in the fresh night air before hitting the bars in Barrio Alto where the outside drinking continued. With limited room in the bar besides for the bar itself, the Lisboans drinking in Barrio Alto have come up with a practical solution of taking your drink to the street - bar-goers flow out into the cobblestone streets as they sip their beers and mojitos. 

 

As if we weren’t spoilt enough by being put up by Andreia for our time in Lisboa, she made sure our bellies were well and truly happy. For breakfast every morning we got all things Portuguese – cheese, cured meat, Mr Crunch cereal with huge chocolate chunks, and an array of home made jams to spread on our warm bread rolls. When we told the girls we often had eggs and bacon for breakfast, we got looks of disgust and cries of ‘ewwwww, how could you have that for breakfast?!’ One thing we all agreed on as delicious, was Andreia’s mum’s chocolate mousse that we’d been introduced to in Ecuador which we can be seen stuffing our faces with in the photo on the right - Yum, yum, yum!! Another was the must eat thing while in Portugal – the Portuguese tart. While we’d picked up a few tarts along the way in Portugal, nothing would compare to what we were about to sample. We were driven all the way to Belem in Lisboa to Pasteis de Belem, where they make the original Portuguese tart, from a recipe that is as secret as Coca-Cola. The only way I can think to describe it is like those custard tarts you get at Chinese restaurants for dessert (which I don’t actually like), only better – clearly, because otherwise I wouldn’t have like them! These are creamier, fluffier, and lightly dusted with cinnamon. They are to die for. I devoured two in about a minute, and went back for more that afternoon – oink - before rolling over the road to an evening in the courtyard of the Belem Cultural Centre listening to the husky voice of Spanish born Concha Buika.

On our last day in Lisbon, we took a day trip to the ‘must see’ district of Sintra, about 40 minutes from Lisbon. After getting a later start than planned, caused mainly by our inability to work out the Portuguese transport system (something which locals don’t seem to be incredibly good at either), we followed the hoards of tourists that pilled off the train and squished onto a local bus that wound through the village and up to Pena National Palace. After getting over the shock of the admission price – some 15 euros – we made our way through the palace garden gates, and up to the decadently coloured palace. I’m talking  orange and deep red towers, along side mosaic blue tiling and gothic carvings. It was beautiful, though the day was slightly hazy.

With the sun threatening to set, we quickly made our way back down the hill and joined the masses – I’m talking a queue at least 150 people long – to get back on the bus that would wind us back down to the village and the gardens of Quinta da Regaleira which we explored quickly, conscious that we had one more stop to make – Cabo da Roca.

Though we froze to death as strong winds whipped the coastline (smart locals came prepared with thick blankets), watching the sun set at Europe’s most western point – Cabo da Roca – was absolutely magnificent and my favourite part of the day. With hardly a cloud in the sky, we got a picture perfect view of the sun as it dropped into the ocean.

          

Becoming port drinkers

Port. What can I say? When I think of Port drinkers I think of ‘older’ gentleman, sitting in a dusty mahogany filled room sipping it from a small glass in one hand, with a cigar in the other. Who knew that I would actually enjoy the chocolaty flavour of one variety, and the Christmas pudding taste of the other; and who knew that there was white port? I certainly didn’t. I suppose after six glasses of the stuff, which is almost 20% alcohol, you’re bound to like it.

We touched down in Porto from London mid morning with some new additions to our entourage – Sam, a friend of Claire’s from school and Shelly, a uni friend of Sam’s. After wandering around the upper streets of town, and having lunch at the ‘Majestic cafe’ which must be famous because every man and his dog was taking photos out the front (or maybe they just wanted photos of the beautiful girls sitting out the front…) we headed down to the bridge to catch a glimpse of what makes people come here… other than for the Port. 

 

So I must admit to two oversights on my part about Port and Portugal. 1) I had no clue that Port came from Porto, and 2) I didn’t even end up drinking Port in Porto (which I didn’t know at the time). You see, unlike Sydney, which technically stretches for 70kms from the CBD, when you cross a bridge in Portugal you end up in an entirely knew city. In our case, when we crossed the bridge in Porto to where all the Port factories are, we were technically in Guia which would explain also why we saw buses everywhere with ads for the ‘best port in Guia’ which totally confused us at the time.

Actually, I have another oversight to add – the size of the tastings. Having no luck finding a cheap tasting place after walking past several exorbitantly priced Port factories we decided we would just have to splurge and spend 10 Euros each on six tastes + glass of wine deal. Our mistake: we assumed a tasting would be no more than the sip you would get in the Hunter Valley at home. The waiter gave us a funny look when we each tried to order a tasting each, and suggested that in order to avoid stumbling out the front door, we share two between the four of us. Still thinking Hunter Valley sized tastings we gave him looks that said ‘do we look like we can’t handle our alcohol?’, but agreed to his suggestion; hey, we can always order more. When this turned up at our table, we were glad we took his advice:

From syrupy white to thick deep chocolate flavoured ports, they were delicious!… Needless to say our glasses were soon empty.

I will never turn down an offer of a glass of Port again. 

A very angry vegetarian

I must say that I definitely have mixed feelings about travelling in Europe at this point. I’m really excited on the one hand to be heading to countries that I’ve never been before, but I can’t say that I’m looking forward to the dint it is going to put in my savings (I guess I really should rename my account ‘spendings’ at this point). I suppose it’s lucky we spent so long in South and Central America. Not only did we get to see a lot more there, it means that Europe is limited to just over 6 weeks, unlike the four or so months that we’d originally planned.

So our Europe stint didn’t get off to the best start…

We weren’t at all late to the airport for our flight from JFK to London but I must say we were pushing it for time having just missed the shuttle from Port Authority but a split second, and having to wait around another 30 minutes for the next one. By the time we arrived and checked in the only seats remaining were stuck in the middle of a row. ‘We can deal with this’ I thought to myself, ‘the flight is only 6 hours.’ My optimism quickly vanished when the odd man I’d seen wandering through the waiting lounge sat down right beside me on the plane. Though he rudely took up more than his fair share of my seat and armrest with his elbows overflowing well into my personal space, I let him be, knowing that dinner was on the way when I could steal it back as he lifted his elbows to cut his veggies with his knife and fork.

Soon however, he began very rudely demanding tomato juices, serviettes and headphones from the flight attendants and getting generally agitated. I could tell the flight attendant was weirded out by his behaviour. And I began to feel more than slightly uncomfortable as he huffed and puffed but with ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels’ playing on the movie channel, I tried to tune out and ignore him.

Things soon escalated however when I got my chicken, vegies and rice dinner. He had been served his vegetarian meal a good ten minutes before everyone else so was sitting there twiddling his thumbs by the time mine arrived. He did not like one bit the fact that I was eating chicken and, having serious issues with the smell, he proceeded to shove his napkin up his nostrils as he glared at me out of the corner of his eye. By the time the trolley came around to collect the trays, he was more than slightly agitated that he was sitting next to a carnivore. As I moved to pass my tray to the hostess, the ‘odd man’ slammed his arm down into mine. The air hostess, shocked at his behaviour, reprimanded the 30 something year old, and then quickly asked if I was travelling with anyone before disappearing. Not a minute later, the air host, Phillip, was back, scooping up my bags and escorting Claire and I to spare seats in business class where he left us with a fresh glass of red wine, having noticed that we’d carried our crappy plastic cups up from economy - ‘there’s no plastic in business class’ he said. A few minutes later he reappeared apologetic that he’d just assumed that we’d wanted more red wine – ‘would you like a glass of champagne?’ We spent the rest of the flight to London in luxury, sipping on flutes of French Champagne as we watched movies long into the night.

When I woke up I was in a London summer – the thermostat hitting just 20 degrees. I spent the whole time in a hoodie – much to the laughter of the locals I was staying with, who thought the weather was ‘positively warm.’ I don’t understand how people call that a summer. Bring on the beach and 35 degree days! 

Anyway, the main purpose of a stint in London for me was to get my visa for India. This was one of the only things I could not do before I left home because Indian visas are only valid for six months, and start running from the date of issue. Being the extremely organised person I am, I electronically completed my form, and even emailed the processing centre about my application prior to arriving in London and, as soon as we landed, Claire and I headed straight to the processing centre to make sure we had ample time for them to be processed. Everything went smoothly for Claire, who has a British passport thanks to her mum – it took 3 days to get her visa. For me, everything blew up in my face. Luckily I wasn’t so organised that I prepaid for it. I left the processing centre, Australian passport still in hand, having being told that it would take 15 working days for it to be processed, though the person I had emailed had said it would take four. Hanging around in the UK for 15 days was not something I wanted to do. I was so mad and upset! I didn’t want to spend a week in London, let alone three. I spent the next few days ‘googling’ every place we were heading to see if they could do it any faster. In the end, I had to settle on getting my visa processed in Spain, forcing us to cut short our time in Portugal. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

London in pictures:

     

From top: Westminster Abbey; Tower of London; Buckingham Palace; Greta and I at the
Electricity Showroom; London Eye; Buckingham Palace guard; British Museum; ‘Chip buttie’ 
– ie. Chip sandwich that I ordered by mistake; and catching up with Aussies in London - Clauds and I.