Portugal 2009 - Day 1

It’s the early hours of Monday June 1^st and we’re off on a three day city break to Lisbon followed by seven days on the coast at Estoril. The flights and hotels are booked and we’re going to make our own way in Portugal using their apparently excellent and cheap public transport. On the way to Heathrow we managed to miss the turning to ‘Long Term Parking’ three times so it doesn’t bode too well for finding our way around Portugal does it?

We arrived at Lisbon airport and found the right bus to take us to the city centre and our hotel but there were a lot of people seemingly doing the same as us. We clambered on board with our cases and Pauline immediately spotted a couple of seats right at the back of the bus and while I struggled to put the cases on one of the luggage racks at the front of the bus she rushed to the back to get the seats. It didn’t help that all the time I was case struggling there was a constant stream of people boarding and packing out the bus – standing room only. By the time I reached Pauline at the back I was already hot, bothered and bewildered and it was only about one hour into the holiday.

“Do we know where to get off?” I said.

“Of course, I’ve got the instructions here, it has all the stops on the route,” said Pauline.

The bus had a small overhead display screen that showed the stops and there was a pre-recorded announcement in Portuguese telling us the stop as well. I couldn’t really understand the announcement and I couldn’t read the display so a fat lot of good that all was. I relied on Pauline to dig me in the ribs when it was our stop which brought to an end me constantly asking her if we were there yet and was she sure she knew when our stop would appear. As the bus progressed it got more and more crowded with luggage being stacked in the racks on top of ours. I noticed that you had to get off the bus from the door at the back and when it was our stop I had to struggle down the length of the bus to get the cases and then fight my way through to the back again to get off. All this time there was a constant stream of people with luggage moving up and down, some getting on from the front, others getting off at the back, with me in the middle chucking cases in the air in an attempt to find ours before rushing to the open doors at the back before they closed and we drove off again.

Nobody said “Let me help you” and nobody got out of the way when they saw me careering towards them with two out of control suitcases until I’d bashed into them a few times and only then did they make the smallest of movements to let me pass. I got off the bus even more hot, bothered and bewildered than I was at the beginning.

Luckily the hotel was only a couple of streets away from the bus stop and right in the centre of things so at least we didn’t have far to walk.

After checking in we took a tram to the Alfama district. This is the oldest area in Lisbon and is situated at the top of a steep hill. Taking the tram up there and walking down seemed like an excellent idea. Alfama is a collection of ancient homes, squares and narrow cobbled streets topped off by the Castle of St. George, surrounded by a dry moat and with far-reaching views of the city below.

Portugal 2009 - Day 2

We were coming down in the lift with a German man and his wife when the man suddenly and without warning said, “Are you in best condition?” When we looked surprised and replied, “Best condition?” he said, “Yes, are you both in best condition? Oh, do you not say in English are you in best condition?” We said, “No.” He said, “What never?” We said, “Not really.” He said, “Oh, sorry.”

Luckily we never saw him again.

Some foreign man at the breakfast buffet counter hesitantly picked up a slice of bread in his hand, realised he should be using the tongs provided, fumbled the bread and dropped it on the floor. Then in a completely useless gesture to hygiene used the tongs to pick it up from the floor and left it on the side of the counter.

We decided to visit the traditional old centre of the city. Lisbon is very hilly so rather than climb up to it we went looking for the Bica Funicular which would whiz us up there in no time. Pauline had her map of the city so we knew we were walking in the right direction, even recognising some of the street names as we passed, but could we find this bloody Funicular thing? Blimey, you’d think there would be some signs pointing in the right direction at least but there was nothing until we walked past a hole in the wall. Suddenly Pauline said, “That’s it!” And it was. About two feet inside this hole was a small ticket barrier and a narrow track rising ahead of us at about 60 degrees with the small carriage of the Funicular clattering down towards us. We waited patiently while the driver and passengers got off and then started to get on. There weren’t too many of us which was just as well as it only had six rows of seats which took three people at a pinch. Two Germans pushed their way into the front row of seats and settled down with their cameras ready. Being German, they filled the row of seats so completely it was like a wall of flabby flesh blocking the only view we had out of the front of the carriage. They were fiddling with their cameras, framing preliminary shots and generally preparing themselves for the photo opportunity of a lifetime when a couple of Portuguese men got on at the last minute and stood on a small platform right in front of them. No photos for these pushy Germans after all. And it gave me a feeling of intense satisfaction.

As we ascended, clattering up the steep incline, the track was flanked either side by houses with front doors that opened directly onto the track. There was about a two foot gap between the walls of the houses and the carriage and people were using the gap to walk up and down as the Funicular progressed. One man was walking behind us holding on to a handle on the back of the carriage getting a helping hand up the slope. No health and safety rules in this part of the country then.

Once we reached the top Pauline got out her map which showed a particular area and a suggested walk to take us past many buildings of interest. We walked around trying to find the street names but they’d either moved the streets overnight or the map wasn’t up to much because, as usual, we wandered around for ages in the heat getting absolutely nowhere until quite by chance we happened upon a street that was shown on the map in the suggested walk guide. Now we knew where we were and could start following the walk on the map but by then, the so-called buildings of interest didn’t interest us and we’d spent so much time trouping about, bumping into other tourists looking at their maps with puzzled looks on their faces that we decided to call it a day. Rather than get the Funicular back down to the city centre we opted for a lift which trundled us down in a few minutes.

By this time it was around 3 pm so after a quick bite to eat we hopped on a bus to Belem. Belem is another distinct area of Lisbon and situated on the banks of the River Tagus and it was here, apparently, that many explorers set sail for Africa and America. It also has far too many museums for its own good. A bit of culture’s all right on holiday but it would take you at least a week to see this lot even if you wanted to…and we didn’t.

It was here that my highlight of the day occurred when I saw a man out walking his three-legged dog. Every time he cocked his leg he fell over. Not the man silly, his dog. No, he didn’t really but the dog did have three legs and fortunately the missing leg was at the front so weeing wasn’t so much of a problem after all.

There are quite a few amputee beggars about the streets of Lisbon. As we passed one amputee beggar with one arm, he appeared to be preparing to get up and move on. “See if he needs a hand.” I said to Pauline. “Don’t be stupid,” she said as I walked away chuckling to myself. Further along we passed another beggar (this one had the full complement of limbs) sitting cross-legged on his blanket with the smallest, cutest, cuddliest dog sitting on his lap holding a small metal bucket in its mouth for donations. The dog sat motionless with huge beautiful brown eyes pleading for attention. “Aaah,” said Pauline immediately reaching for her purse, “I’ve got to give that man something.”

“Don’t,” I said, “if he’s that hungry he can eat his bloody dog.”

I saw Sralan Sugar having a cigarette outside a bar today. What? It could have been him. Why not? This bloke was certainly short, ugly and unshaven enough to have been him. And anyway, why wouldn’t Sralan have a bar in Portugal as part of his business empire? He doesn’t seem to do much else. Apart from rubbishy computers that are no longer being made and a ‘revolutionary’ internet phone that nobody wanted because it was even more rubbish than his computers and is only ever seen these days strategically placed on the desk of his receptionist in The Apprentice and who pretends to answer it every week with the words ‘Sralan will see you now’ – what has he done? Talk about product placement.

Hang on, I’ve just remembered. I’ll tell you what else Sralan’s done: The one thing he’s done is to stick one of his apprentice winners into a top job of marketing an Amstrad beauty device that pumps electricity into your face. (Look it up). How could it possibly fail? A product entering the image sensitive health and beauty market, a smoke and mirrors world with a brand name mostly associated with green screen 1980s word processors and a very gruff ugly man with a stubbly beard. How could it fail? And it pumps electricity into your face? How could it possibly fail?

In order to overcome the image problem, they gave this revolutionary health and beauty product a very Sloaney name of Integra Face Care System. Face Care System. That’s Caring. Systematically. For your face. The £130 (look it up) Integra applies electricity to the face (mostly “on a sub sensory level” – that is, you can’t feel it doing anything) to “improve circulation and muscle relaxation by varying the shapes of the impulses or waveforms” (‘waveforms’ – a word that does not exist but presumably helps your face turn wavier), thus providing “stimulation by micro-current for you to treat your own face in the comfort of your own home”.

I’m feeling visibly more beautiful just thinking about it.

And did it fail?

Have you or anyone you know bought one?

Of course it bloody failed. It’s rubbish.

So I reckon he patently needs this bar in Portugal to supplement the millions he must have lost over the past forty years or so. 

Back at the hotel later we wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. Eating out is reasonable here but the days of cheap holidays seem to be over. House wine is always of good quality and cheap but meals are on a par with average English prices. The days of all you can eat and drink for two quid are definitely over. Mind you, that was back in the sixties.

Anyway, we’d stopped outside a rather large restaurant on the corner of two main Lisbon streets and as we stood there looking at the menu posted up outside I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, flashes of movement through the restaurant window. I looked in and there was a waiter waving at me. I looked away and pretended to be interested in the menu once more but couldn’t help but look through the window again. He was still there, this time giving me a thumbs up sign and gesturing to me to come in. I tried to ignore him but each time I glanced through the window he kept doing it. Time was getting on and we were starting to feel hungry so I said to Pauline, “I think he likes me. Let’s go in.”

As we entered the waving waiter ushered us to a table for two which was so small it could have been a table for one and once inside I settled down and took in the surroundings. It was a very large room furnished with cheap tables and chairs packed in so tightly that people jogged your arms as they walked by. All the way down one side of the room was a very long bar serving drinks and food while waiters scurried around serving the people like us sitting at tables. It didn’t remind me so much of a decent restaurant but of a British Rail station buffet and I was beginning to feel that out of all the restaurants we’d seen that evening and passed on, perhaps this wasn’t the wisest choice after all.

It was a disaster. Terrible food and over expensive average wine. We won’t be going there again.

Portugal 2009 - Day 3

As it’s our last day in Lisbon we’ve decided to explore the country outside of the main city areas. We’ve bought our one-day-go-everywhere tickets and armed with a bus/train map we’re off. Thinking about it now, we should have gone home the minute we found our bus tickets weren’t working.

What should happen is this: Get on bus. Swipe ticket in machine. Machine goes beep and displays green light. Go and sit down.

What actually happened is this: Got on bus. Swiped ticket in machine. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and still displayed red light. Swiped ticket again, more forcibly this time. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Wobbled it about a bit. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Rubbed ticket on T shirt (no, I don’t know why I did it either). Examined ticket carefully. Why? I don’t know, I don’t know. Looking at it serves no more useful purpose than opening the bonnet and staring at the engine when the car’s broken down. Somehow you’re trying to give the impression you know what you’re doing when in fact you haven’t a bloody clue. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Looked at the bus driver. Looked at the queue of people behind me stretching down the road. Looked at the red light. Went and sat down anyway.

On the next bus it was exactly the same. Bloody red light again. The bus driver took the ticket, examined it carefully, gave it back and indicated we were to sit down. On the third bus it happened again. By now it was obvious that our newly purchased tickets were completely useless so every time we boarded a bus we had to explain to the driver we really, really had bought the tickets and weren’t just a couple of English hooligans trying to get a free ride. With this going on every time we changed buses the tour of the countryside was soon beginning to lose its appeal.

We were hoping to make a round trip out from Lisbon, through what looked like a National Park area on the map and back home in time for tea but I think it was after our third bus change that we realised we weren’t actually sure where the next bus would take us. We knew from the map which bus took us in the general direction we wanted to go but the bus we thought we needed next wasn’t shown on the bus stop we’d arrived at. Quite often it didn’t help matters when the bus stop for the next bus was in a different road. Which side of the road do you wait at? We didn’t know. Now when this sort of thing starts to happen it signifies the beginning of the end. An air of puzzlement, confusion, frustration and blame starts to materialise. (All the blame, I might add, was directed at the bus company for not providing the right bus numbers on their bus stop signs so that made us feel slightly better).

We ended up getting off another bus which had stopped outside a college. Why we got off there I don’t really remember but as I have no sense of direction whatsoever it seemed like as good a place as any to me. It was now midday and the students were pouring out of the college towards our bus stop. Pauline was engrossed in the map and surrounded by chattering students when she suddenly decided to ask one of them which of the buses on the bus stop board might take us in the general direction we wanted. The student looked blank, shrugged and said something about asking the bus driver. Thanks student. We didn’t think of that. With a brain like that she must have been taking meedja studies.

The rest is all a blur. I do remember getting yet another bus and asking the driver to tell us when to get off. He nodded and then completely forgot about us causing us to end up somewhere I can only describe as the Portuguese equivalent of the end of the Northern Line – a strange, alien, worrying sort of place with just a bus and metro station and a shopping mall. Absolutely nothing else and in the middle of nowhere.

It was at this point I realised we hadn’t a bloody clue where we were, nothing new for me but more worryingly, neither had Pauline. No idea how far we’d travelled. No idea how far still to go and more importantly as it was now mid-afternoon, no idea how long it would take. We were in this Godforsaken place with tickets that didn’t work and no idea how to get home. When suddenly we saw the metro station. “That’s it,” I said, “Forget about buses, the tour of the countryside, the picturesque drive through the National Park (wherever the hell it was). Let’s get the metro back to Lisbon.”

There was however one big snag. Although our tickets were valid for bus, tram and metro, they didn’t bloody work so would be utterly useless at the unmanned automatic ticket barriers on the metro. “We’re never going to get out of here alive,” I said, “we’re going to die out here in no man’s land. Everything’s against us.”

Pauline suddenly said, “I’ve had enough of this.” And marched off to the one and only bus information kiosk to ask why our tickets weren’t working. The lady took them and for the next hour, in between serving a constant stream of people, she tried to get to the bottom of the problem. And do you know what? We never found out why the tickets didn’t work but the nice lady issued us with two new all day tickets valid for three days as a goodwill gesture. It seemed churlish to tell her this was our last day and we only had a few hours left of it but it was a nice thought on her part. So armed with our new super duper tickets we breezed through the metro ticket barrier and caught a train which took us back to the centre of Lisbon in fifteen minutes.

The day had been a total disaster from start to finish and a complete and utter waste of time. But, hey, we’re off to Estoril tomorrow.

It can’t get any worse…can it?