Usually, when I travel, I get incredibly nervous and uncomfortable the closer I get to my departure date. I know it has something to do with adventuring into unrevealed territory, with my losing control, and with my innate sense of worry, dread and catastrophe.

I also know that it’s because I always travel independently – whether it’s alone/solo, or with my wife, Surya, for the last twenty-one years. I/we don’t take tours, cruises or group trips. I plan my/our travel itinerary entirely by myself, sometimes only with the sketchiest of “itineraries”, a lonely travel guidebook.

That’s why I fret and panic the closer I get to my flight’s departure. I know that I’m flying into the “great unknown”. “No direction home”. No comfy habits or routines, no friendly language to rely on, no familiar roof over my head. Sometimes, I can even travel a month or two – without a single overnight reservation, except for the first night, where my sense of displacement always believes that it’s a good idea to have a place to stay upon arrival at a foreign airport. After that, it’s often just an improvised crapshoot.

But somehow, it’s not true of this trip.

Why, you ask?

Maybe it’s just practice and age. Or more likely, maybe I’m just not nearly as intimidated traveling to Western Europe as I am to other more “challenging” destinations – like the South America Andes, or to Muslim Egypt and Jordan, or definitely, to chaotic third-world Asia. Places like Indonesia, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, etc., where both political and health conditions are especially sketchy and unreliable. Which, then again, can make it even more fun and adventurous, but – hey, one thing I know for sure, is that…

Portugal is – definitely not the Third World.

 

The first trick of the trip is meeting Surya in Lisbon (“Lisboa” for you authenticos). As I wrote in my previous post, she’s gone to Rotterdam, Holland for a week to drop off Opung (her mother) for the next sister in line to “mother-sit”. She’s had a dandy of a time, seeing Dutch/Indonesian friends, and finally getting out of her “triple shift” here at home, two daily shifts at a Santa Fe hotel and restaurant, plus a third shift and a half – taking care of her Mom, who doesn’t speak a word of English, automatically disqualifying yours Trulesly from “mother-in-law care”.

So… on January 15, I fly from Albuquerque to Denver (that’s the wrong direction, United!), then to Newark, New Jersey, then to Lisbon. I get there at eight in the morning, a nice early time to either have jeg lag, or to find my way to Alfama, the oldest historical neighborhood in Lisboa.

But after a super Uber schlep along the congested “highway” alongside the Tagus River, both the Uber driver, Katia, and I – discover that – there’s no direct access to the street of my Booking.com apartment.

Now what?

Katia is very nice and asks everyone in sight for directions to the street, but not a single local can help.

So I decide to wing it – to walk uphill along the old cobblestone street through a short shadowy tunnel.

And this is what I see in the light at the of the tunnel.

 

It seems that Old Trules has accidentally booked himself an apartment in the Old Jewish Quarter of Lisboa. It’s one of the only areas in the City that survived the devastating earthquake of 1755, whose estimated magnitude of 8.5-9.0, was the most destructive earthquake in European history.

As they say,

You can the Jew out of New Yawk, but you can’t take the Jew out of the man.

With the help of a little Google Translate, I eventually find the apartment down a little stone stairway that has the balls to call itself a “street”.

The door code I’ve been sent doesn’t work.

I call the apartment owners, who don’t answer for a while, until when they do, they walk me through the lock boxes, codes, and entry process.

Ok, I’m in. But by then, I’m tired and sweaty, to say the least.

But hey, I’m in Lisboa, Por-tu-gal’, man! Accent on the last syllable.

I think I’ve been to every other country in Western Europe (and many in Eastern Europe too), but never to Por-tu-gal’!

It turns out, however, that not only does the “street” have big cujones, but the owners have equally big balls – to call this place an “apartment”. In reality, it’s a tiny studio designed for two mice, with “all the amenities” packed into one room plus a tiny bathroom. Microwave, refrigerator, minuscule dining room table, countertop stove, and a “tv” hung on the wall behind the old front door that must be just about 12×6 inches in size.

I lie down on the bed, and… fall asleep.

Surya arrives on time at 5 p.m., but… her Booking.com taxi has attempted to pick her up at 12 noon. I call and argue with the taxi company but,

Sorry, no refunds.

Luckily, at the last minute, I book her her own Uber.

At least, her flight from Amsterdam to Lisbon has been only three hours. Easy compared to mine, and I have the common sense to meet her in front of the old tunnel leading to the Jewish star.

 

So… you see how easy independent travel can be.

But I figure,

It’s all downhill from here.

Mostly, I’m right, except for…

…the omnipresent winter Rain.

The next trick is to tiptoe through the raain drops.

More to follow. (Trying to keep these travelogues short.)

Trules

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS POST.

And here is a little taste of “Fado” music, the heart-achingly beautiful traditional music of the streets of Lisboa, sung by Cesara Evora, Queen of “the morna”, music strongly associated with her native Cape Verde island, combining West African percussion, Portuguese fado, Brazilian “modhinas”, and oddly, British sea shanties. (You may have to click a few times on the Play arrow.)

 

 

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