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Post 2210
- 8 years and 4 days since I started this blog -
(written 1/4/19)
Read this once (it won't change for the rest of the trip(s): I'll be linking this post to Facebook. If that's how you got here, here's some background: About 8 years ago I started this blog as a food journal. I had a medical situation and needed to lose weight. Initially, that's all I did here: Journal my food intake and my weight. It contributed to helping me lose 20+% of my body weight in 6 months, and continuing has kept me on track since then. I started adding commentary after a while, but lately it has become infrequent.
While I'm traveling, I let go of the weight-tracking and food journaling, except for the occasional food shot when I've eaten something interesting. And that's where we find ourselves now.
I need to catch you up on how things went the previous 2 days - from my last day in Faro, yesterday's trip back to Lisbon (eventful) and last night's activities, after I'd returned to my apartment.
Tuesday, January 2nd, was my last full day in Faro, and, after editing some pictures and doing the normal morning stuff (except breakfast - I can't remember the last time I had breakfast in the morning), I Uber-ed into Faro for, well, breakfast. I went into a joint that had been recommended to me for its smoothies, coffee and salads.
It was another beautiful day in the Algarve, as, in fact, they had all been. Not quite as warm, but still very comfortable. I had the driver drop me off at the marina, just to see if they had taken the stage down as fast as they'd put it up. Nope, although it was now just a giant hollow blacked-out open box.
I walked a few blocks to get to Papaya, ordered a smoothie, coffee and salmon salad. The salad was excellent - I was a little surprised that the salmon was smoked salmon, but it was an excellent salad and totally appropriate for breakfast.
After, I started the day's ramble, heading in the direction of the town esplanade, and to the Faro Archeological Museum, now known as the Museum of Faro, which seemed to offer some interesting features, including the fact that it was housed in what had been a 16th-century convent, itself probably taken from the Jews expelled from Portugal (and that specific part of Faro - the Jewish ghetto) some years before that.
The nice woman at the admission desk looked at me, pantomimed stroking a beard and gestured towards her hair, and waved me in free. The 100% senior discount.
I still managed to wile away a few hours at the museum, but then it was late-afternoon, and I made my way to the water's edge, walking through the oldest part of Faro in the process.
I was only there for a few minutes when I got a FaceTime call from a friend in North Carolina. I panned around to give him an idea of where I was, and we spoke for a while, during which time I found myself a seat on a stone bench.
While we were talking, a couple sat down on a bench near me. She took out a little picnic. He took out a guitar. I hung up, and walked over to hear the music. It was nice, soft, jazzy. I took an Instagram, and walked up and introduced myself.
That started a wonderful conversation. Musicians are almost always curious about other musicians. His name is Seba, but he goes by the name of SudakaLoops. He is a one-man-band, using a looper to create his show with layers of keyboards, percussion, bass and guitar. She goes by Flavi. I think she is a model. They're traveling around, and are in town to busk - although this afternoon, they've put nothing out to collect money. In fact, there's not much traffic.
Later, they'll go to the commercial-restaurant area, where there is lots of foot traffic. I bet they're very successful.
I tell him a little about myself. He speaks enough English to communicate, she, none at all). Still, we are all smiling at this good-vibes musicians' encounter. He offers me the guitar, I play them a song, hand it back, and that is how we spend the rest of the afternoon. He knows some Bill Withers, some BB King. We harmonize, sometimes me playing, mostly him.
I say good-bye at sunset, to get one last picture from this new vantage point, and also to try and find a place to charge my phone. If I totally run out of juice, it's going to be hard, or at least more expensive, to get back to Montenegro.
I walk the streets for awhile more, stopping in a cafe for a beer and a little charging action. Pleasant? You bet.
It's just before 7 when I open up TripAdvisor to find a restaurant for dinner. A really interesting one seems nearby, but when I follow the walking directions to it, it is not there. Thinking I must have read the map wrong, I spend about twenty minutes trying to find anything near. But when I've passed the same uninteresting restaurant (that is not the one I'm looking for) for the third time, I just shrug it off, and set off looking for something, anything, interesting (and Portuguese).
Which brings me, eventually, to the first well-lit restaurant I've seen in Portutal. It is attractive-looking, with big windows out front, a live lobster and fish-tank visible near the front, and a chalk-board easel with the day's specials listed. I see polvo (octopus) twice. I'm in. I don't even, at this point, know the restaurant's name.
The menu has an English translation for the menu items, and I order a vegetable soup, and one of the octopus specials, the one that is marked as a traditional dish. And a carafe of the house red. The service is wonderful, and that octopus dish, well, it's the best (and most) octopus I've ever had.
I linger, happy. I write a review of the restaurant at the table. I ask my waiter to give my thanks to the chef - who turns out to be one of the namesake brothers of this, the 'Two Brothers' restaurant. It takes me a long time to figure out the English equivalent of the name, or, for that matter, the name, which doesn't appear on the menu! And then I remember I have iTranslate.
I get back to Montenegro, feeling great about the whole day, at around 11pm. I pack, do some computer work, take another FaceTime call, and hit the sack. Early, for me.
I wake up the next morning, a little startled at a vivid, recalled dream. In it, I am walking around some kind of big factory. Suddenly, my clothes disappear. I am naked, but, in the dream, I am mystified, but not embarrassed. I go walking around asking people where my clothing has gone. At one point, I find myself at a loading dock, asking random people where I can go to get back my clothes. Finally, someone points to another building across a field. As I start walking there, I notice that my clothes are reappearing on me. I wake up, fully clothed, before I make it across the field.
I am a little startled and disoriented when I wake up, but I don't feel like I've had a nightmare, just a crazy dream.
I get to the Faro bus station, put my bag in the side compartment of the bus (along with all the other passengers), get on board, hook up to the onboard WiFi, and I'm off, not a care in the world, thinking only about yesterday's fun and the enjoyable features of my time in Faro.
The bus that I'm on is a local, making stops along the way to Albufeira, where I'll change buses (exactly like the Lisbon-to-Faro route I'd taken eight days earlier) for the Albufeira-Lisbon Express, which takes a full forty-five minutes less for the trip.
But at Albufeira, when I go to get my bag and transfer it to the express, I can't find it. The two bus drivers try and help, but we don't see it anywhere, and I am told I must board the other bus - it is late already. So I do, we leave, and I'm left to ponder the fate of my baggage, and myself.
I do not have any idea what has happened to my bag. Was it stolen? Was it taken accidentally by another passenger (I saw several similar-looking bags in the cargo hold of the local bus) and put on my bus? Or, was it taken from the station in Faro, or Albufeira? Was it on my bus or the local I'd just gotten off of?
I do an inventory of what I'd lost. The big items were my passport, house- and car keys from my apartment in NY, and a couple of medications. The big losses dollar-wise are the state-of-0the-art bag itself, just purchased for about two hundred bucks, for this season's travel. Clothes and a couple of hats, and the total is running over $500.
Not one to dwell on the negative, I start visualizing a happy outcome - one where I take my bag off the bus at my destination. I imagine my pleasure and relief, my happiness. I've been doing this sort of thing for a long time.
Then I remember my dream, which now seems like a metaphoric prophecy. And I remember crossing the field, and my clothes come back on me. The last vestige of fear and panic subsides. I have been writing this up on Facebook, and I am getting some positive hopes and prayers from an ocean away. I even mention the dream along the way.
a
When I finally arrive at the station, my bag is not there. The bus driver is very helpful - he knows what is going on. He tries to call the other bus driver, but cannot get through. He is sure my bag is on the other bus, whose destination is the other major bus terminal on the other side of the city. He suggests I take a cab there, because the subway system will take too long - by cab, I can meet the bus when it arrives. Although he feels confident my bag will be there, he also says if it's not, I can handle the lost-and-found there as well as here. He offers to call a cab. I thank him profusely for his help and understanding, and accept his offer of getting me a cab.
My cab driver asks why I am going from one bus terminal to the other, and when I tell him my story, he determinedly says, "It is most important we get your bag back." And steps on the gas.
We get there with just two minutes to spare. I approach some bus drivers to ask if they know where the bus will come in. One speaks fairly good English, and when I tell him what's going on, and what bus I'm looking for (I still have my ticket), he tells me to talk to the dispatcher, who is also the baggage handler for unaccompanied packages, and in charge of the lost-and-found.
I walk to that counter, where there is a small line. I wait on line.
But before I get to talk with Baggage Man, the bus driver from my first bus and the bus driver I'd just spoken with approach me with a hand-cart full of bags, including, on top, mine.
Remember that visualizing I did? It is exactly the way I feel now. I thank the bus drivers, I thank everybody near me. I do a quick check, and everything, passport, meds, keys, clothes is there, as packed.
I choose that night to treat myself to my last-day-in-Lisbon restaurant to celebrate a trying day that has ended very well.
The Clobe de Jornalistas is a well-known place. It is known for it's romantic environment and excellent food and service, and for being a casual place in what would otherwise be a very formal setting.
It surpasses its reputation. As I walk in the door, I am asked if I have a reservation. I don't, but that is shrugged off, and I am handed a flute of champagne (or something like it), and led to the main dining room, where I am given a choice among some empty tables.
The meal is fantastic in every way. Service is friendly and efficient, but not intrusive, and the food is excellent. It's another best-of-trip. When I finish, after a good glass of 25-year 0ld port, I thank everybody - my server, the other servers, the maitre d', who hands me some souvenirs as he helps me on with my coat.
I've been at the restaurant for 2-1/2 hours, and now, it's off to Jam Club.
There, I listen to a very small, young girl sing 'modern' songs in English - she has a very good voice, and lots of friends in the audience. By lots, I mean maybe eight, which is about half the capacity of the club. Her songs are short, and lots of them, with lots of (deserved) applause. While she plays, I meet Elena, who walks over to me and asks if I'm a musician. In the ensuing conversation, I learn that she's a conservatory-trained saxophone player from Kiev, Ukraine. She is very enthusiastic about the whole scene, and wishes there were keyboards, or that she could have brought her sax, which would have been prohibitively expensive.
The young singer finishes up. I congratulate her on her performance, she confesses that she was very nervous. She is a singer, she doesn't usually accompany herself on guitar, feeling her guitar skills are not up to snuff. Then she looks at me and asks if I'm Reverend Ken. Marco has told her about me. We take a selfie.
When she's packed up, I take the guitar off the wall. She and Elena and a few other people have asked me to play. It's a setup by Marco.
So I play, and talk with the audience. Tell them stuff about the songs. I'm getting over. The drinks start coming (they know my brand of whiskey).And grateful for the good day I've had.
At the nominal closing time of midnight, I stop. I talk with several of the people. One couple that has been buying me drinks (doubles!) for the last half hour beckons me over to speak with me some more. They're newly-weds from Liverpool, the English one. They're astonished, and make me show them proof that I live in Liverpool, NY. We're drinking and having a good time. Elena and her boyfriend join us. It's a party.
I'm drunk. There's no point in calling it any other way. I think, at this point, everybody is. Marco calls Jay and Kate (the English couple) a cab, and they offer to drop me off - I take it.
On the cab ride to my place, they tell me I must come to Liverpool, where they believe ;I will be a big hit, and they are sure they can get me gigs, and the gigs will be popular, and they'll pick me up and house me. I must come'.
It's a lovely thought. I've never been to England (but I kinda like the music). I'm considering it.
The cab pulls up at my apartment. We all kiss good night, promise to keep in touch.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm asleep. You know from the first paragraphs of this post that I slept well. In gratitude.
While we were talking, a couple sat down on a bench near me. She took out a little picnic. He took out a guitar. I hung up, and walked over to hear the music. It was nice, soft, jazzy. I took an Instagram, and walked up and introduced myself.
That started a wonderful conversation. Musicians are almost always curious about other musicians. His name is Seba, but he goes by the name of SudakaLoops. He is a one-man-band, using a looper to create his show with layers of keyboards, percussion, bass and guitar. She goes by Flavi. I think she is a model. They're traveling around, and are in town to busk - although this afternoon, they've put nothing out to collect money. In fact, there's not much traffic.
Later, they'll go to the commercial-restaurant area, where there is lots of foot traffic. I bet they're very successful.
I tell him a little about myself. He speaks enough English to communicate, she, none at all). Still, we are all smiling at this good-vibes musicians' encounter. He offers me the guitar, I play them a song, hand it back, and that is how we spend the rest of the afternoon. He knows some Bill Withers, some BB King. We harmonize, sometimes me playing, mostly him.
I walk the streets for awhile more, stopping in a cafe for a beer and a little charging action. Pleasant? You bet.
It's just before 7 when I open up TripAdvisor to find a restaurant for dinner. A really interesting one seems nearby, but when I follow the walking directions to it, it is not there. Thinking I must have read the map wrong, I spend about twenty minutes trying to find anything near. But when I've passed the same uninteresting restaurant (that is not the one I'm looking for) for the third time, I just shrug it off, and set off looking for something, anything, interesting (and Portuguese).
Which brings me, eventually, to the first well-lit restaurant I've seen in Portutal. It is attractive-looking, with big windows out front, a live lobster and fish-tank visible near the front, and a chalk-board easel with the day's specials listed. I see polvo (octopus) twice. I'm in. I don't even, at this point, know the restaurant's name.
The menu has an English translation for the menu items, and I order a vegetable soup, and one of the octopus specials, the one that is marked as a traditional dish. And a carafe of the house red. The service is wonderful, and that octopus dish, well, it's the best (and most) octopus I've ever had.
I linger, happy. I write a review of the restaurant at the table. I ask my waiter to give my thanks to the chef - who turns out to be one of the namesake brothers of this, the 'Two Brothers' restaurant. It takes me a long time to figure out the English equivalent of the name, or, for that matter, the name, which doesn't appear on the menu! And then I remember I have iTranslate.
I get back to Montenegro, feeling great about the whole day, at around 11pm. I pack, do some computer work, take another FaceTime call, and hit the sack. Early, for me.
I wake up the next morning, a little startled at a vivid, recalled dream. In it, I am walking around some kind of big factory. Suddenly, my clothes disappear. I am naked, but, in the dream, I am mystified, but not embarrassed. I go walking around asking people where my clothing has gone. At one point, I find myself at a loading dock, asking random people where I can go to get back my clothes. Finally, someone points to another building across a field. As I start walking there, I notice that my clothes are reappearing on me. I wake up, fully clothed, before I make it across the field.
I am a little startled and disoriented when I wake up, but I don't feel like I've had a nightmare, just a crazy dream.
I get to the Faro bus station, put my bag in the side compartment of the bus (along with all the other passengers), get on board, hook up to the onboard WiFi, and I'm off, not a care in the world, thinking only about yesterday's fun and the enjoyable features of my time in Faro.
The bus that I'm on is a local, making stops along the way to Albufeira, where I'll change buses (exactly like the Lisbon-to-Faro route I'd taken eight days earlier) for the Albufeira-Lisbon Express, which takes a full forty-five minutes less for the trip.
But at Albufeira, when I go to get my bag and transfer it to the express, I can't find it. The two bus drivers try and help, but we don't see it anywhere, and I am told I must board the other bus - it is late already. So I do, we leave, and I'm left to ponder the fate of my baggage, and myself.
I do not have any idea what has happened to my bag. Was it stolen? Was it taken accidentally by another passenger (I saw several similar-looking bags in the cargo hold of the local bus) and put on my bus? Or, was it taken from the station in Faro, or Albufeira? Was it on my bus or the local I'd just gotten off of?
I do an inventory of what I'd lost. The big items were my passport, house- and car keys from my apartment in NY, and a couple of medications. The big losses dollar-wise are the state-of-0the-art bag itself, just purchased for about two hundred bucks, for this season's travel. Clothes and a couple of hats, and the total is running over $500.
Not one to dwell on the negative, I start visualizing a happy outcome - one where I take my bag off the bus at my destination. I imagine my pleasure and relief, my happiness. I've been doing this sort of thing for a long time.
Then I remember my dream, which now seems like a metaphoric prophecy. And I remember crossing the field, and my clothes come back on me. The last vestige of fear and panic subsides. I have been writing this up on Facebook, and I am getting some positive hopes and prayers from an ocean away. I even mention the dream along the way.
a
When I finally arrive at the station, my bag is not there. The bus driver is very helpful - he knows what is going on. He tries to call the other bus driver, but cannot get through. He is sure my bag is on the other bus, whose destination is the other major bus terminal on the other side of the city. He suggests I take a cab there, because the subway system will take too long - by cab, I can meet the bus when it arrives. Although he feels confident my bag will be there, he also says if it's not, I can handle the lost-and-found there as well as here. He offers to call a cab. I thank him profusely for his help and understanding, and accept his offer of getting me a cab.
My cab driver asks why I am going from one bus terminal to the other, and when I tell him my story, he determinedly says, "It is most important we get your bag back." And steps on the gas.
We get there with just two minutes to spare. I approach some bus drivers to ask if they know where the bus will come in. One speaks fairly good English, and when I tell him what's going on, and what bus I'm looking for (I still have my ticket), he tells me to talk to the dispatcher, who is also the baggage handler for unaccompanied packages, and in charge of the lost-and-found.
I walk to that counter, where there is a small line. I wait on line.
But before I get to talk with Baggage Man, the bus driver from my first bus and the bus driver I'd just spoken with approach me with a hand-cart full of bags, including, on top, mine.
Remember that visualizing I did? It is exactly the way I feel now. I thank the bus drivers, I thank everybody near me. I do a quick check, and everything, passport, meds, keys, clothes is there, as packed.
I choose that night to treat myself to my last-day-in-Lisbon restaurant to celebrate a trying day that has ended very well.
The Clobe de Jornalistas is a well-known place. It is known for it's romantic environment and excellent food and service, and for being a casual place in what would otherwise be a very formal setting.
It surpasses its reputation. As I walk in the door, I am asked if I have a reservation. I don't, but that is shrugged off, and I am handed a flute of champagne (or something like it), and led to the main dining room, where I am given a choice among some empty tables.
The meal is fantastic in every way. Service is friendly and efficient, but not intrusive, and the food is excellent. It's another best-of-trip. When I finish, after a good glass of 25-year 0ld port, I thank everybody - my server, the other servers, the maitre d', who hands me some souvenirs as he helps me on with my coat.
I've been at the restaurant for 2-1/2 hours, and now, it's off to Jam Club.
There, I listen to a very small, young girl sing 'modern' songs in English - she has a very good voice, and lots of friends in the audience. By lots, I mean maybe eight, which is about half the capacity of the club. Her songs are short, and lots of them, with lots of (deserved) applause. While she plays, I meet Elena, who walks over to me and asks if I'm a musician. In the ensuing conversation, I learn that she's a conservatory-trained saxophone player from Kiev, Ukraine. She is very enthusiastic about the whole scene, and wishes there were keyboards, or that she could have brought her sax, which would have been prohibitively expensive.
The young singer finishes up. I congratulate her on her performance, she confesses that she was very nervous. She is a singer, she doesn't usually accompany herself on guitar, feeling her guitar skills are not up to snuff. Then she looks at me and asks if I'm Reverend Ken. Marco has told her about me. We take a selfie.
When she's packed up, I take the guitar off the wall. She and Elena and a few other people have asked me to play. It's a setup by Marco.
So I play, and talk with the audience. Tell them stuff about the songs. I'm getting over. The drinks start coming (they know my brand of whiskey).And grateful for the good day I've had.
At the nominal closing time of midnight, I stop. I talk with several of the people. One couple that has been buying me drinks (doubles!) for the last half hour beckons me over to speak with me some more. They're newly-weds from Liverpool, the English one. They're astonished, and make me show them proof that I live in Liverpool, NY. We're drinking and having a good time. Elena and her boyfriend join us. It's a party.
I'm drunk. There's no point in calling it any other way. I think, at this point, everybody is. Marco calls Jay and Kate (the English couple) a cab, and they offer to drop me off - I take it.
On the cab ride to my place, they tell me I must come to Liverpool, where they believe ;I will be a big hit, and they are sure they can get me gigs, and the gigs will be popular, and they'll pick me up and house me. I must come'.
It's a lovely thought. I've never been to England (but I kinda like the music). I'm considering it.
The cab pulls up at my apartment. We all kiss good night, promise to keep in touch.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm asleep. You know from the first paragraphs of this post that I slept well. In gratitude.
Food Comment
 |
| Salmon salad from Papaya: Smoke salmon, cream cheese, cucumbers, watercress, baby spinach, carrots, goji beans, pomegranate seeds, balsamic reduction. |
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| From Two Brothers Restaurant: Octopus Lagareiro style, with sweet potato. Best octopus ever. |
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| At Clube de Jornalista: Left: Asparagus, mushrooms, a poached egg and small toast (I apologize for needing to taste this immediately, which broke the egg, before I thought to take a picture. It looked, and was, that good). Right: Sautéed baby squid in a light lemon-butter sauce. |
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| At Clube de Jornalista: Seared salmon, "Thai" styled vegetables, fresh ginger and teriyaki |
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| At Clube de Jornalista: Chocolate soup (chocolate fudge, peanut toffee, passion fruit mousse). |
Please leave a comment when you visit my blog.
Thank you!
Thank you!
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