#2213: Friday, January 11: Lisbon wrap-up

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Post 2213
- 8 years and 11 days since I started this blog -

  

At the Time Out Market (see below)

Journal
(written 1/11/19)

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'm writing this at Gate 27A, Newark Liberty Airport. I'm waiting for my flight to Syracuse, which is slightly delayed, although I don't mind. United Airlines graciously allowed me to re-ticket to an earlier flight and delay and all I'll get to Syracuse before me previous flight would have taken off.

I spent the day on Wednesday writing and eating, and that evening I ended up visiting Boutique Taberna again. This time there was an excellent soka guitarist, playing by himself accompanied by recordings he had made with rhythm section tracks (guitar, bass and drums). He was very good. When I walked in, I thought, due to the arrantemnt of the song, that he was a ska player, but all the songs after had that Malian Afro-beat, and his guitar work aw pure soka. I spoke with him, but, unfortunately, never got his name. Quality time there.

Soka player at Boutique Taberna, doing great versions of classic R&B and Soul and rock.

Unlike the previous time I'd been there with Kathryn and Jamie from Liverpool, I wasn't connecting with this dance-oriented group, so after a few drinks, and when the player took a break, giving me the opportunity to praise him and his great music chops, I headed back to Jam Club.

Once again, I made friends with an international cast of characters including two cops from Liverpool on holiday, Emily (who I kept on thinking was Evelyn) and Tim, a history buff. They were doing the tourist thing in honor of Emily's twenty-ninth birthday. Tim and I had an interesting conversation about history - he's a history buff. I'm pleased to say he couldn't trip me up wit5h his pointed questions about American history.

When I played, later, I dedicated my songs to her. That was a drunken party. They were a particularly fun couple.

The bookends are Paulo and Joaoa of Jam Club, sandwiching me, Emily Tim. 

Thursday, January 10th, was my last full day in Lisbon. I decided I wanted an American-style breakfast, something I hadn't come near having since coming to Portugal (even when I made eggs for myself in Faro, the meals were centered around soups made by my host, Silvia).

It was easy to find a place to meet my desire - a place called Brunch Cafe, in the Almeda section of the Alfama - the old port-side section of Lisbon.

Brunch was a great success.

The Brunch Cafe

After, I started the day's ramble, walking a long a section of Lisbon's esplanade. Not as aimless as my previous get-lost walks, my goal was the Time Out Marketplace. This was formerly Lisbon's original enclosed wet market, now converted to a large mall of specialty restaurants.

The day was gorgeous, warmer than any previous day in Lisbon (mid-60s, but felt warmer). There were many stopping points for pictures, to appreciate the amazing blue skies, the music of buskers, and artists' work on display, including some sand sculptures. And, the walk was level! Perfect.

I think it's really cool that Lisboans support this stuff. As I walk, the people I'm among are Portuguese, enjoying the day.

I walk slowly, stopping frequently, for about a half-hour before I c0me to the Time Out Market. Crowded (I've heard it's always crowded), it is as if a mall's food court took over the whole mall. It is in an old building that used to be a wet market (sold fish and meat and produce, as opposed to a variety of dry goods).

There are more than three-dozen food stands surrounding a large dining area. Each one has a specialty. I think if I hadn't waited to my last day to come here, I might have spent a lot of time here (although I haven't been dissatisfied with the dining choices I've made). See the selfie I took there, at the top of this page.

I tour every stall, circumnavigating the central dining area, walking the outer aisles.

My first and last stop is at Manteigaria, to finally sample the Portuguese national dish, pastels de nata. This is a custard tart, elevated. The crust needs to be light and flaky, and the custard filling... Well, this is the thing that has kept this dish out of my mouth so far this trip: I'm not a fan of custard. Yet, it would be downright rude to leave Portugal, having feasted well on so much of its local food, and not try the one local item they're famous for. It is like Koh Soui in Chiang Mai or pizza in New York City: People will fight each other over their opinions of the best one.

I buy two, with a cafe I splash with cinnamon. They are delicious! The pastry dough is flaky and light as phyllo, the custard slightly less sweet and gelatinous (a virtue to me) than any I've had before. Yes, undeniably delicious. I'm glad I stopped. I'm ready to move on (custard is just never going to be my favorite thing).

Pastels de nata from Manteigaria. Yes, they're delicious. But their custard-ness means it's a try-once thing for me.

I hang out for a little while in the pretty park next door, with its statuary, cafe, playground and backdrop of interesting old official buildings. Then I call an Uber to take me back to my apartment, for some writing and preliminary packing.

Later, as I walk out the door of my apartment to catch an Uber to a restaurant recommended to me by my musician friend James, from Jam Club, I realize I've left my keys in the apartment. I call my host, no answer. I message her to call me when she can, I've locked myself out... I get in the Uber.

The restaurant, Poê-te is amazing - dark and romantic. I am shown to a candle-lit table near a piano.

I am immediately brought an aparetif, a small amount of what tastes to me like apricot schnapps - but is probably some local wine - and a basket of breads with a butter and a variety of spreads. I order soup and a sole and baby clams in a special sauce, which turns out to be an interestingly spiced, rich bearnaise sauce. And a recommended wine.


I am nearly through with the fish, and full enough to contemplate skipping dessert (especially because of my carb-rich and sweet breakfast and those pastel de natas earlier), when my host calls back. It is almost nine pm. Wanting to impact her as little as I can seals the deal on skipping dessert,a famous chocolate mousse. Sigh!

I finish and call an Uber, which, for reasons I don't understand, is not allowed to turn onto the narrow street the restaurant is on. I have to walk three blocks from my 'pickup point to find my driver. Uphill all the way. I plop into the back seat, and I'm apologizing to Maria, and she is being gracious, fifteen minutes later.

The night's plans had included ending up at Jam Club, because I'd been contacted by Seba (Sebastian) and Flavia, the couple I met in Faro. They had told me they were coming to Lisbon, but couldn't tell me when. They'd gotten in the day before, but couldn't meet me until tonight.

I get to Jam Club before them. James is playing, much to my surprise and delight. He is also surprised to see me, and immediately stops to bring out a bass for me.

By now, our jams sound tight and rehearsed. The bar patrons are enjoying the light jazz and pop stuff we're doing. Everybody's smiling. My glasses of Jameson's start arriving. It feels a lot like home to me.

Flavia and Seba arrive in time to hear the last few songs - it has taken them quite a while to navigate their way to the bar.

James and I finish with a slightly over-the-top version of 'Purple Rain', everybody is singing, and then it's eleven, and the amp is turned off. I grab the acoustic off the wall. I start telling people how I learned the song I'm about to play from the Nina Simone hit, which nobody remembers, because a British invasion group had a monster hit with the song - but I prefer something closer to the original. I start playing 'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood'.

That song always goes over well for me, but I think I put something extra on it. The response is gratifying. Then I hand the guitar to Seba, who does a lovely (and well-played) song I don't recognize, with lyrics in Spanish. Very jazzy, maybe a little bossa-nova-ish.

Seba and Flavia, who I met in Faro, at Jam Club.

Seba, you may remember, has an act where he loops a lot of instruments. He is slightly out of his comfort zone on just a guitar and vocals, so the back-and-forth is balanced more to me. People start making requests - there isn't much any of us can play of the songs asked, but we approximate where we can.

And the night unwinds with the three of us trading songs (yeah, mostly me, but...) and the whiskey flows and then it's one in the morning. Drunk, I've been at my most soulful for a few hours (I think. I was drunk, hard to gauge). I have five hours before I need to wake up, finish packing and catch a cab to the airport.

The musicians, the stragglers still left in the bar, Paulo and Marco, the bartender-cook-hosts, have all gotten caught up in the shared experience. When I announce my leaving, there are actually some tears (aww, no!), but mostly, a lot of hugs. One final picture of us, and I am out. Drunk and happy again.
a

Paul, Marco, Seba, James, Flavia, me.

I set an alarm on my phone for 6am, and fall asleep before I can get my socks off.

I wake up, get straight to packing - it isn't as difficult, or as time-consuming as I'd thought it would be. I'm done in time to have a leisurely cafe in the kitchen and spend a few moments with Maria saying good-bye.

My Lisbon experience has been wonderful. It's a beautiful, no, gorgeous city. And, as I've said, it's a charming place. I've also been drunk more in a month-long period than any time I can remember since my early twenties, but that's okay.

I know I barely scratched the surface - I know many things I didn't do, many experiences I left on the table. But, no regrets - I do things my way (not much choice, there) and that means, even with the richest experience, there's something to come back to.

I'm going home. I'll be there for just under four days. Then I'm going back to Chiang Mai, another place I had a great time and left some things undone. 

I'm excited to see my friends and I am excited with the prospects for the rest of the Winter. I'm flying, full of gratitude.

Food Comment

At the Brunch Cafe: Artisanal breads, eggs with smoked salmon and cream cheese, fruit salad (kiwi, apple, peach, strawberries), pancakes, raspberry jam and honey. Not shown: Fresh orange juice.

At Poe-te Na Bicha: Vegetable soup, with tomatoes.

At Poe-te Na Bicha: Sole and baby clams in special sauce.

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#2212; Wednesday, January 9: 2 days back, 1 more then out

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Post 2212
- 8 years and 9 days since I started this blog -

  

Journal
(written 1/10/19)

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'm doing laundry and writing a blog. Multitasking at its finest. Laundromats are more expensive in Lisbon, the only place in Portugal I've been in one, than in the US.

With only one more whole day on this trip (my plane leaves early on Friday), I am reflecting on the trip, comparing it with my other trips and experiences. I've already said this is not the place I'll end up in when I expatriate, but I am anything but negative on the city. I had to uncheck a two boxes on my list of where-to-live qualifications, and just one would have eliminated it.

But neither of those things (walkability and low-cost-of-living) has affected my regard for this town, or stopped me from enjoying myself. The walkability thing, which is more my problem than Lisbon's (I'm slightly arthritic with bad knees), slowed me down for one day, true; and the cost of living is low, just not low enough.

This city is so beautiful I can overlook the nasty tagging-graffiti that is epidemic all over Portugal, defacing beautiful architecture as well as the mundane walls. It's ugly, but after a while, like living near the elevated trains in New York City, you become inured to it.

And, more than just beauty, Lisbon is charming. It has grace. It has great weather. It is cosmopolitan: I have met people from more than a dozen countries here, though mostly Portuguese (and very few Americans), and I've experienced nothing but friendliness.

How much you enjoy any trip depends, for me, on the people you meet. I haven't encountered anybody on this trip who I would not befriend.

The events of the last few days, have centered around food and music.

I made my only dining reservation of the whole trip to dine at Estamine Art Food Drink, a tiny, reservations-only restaurant that is like being invited into a nice Portuguese couple's eat-in-kitchen for dinner. There are only two tables, and the night I was there, besides Joyce and Louis (the proprieters) there was only one couple at the other table.

I was invited by the couple to join them, we bonded quickly, and the rest of the night was magic. The food was excellent, and I think everybody had a good time! The conversation ran to dozens of topics, was full of good humor and everybody contributed some insights - it was entertaining and refreshing. Ashok and Roxanne are an amazing couple, they're engaged and engaging. By the end of the night, we felt like old friends.

The restaurant is just below the peak of the highest hill in Lisbon (that's saying something - when you make your reservation at Estamine, they warn you about walking to the restaurant). At the end of dinner, the three of us took a short, steep walk to one of the most famous overlooks in the city. More magic.

I went to bed that night happy and grateful for the experience I'd just had. Unique and unqualifiedly life-enriching.

After a simple brunch of ham and cheese and a delicious dessert, I walk past my apartment to a park a couple of blocks away, passing a few schools and a museum of journalism on the way.

It's a very nice little park, with a statue in the middle of a duck pond, and some interesting trees. Lots of ducks and pigeons, and the odd goose around the pond. I buy a bottle of water from the cafe in the park, and grab a bench to soak it up and chill.

Next up, I am reconnecting with Verica, the kind woman from Bosnia-Herzogovina who, three weeks ago, had asked me to join her at dinner, so we both would not have to eat alone. In the course of that dinner, Verica said she wanted to try tapas (Portuguese style) and we set up a time to do that before I left for the Algarve. Due to work, she'd had to cancel, and this was our 'fall-back' date.

I picked one of the top places from TripAdvisor (usually pretty reliable), Ha Tapas No Mercado (Ha Tapas In the Market) had appeal because it is not just Portuguese, all its products are locally-sourced.

Taking an Uber, I got there right on time, just as HTNM opened for dinner (they have lunch and dinner hours, separated by a 3-hour break). Verica, taking public transportation, got lost, and came later. In fact, while I was waiting for her, I engaged with the owners Sonia and Pedro, as we were the only ones there for a while. Pedro is the maitre d', Sonia does the cooking, although Pedro certainly helps. We mostly discussed the menu, but also music careers (they have a son who plays drums and piano), and the benefits of being 'locavores'.

After a half-hour, I place a starting-tray order, of two cheeses and two meats (both differently-cured hams, as it turns out). I am then offered a wine-tasting of three different varieties, so that I get a taste and Pedro doesn't have to guess. I end up with the vintage 'ordinaire', rejecting the three-times-more-expensive reserve version from the same maker - without knowing the prices. A common-sense victory.

Verica arrives just before the first tray of food gets to the table.

Up to a point, we split the tray evenly, but my appetite is greater than Verica's, especially for meat - she tastes both meats and agrees that they're excellent, but she is more into the cheese - also great - and subsequently, we end up with two orders of mushroom-based dishes, and I eat a shrimp plate (she tastes) entirely on my own. Our conversation turns to a difference in our philosophies - hers is very pragmatic and very materialistic, mine is more antimaterialist and spiritual.

It could be an emotional discussion, maybe even confrontational, but nobody gets defensive, nobody goes in that direction, so instead, we are both able to clarify how we come to our beliefs, and, I think, we both take away some insights. Our differing opinions, based on our different history and generations, actually make the dinner quite stimulating, which is awesome, because said dinner is crazy good.

And I am lucky to have had a chance to hang a bit with Sonia and Pedro, because the restaurant is completely full, with people waiting outside, and they are very, very busy. But everybody seems to be as happy as I am, and I get to see a huge variety of food.

I convince Verica to come with me to Jam Club after dinner. As we were eating dessert, I got two messages to get my ass up there, and realized dinner had run to three hours long!

When we get there, it is, what can I say? A love fest. James has brought a decent bass for me, Marco pours me a Jameson's (neat), Verica gets a soda, and I jam on jazz standards and some jazz arrangements of pop songs for the next three-quarters of an hour - singing a couple, although James does most of the vocals.

There's a break, and who has come in, but Ashok and Roxanne from last night's dinner at Estamine! It's all smiles at Jam Club. I get back on bass until the 11 o'clock amplified music curfew, and as James puts away his guitar, my bass, and the PA/amp we're using, I switch to acoustic guitar and vocals.

I do a chatty set that is very well-received. I've been getting Jameson's continually. I am chatting with Ashok and Roxanne, and Verica and a few other couples when I take a break, it's after midnight (there's a song there), I'm pretty loose. Paolo offers up a shot of something he's mixed up for me, James, and a German couple who've been there all night. I ask Verica to join us (so far, over two meals and an hour at Jam Club, I've never seen her take any alcohol, so I don't know). She does.

The drink is sweet and vile. I make fun of Paolo "Tell me what this is so I don't mistakenly drink it again." Everybody laughs (it's all in the delivery). But Verica really likes it! So another for her.

I'm pretty much finished for the night, but James has a request for a song he likes. I can't leave before I play 'Dirty Work'. So I pull the guitar off the wall and sell it.

Verica has to leave. I put her in an Uber. She has had a first-time experience of being in that kind of bar, with the kind of good vibes that keep me coming back - she's had a good night. We'll keep in touch with email, she wants to come visit me wherever I am next year, if she's rich.

It's after one - James has to leave for a gig. I think about going with him, measure my wasted-ness, see that there are still friends (Ashok and Roxanne and a German couple, Hannah and Sammy) hanging and talking, and we say good-bye. He'll miss me, he's gotten use to me being around. I'll miss him. He's been my best friend in Portugal. We'll keep in touch.

It's nearly two o'clock, closing time, when our little drinking team decides to call it. We take a group picture with Marco and Paolo, I put it on instagram for everybody

I Uber home, and drunk-dial a friend in Florida. I exclaim my extreme good fortune, happiness and gratitude. And drunkenness. He and his wife are hysterical, laughing at me (it's only 9:30pm there).

It's lights-out on a fabulous day.

Food Comment

From Casa de Cha de Santa Isabel, the single best dessert of the trip: Marzipan-filled rollup cake. I dreamed about this and went badc next day for more.

From Estamine Art Food Drink: Fruit square with gelato and a gourmet French-press coffee.

From Ha Tapas No Mercado: Starter plate: Two locally-produced hams and two locally-produced cheeses. The best of both that I've had in Portugal

From Ha Tapas No Mercado: Portabello mushroom with quail eggs.

From Ha Tapas No Mercado: Dessert of fresh cream chevre, walnuts and blood-orange jam.

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#2211: Sunday, January 6: Calouste Gulbenkian Museum

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Post 2211
- 8 years and 6 days since I started this blog -

  

Journal
(written 1/7/19)

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've been waiting for the right day to visit Lisbon's biggest museum of art, the Museo Calouste Gulbenkian. Sunday is the day. The all-exhibit pass is 20 Euros (12 for oldsters like me), but on Sundays after 2pm, it's free.

I haver a long-standing policy of avoiding tourist things, but I make an exception for museums. I haver loved going to museums all my life. My parents did a great thing when they determined to give their children the best cultural upbringing New York City could offer - in other words, as good as it gets.

Literally as soon as my sister, who was the youngest, three-and-a-half years younger than me, could be carried without being a problem, the family made trips to museums - especially the Museum of Modern Art, my mother's favorite - but also the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of the City of New York, the Museum of Natural History, and the Jewish Museum.

When I go anywhere for the first time, I check out museums. Often, when I don't, I get a skewed, negative impression of that place (unless it doesn't have an art museum - that's neutral, there's only so much great art to be collected and exhibited). Los Angeles is a case in point. I hated that place until my first visit after my son moved there, and I went to LACMA (The Los Angeles County Museum of Art), after enjoying the architecture and views of the Getty more than the collection there - and the snooty guards. That visit completely turned around my opinion of LA.

But I digress.

I had heard and read wonderful things about this museum, and, cutting to the chase, I was not disappointed. For starters, it has magnificent grounds. A warm(-ish), sunny afternoon brought out a lot of families and students to play and picnic in the middle of Lisbon, surrounded by high-rises along major boulevards.

The buildings that house the collection are also very attractive. Even the snack bar looks good (I can't comment on the food there, although it looked attractive). I walked through the cafeteria on my way in to look at the exhibits -I didn't go in the main entrance after walking around the park-like grounds.

The art on display, all from before the 20th-century, was mind-bogglingly good. There were some exhibits that blew me away: one was home furnishings, presumably of the very wealthy, who could afford to patronize artists and craftsman for exquisite custom things, from silverware to clothing, chairs and tables to dining room centerpieces, jewelry to wall-hangings.

Seeing these things here, I feel something. I am moved by the artistry and beauty that humans are capable of, even when they are working in the service of the mundane. I saw desks with hardware so exquisitely designed, of such intricacy and delicacy, with inlays so beautifully designed and executed.

I wonder, at these times, at the cost of progress. Is this kind of thing being done anymore? I have never seen anything produced in my lifetime that is comparable. I know that doesn't mean it isn't being done now. After all, unless, in the 18th-Century, for instance, I knew the artist or was a member of the wealthy elite, I wouldn't have seen these things then. But with all the media making art so accessible these days, I wonder that all I've ever seen is wealthy people bidding for hundreds-of-years-old items of artisan craftsmanship at Sotheby's.

I mean, I appreciate modern art, and it does things that previous generations of artists never even attempted - bypassing our critical sensory interpretations to have an immediate emotional reaction - but how does it compare to the exquisite detail and filigree sculpture of this dragonfly ornament?

The collection of paintings includes the Dutch masters, the English greats - more Turners and Gainsboroughs than I've ever seen in one plade, in fact, as well as other European classics I've only previously seen pictures of in art books. Very well displayed, too.

Ordinarily, this extraordinary collection of paintings would be the highlight, but the sculptures on display, at least the way I feel on this particular day, attract me more.

Degas, Rodin, Carpoux, Dalou - I am enthralled. Many sculptures are displayed in rooms otherwise dedicated to paintings, but some are displayed juxtaposed with views of the grounds.

All in all, I spend almost four hours walking around this enormous museum, and I am fairly certain I didn't get to everything.

That's all right. I left feeling good, grateful for my experience, and stimulated by the sensory feast I've indulged.

And I'm really very hungry - I've been on my feet for almost five hours. I consult trip advisor, and it turns out I'm in the neighborhood of two restaurants I have an interest in.

One of them is packed. The maitre d's desk is unattended. People are two-deep at the bar, and waiting at every available seat in front of the maitre d's desk. I wait to see if I can perhaps be accommodated as a single, but never see any staff to plea to. So I walk across the street.

Restaurante Marisquieira Valbom (I'm on Avenida Valbom) seems also to be doing big business, but there's a spot at the bar near the cash register, a few feet from an on-ice display of the catch of the day (you know I think that is an excellent indicator of quality).

But the smiling man behind the counter isn't having any of me eating at the bar, and guides me, himself, to a table for two that is being cleared right then. He doesn't speak English, but the waiter clearing the table does, and I am welcomed, and seated and brought a menu.

I'll talk about the food below, but the important thing here is that this is a family restaurant. The table next to me has about sixteen people, ranging from infants to a gentleman who looks (to me) to be in his nineties. And behind that table is an almost-that big crowd and it's somebody's birthday.

In fact, I'm the only lone diner in the restaurant. There are a few couples, but the majority of tables are seating six oor eight people, including children of all ages.

So the restaurant is noisy. However, it is a comforting kind of noise, the kind that doesn't set off alarms with me, or make me feel self-conscious. In fact, other diners are the 'entertainment' for me as I eat, and whenever somebody's eyes meet mine, they are accompanied by a smile.

Dinner is consumed slowly. I leave without dessert, wanting or needing to walk off the big meal I've had up until then. So after I pay, I go on another directionless ramble, to find one of the city's tens of thousands of pastelarias for a cafe or two and something sweet.

I look in at a couple, without being inspired, then encounter one, after about a half hour, that reminds me of an old ice cream store I used to go to as a kid (Jahn's, if you were around Queens in the fifties or sixties). I think it's a good choice, with the counter ladies smiling and taking excellent care of my requests.

Although I've finished my food under the approving eye of a matronly woman who has unobtrusively made sure I waited for and wanted for nothing I didn't get, I pay and sit at an outside table of the cafe, waiting the few moments it takes my Uber driver to find me.

It's been a hell of a day. I get home after eleven, and I'm ready to sack out, content, grateful, and looking forward to tomorrow's adventure.

Food Comment

At Pastelaria Res: Fish soup, bread with sardine paté, and a nice glass of red.

At Restaurente Marisquieira Valbom: Grilled salmon, haricots verts and yellow potatoes.

At 'A Padaria Potuguesa': Cacao volcan.

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#2210: Thursday, January 4: Back in Lisbon

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Post 2210
- 8 years and 4 days since I started this blog -

  

Journal
(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'm sitting in the Copenhagen Coffee Lab, drinking superb americanos, eating a danish (get it?) and writing this post. It is mid-afternoon. Some things don't really change, like my inability to function in the morning. But I had the best sleep last night, after getting in very late and pretty drunk, and was moving very slowly....

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.

The building was interesting indeed. And the Moorish and Roman artifacts, some from 1500 years ago, were also very interesting The art exhibits, much less so, to me. The permanent collection, mostly from the 19th-century, was 100% Christian-themed. Jesus, saints, and clerics. Lots of Madonna-nursing pics, lots of blood, and little of interest, beyond the classical technique. The new art was largely forgettable impressionism, and the modern galleries were digital photos - meh.

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.
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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.

From Two Brothers Restaurant: Octopus Lagareiro style, with sweet potato. Best octopus ever.

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.

At Clube de Jornalista: Seared salmon, "Thai" styled vegetables, fresh ginger and teriyaki

At Clube de Jornalista: Chocolate soup (chocolate fudge, peanut toffee, passion fruit mousse).

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#2209: Tuesday, January 1: Happy New Year!

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Post 2209
- 8 years and 1 day since I started this blog -

  

Journal
(written 1/1/19)

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. 

New Year's Eve started off well.

I took a walk to the ATM to replenish Euros, had breakfast at Sabor Doce, the magnificent pastry shop that all of Montenegro seems to have been built around (not really true) (but seems that way to me).

I had a delicious toasted seafood sandwich - and an apple danish (and it be a danish in Portugal?) with a couple of americanos.

The day was made for walking, although there wasn't much interesting in the rest of my hour-long walk. Montenegro is mostly residential.

Later, after exchanging pleasantries and happy new year wishes with my host, Silvia, I took the short walk to MN Restaurante. The main door was closed, with a sign indicating you had to enter through the cafe next door.

The four tables at the cafe were empty, but the dining room was already full, and rocking. I was seated at one of the cafe tables, next to a child's plastic foos-ball game.

Bread and sardine paté came quickly, along with a carafe of the house red wine. A little girl, maybe eight years old, came out from the dining room, and set up the foos-ball game. She obviously expected me to play with her, and, frankly, I had nothing to do, so I did.

I moved the game so that I could play seated (standing it would have been much to low and uncomfortable). And then I tried to let her score all the points. Big fail. One way or another, the ball kept landing in her net.

She looked grim and determined. When she finally scored a goal, I offered a high-five but she shook her head no and glared at me.

It was uncomfortably similar to relationships I'd had in the past. After a while, she left. She had never said a word. I felt a little bad.

Shortly after, the soup came, accompanied by apologies for the long delay, due to the kitchen being slammed - apparently, they took reservations for the night and were full, and had seated me, alone in the corner, like Baby in Dirty Dancing, as an accommodation. Except for me, the restaurant was closed to walk-ins.

The soup was delicious. It was a thick, pale-green vegetable soup, made hearty with fava beans.

It was also tongue-burning hot at first slurp. So I ate slowly, and sipped my wine, and waited for my main course, langostino rice. I do love me some crawfish.

The waiter had time to make two stops, about twenty minutes apart, to apologize and tell me it would be our in three minutes.

When it finally came, it was delicious, but sadly, there was not a lot of langostino meat to be had, less than in any other meal I've ever eaten with that ingredient (I'm looking at you, étouffée}.

I still ate it with enjoyment, finished the wine, and dialed up my Uber into Faro.

I didn't know exactly where Faro's New Year's Eve celebration actually was. I knew when it started, I knew there was live music, a fireworks-set-to-music show at midnight, followed by more music. That was all I'd been able to find out. But I figured if I went back to Cidade Velha, and asked the driver to drop me off at the party, I'd get there.

I asked my driver to take me to the party, and even without much English, she knew exactly where to go - back to the marina I'd visited the other day. She dropped me off to the side of a huge stage, among an audience I could not gauge the size of. Just as I got there, an on-stage announcer started the music. There were people as far as the eye could see.

The huge stage had been built since my last walk through the area, because there'd been nothing there only a few days ago. That was impressive. The sound was impressive, too. Good sound at high volume isn't easy, but there it was. The band playing was Iris. I knew this because there was a huge lighted sign saying Iris above and behind them.

It took a moment to digest the sound of the band; for one thing, they were (obviously) singing in Portuguese, and that meant that not only didn't I understand a word, but it made the phrasing of the vocals just a little bit odd to my ear - and there were a lot of vocals: the lead, the lead guitar, keyboard player, drummer, and a 4-person backup group). And, everybody - I mean everybody - was singing along, every word. In fact, the lead singer frequently let the crowd fill in the vocals ("...got myself a bee-eer!").

So Iris was a pretty well known band. By the middle of the second number, I was getting a Springsteen and E-Street Band sort of vibe from them - not a bad thing as far as I was concerned. There was a lot of familiar stage posturing, and between-song banter with the audience. But the music suggested it as well - the dynamics, the song structure.

I found myself in one of my favorite concert spots, near the sound booth (you're always going to get the best sound where the sound guys are listening) and just enjoyed the feel of the moment. Everybody had their phones out taking pictures or videos of the band, so I did, too. Solidarity, brothers and sisters.

At one point, the band started a song, and let the audience sing the lyric. Then they stopped playing completely, turned the lights on the audience, and, with the audience supplying the music, they {Iris) all took out their phones and took selfies and pictures of each other with the audience behind them.

While I had my phone out, at about 11:30, I got a FaceTime call from my friends Marco and Sophie. I couldn't hear anything they were saying, and I'm certain they couldn't hear me, but I panned around to show them the scene they'd found me in, and I could tell they were properly impressed. (I called them back before I went to bed - I was right about the audio and the impressive visual).

The band finished their set at 11:55, and the stage went completely dark. Canned music started, and then one of the best fireworks shows I've ever seen (outside of some remarkable July 4ths in New York City) started. I felt a tap on the shoulder, turned to find a plastic champagne flute being offered, and then filled with something sparkling and alcoholic. Gladly accepting, I raised my glass along with the ten or fifteen thousand other people, drank it off just as midnight came - you could tell by the fireworks and the perfusion of confetti that filled the air, along with thunderous cheering.

I decided to take a selfie video with the fireworks in the background, to send out and wish everyone a happy new year, knowing that for my friends, the new year wouldn't arrive for five hours.

The fireworks go on for some time, and then they're over. There isn't the big final display, throwing everything in the air, like in every fireworks display I've ever seen - the synching to the music means that when the last song ends, that's it. I like it. It has been a spectacular show.

On stage, the announcer is giving the credits for all the supporters of the show - and people are respectfully applauding. He finishes, and a DJ takes over the stage, and Euro-pop disco fills the marina.

Time for me to go. I decide to walk through the area of shops and restaurants to see if I can pick up a gelato. I settle for some churros and a liter of water.

I keep walking away from the crowds to get to a spot I think will be Uber-accessible, since the area I'm in has a lot of pedestrian- and one-way streets only. The temperature in the high fifties means I'm comfortable and, even though I'm tired, the walking is easy.

Just as I'm dialing up an Uber, a cab stops next to me. I think, that's fate. And more. The cab driver asks if I enjoyed the show. I did. I tell him I enjoyed the band I saw, and he enthusiastically tells me all about the band - how they all went to high school together in a small town in the Algarve, made their reputation here, and they are home-town favorites (I'm thinking to myself, 'Wow, Greetings From Asbury Park!' - they really are like Bruce and the E-Street Band). He tells me they have had many hits in Portugal, which I had already guessed from the crowd knowing all their song lyrics. He says the guitarist has been recognized as one of the best, and is very in-demand by other rock and jazz musicians. So, there you are.

I get back to my room grateful for the good day I've had, and looking forward to the new year to come, although. with no expectations.

Food Comment

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