Lisbon(ding)

It's 11:23 A.M.
Fifteen thousand feet over St. Tropez, en route to Venice.

While we're up here, let's talk about flying in Europe. Positive experiences, everyone? Sure, the planes are small, and, not five minutes ago, I paid 3 USD for a Dixie cup and a tea bag, but they get us where we need to be. Unless, of course, you're Max Su.

As he reported in his post on Valencia, Max is a cursed traveler, and I mean it: the kid has a Kennedy Family level of bad mojo. So as Paige, Katherine and I were checking in at el mostrador for our flight to Lisbon, Portugal, we weren't at all surprised to see that Max's boarding pass, in fact, read: "Suarez."

And, no, not mi amiga, Betty.

But all's well that ends well, and, a few hundred Euro and several hours later, we were all in Lisbon enjoying the sweltering, face-meltingly hot weather.

(You'll notice, gentle reader, that my commentary on the Lisbon weekend may carry an unusually high degree of sarcasm, but that elevation, from acerbic to darn near vituperative, is a defensible one. You see, in light of the rolling-in-the-puppies-sacharrinity Paige, Katherine, and Max all share, it is my place, nay, my duty to restore balance to the universe. Yes, just like in Star Wars.)

Back to Lisbon. After four flights of stairs, we were greeted at our hostel by Mona, our host and newest friend from Somalia. In a shocking twist, Paige and Mona became B.F.F.A.E.S., a development after which the former offered to bring the latter a beer from our night on the town. Mona may have won Paige's heart by having some genuine life-troubles, but she didn't get on my good side until the following morning, when she arived with some sort of fabulous breakfast roll concoction/jamboree/carbohydrate medley. Even a heart of stone may melt over a good bread, gentle reader.

We had a wonderful, if largely uphill visit to Lisbon. While we toured a castle, wherein Paige attempted to do to a peacock what she had done to poor Mona (obviously with less success), Ms. Smiley managed to flash at least three strangers, one of whom attempted a Kodak moment. I shall attribute the, wait for it...exposure...to the inimitable Katherine Wilson, who nearly lured Paige over the castle wall in search of the most-cutest-everest profile pic. Bending at the waist thirty feet above ground level isn't the wisest of postures, and, while Katherine may have been the responsible party, everyone below reaped the yellow, polka-dotted consequences.

After touring the city, castle and all, we decided to embark on a day trip to The Beach and a picturesque little town called Sintra. The Beach featured, as you might expect, men, women, and children in questionable states of dress and nearly uniform degrees of unattractiveness. The sand was hot, and the water frigid, but good reading and good company cover a multitude of annoyances and old guys in borderline-pornographic banana hammocks.

Suddenly, after what seemed only four long hours, six long hours had indeed passed. We realized that we needed to pack it up and begin the journey to Sintra if we would be able to explore the mythic village before nightfall. In order to meet our ETA, we were required to delay lunch. Mistake numero uno.

Two hours later, we were wandering the streets of Sintra, and idyllic town to be sure, but one in which nearly every storefront lay shuttered and dank. The certain person who had planned this portion of the trip (let's call her Pamela Snaggletooth) had neglected to realized that by five p.m., the entire town could, in fact, be closed for business, which was quite a disappointment to us, having neglected our almuerzo. Luckily, we stumbled into a quaint cafè and had a fabulously delicious meal. It's true that we paid very dearly for the privilege (so dearly that Pamela herself felt it necessary to exit the restaurant with pockets full of free mints), but, at the time, the meal was well worth the cost.

After "lunch" ended at six thirty, we began our tour of Sintra. No longer starving, we stepped out of the cafè and breathed a sigh of relief . Lovely flowers over there. Ahh, see! A castle on the hill! May I have another mint, Pamela? It's a bit chilly, hmm?

The girls lasted about ten minutes before the demanded that we return to Lisbon. We had, after all, forgotten to dress properly. We spent three hours traveling to a restaurant where we paid far too much for a lunch in the middle of the afternoon, and we left Sintra without ever having begun.

Now I know this may seem like an excessive amount of lampooning, especially where poor Pamela is concerned, but the trip really was a bit of a wreck. Not very well-planned, you see, but, without a doubt, gentle readers, four of the most enjoyable days of my life.

We have the best friends - better than other people who claim to have "the best friends." They are wrong, and we, dear amigos, couldn't be more right.

So this rather lengthy post goes out to all the folks I haven't seen in a few weeks. I really do miss you, and I hope you know that I'd go to Sintra and back just to see your snaggletoothed little face.

Mushy Mushy,

-A.

P.S.
This was, as I mentioned, written on an airplane. I was delayed in posting until we arrived in Venice, where I have now paid six Euros to make this post. Pictures to come, and, you're welcome.