Oh, Lisbon.
The area of town in which my fist hostel supposedly is was so sketch I peace-d out of there ASAP. I didn't actually ever find it either. I just found myself in little alley ways. And on the walk to my hostel--whose existence I almost doubt--I ran into a friendly Portuguese cop. Now, the reason this cop was there was not because there was a Portuguese Donut shop. He was there because the street was that sketch. So, I gladly approached him, practically ran toward him just to feel safer, and after asking for directions in Spanish I asked "now, I'm not going to have to walk up this street? (Gesturing to the street he was patrolling in a rather sedentary fashion) It doesn't seem safe, right?" He looked at me with those big, mournful Portuguese eyes and said, "No."
We found another route to Rua do Maria (linguistic side note: they rrreally rrrroll their r's!). I found a Rrrrrua Maria but number 55 looked pretty absurd...in a negative way. It didn't appear to be a hostel nor was it on a street I'd like to walk down alone early tomorrow morning.
So, I am in a hotel! The fifth one I've entered after price-checking. I sauntered into a beautiful, five star hotel just for fun and the nice young man told me it was 163 Euro for the night, I think. I told him before asking that it was mostly out of curiosity and so he didn't think it too odd as I tottered out of there with my enormous green back pack and my squeaky, damp moccasins. I heard everywhere from that price to 100 to 63 to 77 to 50. And, here I am. Breakfast included.
Down the street from me is a hostel. The British girl working at the desk was helpful but could only offer me the TV room couch for the night. Various factors led me to my current decision: I would have had to wait to claim the couch until midnight; there seemed to be an astounding number of males between the age of 25 and 30 strutting about the place which doesn't make a public sleeping area that appealing; and the real deciding factor? A wake-up call. I left my clock in Sevilla for my Spanish flat mate. (I am going to make Spain more time-conscious, one person at a time. It's just so funny in the morning when someone starts fussing about how late it's gotten, as if time is some silent panther, creeping about! Thus, I am without an alarm clock. I thought my phone would do--but it won't.) That reminds me, I need to schedule that wake-up call right now.
...done.
The guy at the reception desk must think I'm nuts! I walk into the place, ask how much tonight would cost, and then leave. Five minutes later, I'm back. My first question is, of course, about the wake-up call. Would it be possible? Why then, I'd like to book a room. I found myself stumbling over English. Awesome. (I've been speaking Spanglish all day, which here, works.) My credit card didn't function--I tried two pin numbers though I knew the first was correct. Is there an ATM nearby? Just up the street? Great. I scurry back with the bills practically flying about. He looks on like a dear little Portuguese grand-father.
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| My mid-travel face? My I've-walked-around-Lisboa-for-five-hours face? |
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