Chapter 1: Eurotrash ...

“Ooh baby baby, it’s a wild world,

It’s hard to get by with just a smile.”

Yes, I was in Europe. The Stud was presumably in full effect, but as I was yet to take in Lisbon, the shiny gloss on my arrival in the continent had not yet worn off.

April 10th, when I woke up, I had to get a European power adapter. This is something I should have already possessed (as it would save me time and money), but yet I was without one. I got directions from the helpful and flirtatious Tatiana to a shopping mall where I could acquire one. I left my hostel in a lazy stroll, my mind eagerly swallowing Lisbon city centre and letting Tatiana’s directions sift out. I knocked down Lisbon’s beautiful white and black tiled streets in the general direction Tatiana told me, but, due to my head still being in the clouds, I didn’t find the shopping mall.

I didn’t really mind, if I’m being honest. I was really just looking for an excuse to get out into the cool, crisp, warm morning (I know, a morning cannot be all of these things, but trust me, it was). And as I carried on down the street, digging the feel of the breeze between my Birkenstocks, I figured I could pick up a power converter from anywhere and I didn’t need it now. I turned around, and headed back in the direction of the hostel.

But wait a minute ... hold on ... shit. I forgot where my hostel was. ‘Luke, are you fucking serious?’ I laughed, but I was still content to walk. But after 20 minutes ... you can imagine I was a bit fed up. I was turning this way and that. No wait, this way ... yeah ... shit. Ok ... fuck. Eventually, I admitted defeat, asked for directions, and in exchange received a sheepish look and a lazy point to a building twenty yards from where I stood.

At 11:00, I checked out of the hostel, for I had other arrangements for my second night in Lisbon, gave Tatiana a big hug, and headed out to get stuck in to the city. The first thing I did, as is always my method of getting to know I city, was have a smoke and drift aimlessly. The Portuguese tobacco was strong yet smooth and I rode the nicotine buzz from block to block, carving into the black and white tiled streets and narrow alleyways, free to get lost and found and lost again.

Lisbon is a very striking city. It possesses its share of gorgeous buildings, art novae facades, and balconies for every window, but even its slums and run-down parts of the city possess distinctive character. It is in the latter streets of Lisbon where you can avoid the constant annoyance of drug dealers. There are scores of them in Lisbon, and with the city lacking any real police force, they conduct most of their business in the main tourist spots, where the people are. They are absolute pests, and the main problem facing the city.

After a sufficient wron-der, it was about mid afternoon and I hiked up the city streets to see the Castello de Jorge. Upon viewing the Castello, my commendations go out to the city of Lisbon. Instead of preserving the Castello exactly as it remains, the caretakers of the Castello maintain it more as a park. Lush green trees are planted everywhere, street musicians playing, and a couple of cafes, the Castello was not just an amazing exhibition of Portuguese history, but a genuinely pleasant place to sit and relax. After seeing the castello, I found a seat on one of the castle walls, got out my journal and wrote an entry. It is a very wholesome experience to be thinking and writing about the joy of being in Europe and then to look out over your shoulder and have everything you see confirm that it is true.

With the evening drawing to a close, I was excited to meet Alexandre, my first ever host found on couchsurfing.com. Couchsurfing is a network of host all over the world that donate their couches, spots on the floor, whatever they have to travellers for a night or two. It was an organization that I had heard much about, but never tried, I was eager to see how this experience would turn out.

Upon meeting him, he was the most consummate host I have known. At his flat, he had a bed (not just couch) for me. Then he cooked an amazing dinner, was always eager to top up my glass with more beer, rolled me cigarettes and gave me very helpful advice about Lisbon. He recommended the village of Sintra and also told me that I could stow my bag in pretty much any train station in Europe. Having seen much of what central Lisbon had to offer, and having carried my pack around all day, I was eager to take him up on both of these points. Alex had both surfed and hosting many times, and I could tell he generally enjoyed hosting me. He said, “I don’t host tourists. I just host travellers.” “Then why did you host me?” I joked. He replied, “You may feel like a tourist now, but I guarantee that at the end of your journey you will be a traveller. I’ve met a lot of travellers and not many of them are doing what you are doing. By the end of your journey you will feel this way, I am sure.” Any couchsufer would be lucky to have him as a host.

The next morning, I was sunburned and on a mission. I wasn’t keen on staying another night in Lisbon, so I headed into the city to Santa Apolonia to book my ticket to Madrid and drop my bag. I reached a station in the general area of where Santa Apolonia was located on my map, but it was closed. I looked through the windows, no one in there. A bit frustrated, but still carrying my pack, I headed back towards to city to another station. The man there was helpful. He revealed that there were 3 stations at Santa Apolonia, and told me to go back there. I took the metro back and booked my ticket to Madrid and stowed my pack in a locker. The only trains to Madrid was an overnight, so I had all day to kill.

Free and unburdened, I walked back to the first station to leave for Sintra for the rest of the day. I bought my ticket and got on the metro. I took the line a bit, and after a while, it was apparent that it was not going to Sintra. I asked a fellow passenger what stop Sintra was, and she said I had to go back two stops and change lines. I did so, and when I exited the metro station I found myself nowhere near a train station and, according to my map, fucking miles (not really, but far) in the outskirts of Lisbon.

I was getting tired of this. Too many times I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know how to get where I was going, and was far too dependent on getting directions in broken English. I leaned up against a wall outside the metro station and smoked a couple cigarettes. I thought about where to go to get to Sintra, but I really didn’t care if I got there. Lisbon had made me apathetic. I didn’t really give a fuck if I saw Sintra at all, I really just wanted to move on. As my mind rode the buzz from one thought to another, things became clearer. I wanted to be in Madrid. I wasn’t keen on being a tourist or a traveller, but rather I just wanted to be in Madrid to play the role of old-friend, and see my mate Cristina, who I had not seen in 9 months. My head was already there, even if my body wasn’t. I was restless. I had not lost a day, for my trip was open-ended, but I had lost a day’s momentum, which was twice as important.

***

I did end up making it to Sintra that day, which was fortunate, for it was fucking beautiful. A small, quaint village, 45 minutes away from Lisbon, it packed a lot, and generously offered. Containing both the summer home of the royal Portugal family, Parque de Pena and a Moorish Castello, Sintra proved a glorious afternoon. With the increase in elevation, Sintra’s heat dropped a couple degrees to a very tolerable temperature and its rampant foliage offered shade that kept my sunburned fair skin out of the sun.

I followed the signs around the village indicating directions to the Moorish Castello, hiking up Sintra’s glorious streets until saw two signs indicating diverging routes to the castello. I asked an official looking man, why this was so. He said if I planned to walk go this way, there was a steep path of about 3 or 4 kilometers; or, if I wanted, there were busses the other and gestured to a crowd of people waiting at a bus stop. Instantly, I picked the former.

The hike up the mountainside was steep, long, and gorgeous. El Parque de Santa Maria, it was called, led up to the castello by carving through the mountainside, generously adorned with lush green trees. The path was as ancient as it was beautiful. As I hiked up the side of the mountain, I could feel momentum seeping back in. Towards the top, I was skipping up the steps. Upon reaching the Castello, I spent a good hour tracing its ancient walls and taking in the breathtaking views of Sintra. Sometimes, being a traveller is not about avoiding all of the things tourists do, but experiencing them in the right way.

I hop on the train back to Lisbon, and 45 minutes later, I was back in Lisbon. I stopped in a grocery store to pick up bread, cheese and chorizo and I ate by the seaside, smoked a cigarette and wrote in my journal. As the tide moved in, I watched the long shadows of the buildings cast their arching shade across my page as I wrote. I reflected upon my time in Lisbon, and though I tried my best not to have any expectation, I found that I couldn’t escape feeling that the experience (authentic or not) did not match my expectation.

I get to the train station and wander to the lockers to retrieve my bag. It is upon arrival that I discover I have lost my ticket necessary to get my bag out. I panic. I mean, I really fucking panic. Along with all of my shit in my pack, my train ticket to Madrid and passport are in there. I need to get into the locker. There is a number on the lockers to call if one is in need of help. I dialled, the man only speaks Portuguese. I had my phone to another man nearby and he explains the situation. The man (not on my phone) comes to the lockers. I explain again the situation. “I see,” he says in broken English. “But without ticket, I cannot open the locker.” I underscore the severity of the situation, but in English, and it proves of no use. I slip him ten euors. He opens the locker promptly.

As I took my seat in on the train, (I opted for a seat over a bed, saving me 40 euors), and I drank a couple beers. I wanted to sleep right through to Madrid. Whether this was a traveller or tourist, or perhaps just broke college student behaviour, I was not bothered.

Lisbon was a very productive city to get my feet wet, though I felt it controlled me rather than me controlling me, or me controlling it. I thought more about the idea of experience and expectation, and I concluded that it is not that experience can never match expectation that is crucial, but that experience will never match expectation. The world is too vast and too great and there are too many variables out there for one person’s mind to correctly conjure an accurate expectation. Yet we all do this, and we cannot help doing it. It’s not something to resist, just something to think about.

I slept uncomfortably through the night, along with daylight, morning brought Madrid. I trudged with my pack to Cristina’s flat, and a big hug greeted me at my new city of residence... LW