More German Gibberish

Herr Beuge und die Kraft Berliner Gastgebern

Zum ersten mal als ich mit herr Büge in der Verbindung über Internet gekommen bin, fand ich ihm ein pflichtmässiger und ansprechbarer Berlinerferienwohnungvermieter. Unsere Unterhaltungen waren kurzgebunden und genau, er esrschien alles was ich brauchte zu wissen und seine Angebote waren unter den billigsten in Berlin.

Zwei Monate später hatte der U-Bahn mir in der Nähe von der gewünchten Ravenestrasse ausgespückt. Nachdem ich im kurzem die rechte Tur gefunden hatte stand ich nun jetzt vor dem Treffen mit mienem günstigen Gastgeber.

Zu meiner kleinen Entäuschung war Herr Büge nicht da. Doch zum Glück war Frau X dabei. Nach kurzem Gespräch wurde ich in einer grossen dreiräumigen Wohnung installiert. Alles war einfach wunderbar. Die Wohnungfenster begab nach einem leisen Hoff mit dem Garten der von vielen hubschen Bäume umgekreist war. Ich könnte nichts besseres wünschen.

Darüber hinaus war ich ziemlich müde und brauchte ein dringender Dusch. Bedauernd als ich nur den Hahn berührt hatte hörte ich einen drohnenden Stoss auf der Tür. “Was ist passiert?”, als ich mit dem Tuch umgewandelt nach dem Foyer gesprang hatte.

Dahinter war Herr Büge selbst, und seine mausige Augen sah nicht sehr glücklisch aus. Er erschien als ein ziemclich hoch Mensch mit einem grauen Gesicht and einer hervorragenden Adlernase.zu sein Er musste im Mitte zwischen fünfundfunzig und sechzig sein, genau in der Alter wann seine graue Eminenz Roschelue Frankreich regiert. Sein vorwartgeneigter Rücken war eine gewisse Bestätigung daß Roschelue seinen Nachkomme im Deutschland seit die Jahrenhudrte gelassen hat.

Er war zwar aufgeregt. Das konnte nichts etwas anderes sein da wartete er auf einem angeblichen baldigen Ankunft von Spanischen Touristen. Er wollte mich sofort die Wohnung ausräumen. Trodzdem hat er versucht sich zu beherrschen. Allerdings hat ich schon meine Sachen darum verstreut und sogar villeicht könnte seiner Eminnenz als einem Geisel in Spannung halten.

„Lass uns daran gucken“, flüsterte er, als er ein dünner Stück Papier aus seine Tasche gebracht hatte. Das war ein zwar zerknüllter und uberraschend kleiner Stück der musste meines Schicksal im kurzem entscheiden.

Ich stand dort ein bischen zitternd.

„Nein, ich kann ihre Name nicht hier finden“

„Aber habe ich die verschiedenen Kopien unserer E-mails gebracht“, als ich nähe wütend gewessen war. „Sehen Sie diese nichts?“

„Ja, ja aber gibt es nichts auf meine Liste“

„Aber was für die Bezahlung die habe ich seit Monaten gemacht?“ sagte ich fast schriend, mit einen anderen Stück Papier in mienem Hand.

„Na ja, zum Glück habe ich eine andere kleine Wohnung hier darunter die ist für eine Woche frei. Wollen Sie sie sehen. Zum mindestens werden Sie genug Zeit haben einen anderen Platz zu finden“, gab er ziemlich versöhnend zu. Immerhin verstand er der Unterschied zwischen meine Größe und sein zerknülltes Papier.

„Vievel kostet diese Wohnung“

„Zweihundert zwanzig pro Woche“

„Aber die Internetanzeige sagte nur zwei hundert für die großer. Daruber hinaus habe ich schon dreizig ausbezahlt“

„Im Sommer die Preise immer steigern, kommen Sie im Herbst dann stehe zweihundert fest“

Es erschien mir zwar vergeblich weiter zu dikussieren. Mit dem Wahl Polizei anzurufen halte Herr Buge den letzen Trumpf.

Fünf Minuten später stand ich in der Mitte eines kleinen Raums mit vollgestockter Küche und sogar eine Kindwiege von Zweitem Weltkrieg. Ich wäre gern darüber in der größer Wohnung geblieben aber ging es ganz gut genug. Ich hatte einen Bett, eines Fernsehen und eine Wiege die könnte ich in Notfall benutzen als ich mich noch einmal als dreijähriges Kind vorstellen wollte. Wunderbar!

Am nächsten Tag verstand ich meinen Umfang immer besser als ich auf dem fünften Stock geklettert hatte um Herr Büge die Prinzesumme des Geldes zu übergeben. Alle Wohnungen in dem Gang waren mit einfach holzgeschnittener Türen ausgestattet worden. Alle aber eine die zu Herr Büge gehörte. Umgekehrt die Tür des Herrn war von dem Panzerstahl dick bedeckt worden. Schließlich sogar die Berliner Gastgebern Angst haben könnten aber leider hatte ich keinen Tank gebracht.

Missing the Meninas - Part II, Travel Journal

The earnest Grockels are back! Anyone anticipating a 700 KM daily track should be duly concerned with any potential obstacles such as routine pit stops, lunches and other nefarious details. The Grockels thought otherwise in designing new ways to discover. Who cared about traffic and other obstacles when there was some sightseeing? So, before leaving Seville we had to jump at the opportunity to visit the ruins of Italica – a birth place of Hadrian and Trajan, no less. The enticing locale beaconed with streets full of ruins and a large amphitheatre still in a pretty good nick. The road was certainly paved with good planning, intentions and…traffic fines. The latter came courtesy of the some vigilante cops who seemed to just sit there and wait for errant outsiders trying to compensate for bad highway signage. It could have been our speed of course. Not really, as the Latin representatives of the honourable profession could tolerate speeding with remarkable equanimity. Crossing a solid line on the other hand was inexcusable! Fortunately, the torture did not take long and ten minutes later, minus a cash donation of 63 Euros, we were back on our way to the Roman riches. Understandably the mood became a little subdued. In few minutes it got downright depressing - local curators actually dared to take a day off on Mondays! “The nerve!” as we did not get any further than solid metal gates that revealed little apart from a guard lurking behind some ancient stones. At least, the amphitheatre complex was open for expertly inspections from behind the fence. Mildly appeased, we quickly moved to better pastures.

Everything was finally working out – no more treacherous cops, bad weather and heavy traffic. We were nearing Huelva. Suddenly, the whole thing just stopped. It did not slow down to a crawl begging for a fender bender. No, it just died. Traffic was not moving in either direction. Engines shut and hundreds of motorists stranded, there was nothing else to do but to get out and enjoy the sun. Our next door neighbour in a shiny Mercedes was most informative.

“What is happening?”

“Manifestaccion” was his laconic reply

“What do you mean?” a little curiosity was in order

“Fishermen” one-word man smirked

“No accident?”

“No”

“No police check”

“No”, four words in four sentences, “Where are the Guinness Book of Records people?!”

Fortunately, our disgruntled fishermen decided to lift the blockade soon enough to keep our nerves and energies intact. They must have decided to get back to things more productive such as setting sails to Labrador and catching every little pesky cod hiding somewhere under some stone yet to be protected by our glorious Canadian government. Bring it on!

Nowadays, international borders disappear faster than Amazon forests. Locating one could be a pain, so keep an eye on the road signs. This time our crossing into Portugal was a little more pronounced due to a drastic scenery change. The sandy flats around Huelva quickly turned into more dramatic hills, rocks and valleys almost as soon as we crossed the architecturally pleasing border bridge. Welcome to the famous Algarve, the world’s renowned southern coast of Portugal. Apart from the scenery, we felt another dramatic change – highway passing patterns. While in Spain when trying to pass slower cars drivers usually resort to age old headlight switching and mild tailgating, here in Portugal things worked in a more conspicuous fashion – they tailgate like Formula I drivers.

“150, 160, 170” my speedometer was climbing ever higher to maintain the increasingly frantic highway pace.

“Swoosh” somebody just went by with nearly supersonic speed and a hand sign pointing to the sky. Where they timing the race upstairs?

I sped up once more, hoping to keep up. Suddenly, my rear view mirror got completely fogged up with stinging sun rays. Adjusting whichever each way did not help. “The angels must be screwing up with me in the most insolent manner”, I muttered

Passing objects just blurred into one mass of mostly brown rocky formations. The glare was not going away and speedometer was puffing at around 180. In a quick side mirror check I realized that the glare was less than celestial in origin – somebody’s windshield was just close enough to mess up with my senses.

The tailgate Portuguese style meant implanting one’s windshield right in your rear few mirror leaving little room for doubt of one’s intentions.


Algarve – Pale Skin Paradise
In the last twenty to thirty years, the development at Algarve has been relentless. New hotels, townhouses and marines seem to mushroom on the daily basis. Tourists from many and decidedly colder corners of Europe flock to Algarve in almost continuous flow. Bold and unconventional Swedes, topless Germans and Guinness guzzling Irish are just as common as New Yorkers in Miami Beach. Sparklingly white sand, dynamic rock outcrops and gentle Atlantic waves are enough to lure many subtly erasing much of the ancient local charm. Crooked unplanned streets and outside laundry lines are great but not efficient to satisfy the northern hordes. They crave for a little of their own too. Little of this and little of that and voila, you are in a non-descript tourist trap that could be anywhere between Cancun and Bali.

Being very much aware of such dangers, we had to be careful weighing our anchor. The first stop was Alfumeira. Alas, our hopes for authenticity were quickly dashed as we found ourselves driving through a whole new subdivision sporting many an English sign.

“Bloody English…” I made a special effort at hissing. “Let’s try for few more minutes. Oh, look there is a nice marina, right ahead around that lunar boulder”.

Alas, the boat-infested marina hardly made any difference. Try again! Few more blind driving attempts and we ended up pit stopping at the local Macdonald’s – how about finding some traditional local character!

“Let’s just go to Lisbon!” incessant chatter from the back seat was giving me headache.

“I just want to try that place Sagres, on the very tip of Europe”

“What’s in there?”

“Less English…”

“Ahh sounds great” back seat turned agreeable.

Sagres boasted an ancient navigation school set up five hundred years ago by an intrepid pursuer of international charms - Henry the Navigator. Moreover, Sagres tantalised with its uniqueness as it had two promontories that perennially competed with one another for the right to be called the End of Europe.

Swerving of the main highway was a relief, less tailgating, decidedly less development and more rugged terrain. All sorts of grass species displaced anything taller than few feet creating nearly perfect steppe-like undulating scenery. Nearly constant ocean breezes also managed to bare many a rock in the course of their thousand-year travails. Nice vistas were opening up around every twist and turn. Picturesque was not in short supply with the ocean yet to be seen. You see, much unlike millions of other seaside places, Sagres actually climbs up and not cascades towards steep ocean cliffs. Hence driving through the town itself refused betraying much of a sea view. Only after passing the last row of buildings we finally arrived at the magnificent Sagres precipice culminating with an old fortress on its precariously balanced “end of the world” perch. The latter is particularly amusing as fathers of every nation, town and village frequently look for unique God given markers to make through roughness of mundane existence. Texas has world’s biggest burgers, Moscow boasts the most of ordered killings, and New York has the most money while Gibraltar and Sagres used to claim “the very end of the world” status. Whatever the arguments world maps do not lie and Sagres can certainly claim to be the very tip of Europe. Or is it? Well, the nearby point of St. Vincent begged to disagree. While its southern most point was running neck in neck with Sagres, its more western location was indisputable. Its attraction irresistible and its proximity tantalizing - this was our next port of call. But not before we found a skinny windy path that took us from superb dramatics of Sagres rocks down to a silky sand beach with plenty of waves, coves and private hide-outs. The chance to wet our feet in some sort of history could not be missed even if it meant to threaten “meticulously” planned schedule obligations. By the way, we managed to completely miss the famous and very mysterious dial built by the Henry the Navigator. We should have arrived better read!

Back to our competitive pair: while Sagres derives its fame from the much serenaded discovery period, its westerly sibling has its own claim to fame. You see, after many years of preaching, teaching and struggling with infidels the Saint Vincent was eventually and mercifully martyred in Valencia, on the other side of Iberian Peninsula. After that grievous event, his weary remains miraculously turned up in a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean. If you think that having a dead guy at the ruder is a bad idea, you might be mistaken as this boat was protected and guarded by a couple of ravens who ensured that it made quite a voyage all around the peninsula with its final anchoring at the famed point. In the process Saint Vincent became the patron saint of all Portuguese with his final resting place in Lisbon (How did they manage without refrigeration?) So important was the event that Lisbon’s fathers could not escape incorporating the heavenly ravens into its coat of arms.

So geography, mixed with miracles and myrrh, created a perfect tourist trap with tons of huge buses, cars, kiosks, cameras and mobile shops. Attractive an “end of the world” military fortress completed the picture of steep precipices and crashing waves. The only thing seemed to be missing was a toilet, mobile or otherwise. So in its place I immensely enjoyed a paraphrase of the famous Master Card creation – “diesel - 300 dollars, a pair of authentic hand-made Portuguese sweaters - 70 dollars, pissing into the ocean from “the end of the world” – priceless!”

Imbued with fresh winds and inspired by ruggedness of the landscape, we felt enough courage to attempt a decidedly slower coastal route as opposed to driving back to a more mundane albeit speedy version. The first hour was fantastic as we zipped up and down, left and right clinging to lush green hills, staring at deep pocket valleys peppered with sheep herds and farm ruins. This whole notion of mashing of hills, canyons and snaking streams made for a continual celebratory exercise that exhilarated. Nobody was bothered by the slow pace of our progress; the time seemed to have frozen its relentless pace in an artful pose of peaceful contemplation. For once!

Two large trucks in front brought us back from the momentary idyll. After all, getting to Lisbon was still lingering on today’s agenda. At first following these “Vehiculos Luongos” was a sort of fun – tight turns, precarious cornices and heavy doses of backseat driving. Alas, all things funny have come to an end sooner or later. It was especially pressing considering the remaining distance to Lisbon of about 300 clicks. The first point of reference was a town of Sines. It just kept looming on the horizon without getting much closer with every passing minute. The time kept going but miles count seemed to have stopped. Just like in that old bad sweaty dream where nothing can get desired results regardless of effort like falling off a cliff - you wake up utterly dazed and grateful to be still in one piece. Finally, a couple of local cops decided to pull over our leaders for a road check. Nothing could be more welcome. We whizzed by the riled truckers – Sines here we come!

Once on a major tolled highway after blissfully missing the mediocre Sines, we were picking up speed – being late for yet another host seemed to a bit impolite. Fortunately, this major highway afforded anything one could wish for – wide straightaways, no sharp corners and even electronic boards with much traffic information including the local time. Although there appeared to be a glitch as all clocks were one hour behind our Spanish tuned hand contraptions. An enquiry at the next gas station resolved it all – yet one more time busy Grockels missed out on the important piece of information! Portuguese support their westward thrusting ambitions by using London time as opposed to the Pan European clock utilized by the irritating Spaniards. Much to our relief, this new piece of info was getting us to Lisbon right on the dot.


Lisbon – City of Traffic
Feeling a little smug, we bravely drove into town by crossing a vast Vasco De Gama bridge spanning the estuary of Tejo, the river that connects Lisbon with its perennial source of riches – the Atlantic Ocean. Strangely enough for a large European city, the highway refused to gradually turn into welcoming ramps of urban utility. Instead it continued its relentless pursuit of discovery (the old habits die hard). Having only a vaguest of notions of how to get to our destination, we reluctantly took an off-ramp near the airport. Hoping for a quick resolution of our navigation dilemma we were set for yet another disappointment. Guys at the next gas station hardly knew what I was talking about and who could blame them when navigating here required a full blown GPS and no less.

You see, Portuguese seem to be totally enthralled by the automobile. Forget about French urban planning, Dutch practicality and German technology. Unlike Paris, Berlin or even London this place thrives on speed and highways. These do not just stay outside in heavy deference to much praised European stance on public transit, they meticulously criss-cross the city in any direction possible, slicing it into islands of urban development. So instead of having a cohesive core, the place has a feel of an LA style urban nightmare. At first we did not take it for much of a threat, clutching the city map with one hand and blithely navigating nameless streets and highways by the other. At first things went relatively well only to start unravelling in a thrilling fashion once we realized to have overshot our turn. As everyone knows, turning around on a freeway frequently poses much headache and this was no exception to say the least. Tension coupled with mutually barking and bickering was building between me and Tracy. The Student preferred to remain in deceivingly quiet recesses of the back seat.

Finally managing to get to the slice of over-packed urbanity named Telheiras (pronounced Te-lei-rash) we yet again made a mistake of premature celebrations. Finding the street aptly named after Professor Mario Chico was yet to be another test of nerves and group cohesiveness. Here the fault was mostly mine – as my cocky multi-lingual attitude overshot its abilities. You see once you master at least one Latin tongue, the rest of them (except French) appear to be just a piece of cake. Who needs to learn Italian when one can navigate with Spanish? For all people hailing from Cataluña or Galicia, you would have to put up with your at times reviled cousin from Castile. Romansh speaking folks from Switzerland, Romansh say it again!

Unlike my long subdued Catalans and Galicians who are automatically expected to speak Castellan, the independently minded Portuguese decided otherwise. Hence like Italians, who despite my best Spanish entreaties always answer in unadulterated vernacular, folks in Lisbon retorted in pure Portuguese. And herein lies the problem. The word “right” in Portuguese is “direito” – hence easily confused with “directo” for “direct” in Spanish. While seemingly inconsequential, such minor adjustments could play real havoc with directions especially since every turn in this highway infested maze counted for much more than an innocuous mistake. So instead of scoring a quick victory we got lost on the local free way system for at least another fifteen minutes before totally giving up and throwing ourselves at the mercy of anybody willing to help. Luckily, the help arrived in a form of a well meaning English speaking couple. Without knowing the exact street, they at least got us back to the HATED TELHEIRAS. Here I engaged in yet another set of frantic manoeuvres, trying to catch up with the elusive Professor. Leaving the car in double park position while running into a local pizzeria appeared was the only option. Hearing the barrage of “izquerdas” (left) and “direitos” was nauseating. Feeling the mutual pain, the compassionate pizza man decided to explain everything on paper. Suddenly, things were looking much brighter with blinding lights going off all over the place – I got the meaning of the bleeding “direito”!

Mostly relieved I was not all that happy to lose face in front of my companions, so I chose to conceal my latest guffaw. Immediate future looked bright save for some manoeuvring to get out of the car jungle. Here, despite very sane Tracy’s protestations to drive around the cul-de-sac, I chose a daring back-up motion that promptly devolved into a blunt and jarring thud – our Jag had found its match! Assessing the damage as mostly minor, we promptly fled the site hoping that a set of new scratches on our victim was nothing knew for its experienced owner. Welcome to Lisbon in other words.

Luckily, the mother of our landlord was still patiently waiting in her car for our belated arrival. This diminutive old thing seemed to completely fit for the local hard top jungles. Equipped with a small nifty Renault and brisk gait, she sorted us out pretty quickly despite having her three year old soother toting grandson in tow. Since she did not speak Spanish or English all that much, her very good French came in just handy. Ours was much rustier with pesky Spanish words constantly getting in the way. So instead of keeping up the pace, we just nodded and inserted an occasional “tres bien”.

The apartment turned out to be a very spacious and warm affair, especially appreciated after the cold white tiles of Valdegrama beach fame. It actually had two floors – the first contained a decent kitchen and a large living/family room with windows on both sides. The second floor had three bedrooms and a bathroom. The set came with Internet sightseeing print-outs and maps, some of them in Russian downloaded from Hebrew sites – it is a small world! Not bad at all for 40E per night with a Carrefour and a subway stop within easy walking distance. The former came in handy since we were feeling a little shrivelled and parched after the battle with the mighty highways. The only issue seemed to be our inability to find an easy entrance into this French consuming paradise. Instead of wide, automatic and welcoming doors, this shopping centre boasted huge parking lot, driving ramps and zipping by traffic. The Lisbon obsession with automobile encroached even on its modern utilitarian architecture that gave a cold shoulder to anything walking on two feet.

We were not about to tolerate such insolence and promptly trespassed a well-maintained lawn designed exclusively for your driving pleasure. Eventually finding the entrance through the parking lot, we entered the world of conspicuous consumption. Everything was up for grabs – cigars, fish and Coca-Cola. The only way one could tell that this one actually belonged in Portugal was an ample display of cheapish port wines and mounds of dried fish waiting its turn to maintain Portuguese primacy in eating all things seaworthy. While my indomitable travelling companions marvelled at extensive chocolate and yogurt displays, I quickly sneaked up to the sausage department that featured much blood sausage and other similar delights. Efficiently snagging a couple of particular appealing pieces I was off to the hardware department, devising ways of escaping the wrath of the Jaguar owners. Unfortunately, any such cover-up required some skills that I definitely did not have. My last chance was to clarify the insurance status of my Visa, which was used in the original transaction. I was so anxious that I did not even spare a Euro to call CIBC Visa centre back in Canada.

With trembling hands I dialled the fateful number. Since calling from overseas I did not get to indulge in joys of toll-free calling. My first attempt failed miserably as after following all touch-tone English instructions I positioned myself for a half-a-hour wait. Such time wasting was a luxury I could not afford. So to combat this banking firewall I resorted to an old ruse of following French instructions instead. You see, being still mostly English speaking country, traffic on English speaking lines is typically worse – so always try to pretend either having the last rotary phone in the whole world or being French. Once French operator is on, the catch is in, as any French operator also speaks English. Voila, I was on the line with a live person in one minute. My luck did not end there, as the kindly person confirmed that as long as you pay with your Visa, you are provided with a comprehensive insurance that covers even scratches. Fantastic! To summarise – pretend to be French and do not buy additional car insurance! Now, even by the Portuguese standards it was getting late and the only thing left to try was a glass of port that turned out to be more than an ample sedative in its deceivingly sweet coating – zzzzz…


Lisbon – the Capital of Derelict
The next morning greeted us with warm weather, thin layer of pollution and sun disk blazing with its most reddish tones. I could technically remain in bed, but the next adventure was calling. My first stretching trip to the balcony also revealed a tantalizingly close proximity to two places of interest – airport, a nice place to get in and out, and a huge local stadium, a nice place to party.

Planes were landing in plain view and the stadium was enticing with its vibrant “limon” (lemon and lime) colours. Since my friends were still asleep, my need to burn some time and energy was unrequited. Checking out the stadium was the most promising option. This one, revamped for the much vaunted Euro 2004, was a scintillating piece for any soccer fan even though it is a home to Sporting FC that has not done anything significant at the international arena for quite some time. With ample seating somewhere in the high fifties, this space ship like construction just soared upwards with its seemingly weightless bulk. The place was imbued with optimism and not encumbered by winning traditions of the old days. In addition, it had a full blown aquatic centre and other facilities undoubtedly minting all that future Olympic talent. Alas, no events were scheduled for the next three weeks so the only thing was to take a couple of pictures that plentifully attested to the current major sponsor of the club – Banco Espirito Santo (Bank of the Holy Ghost). Serving just one master appears to be a disputable notion here…

Having had enough of the new Lisbon, we promptly set out called by all things historic and thus important. A twenty minute subway ride and voila, we are at the very heart of Lisbon – Rua Augusto. This was a welcoming sight, considering its exclusively pedestrian designation bolstered by rows of cafes, bakeries and other useful locales. Do not be too careless, however, as even this refuge is subject to sizeable traffic jams. Besides cars the centre is criss-crossed by many a tram that actually serve as one of the key attractions in this hilly city – on many routes they are old, rickety and very useful, as their size allows them to climb hills, squeeze impossible turns and give tours to boot.

But before we could indulge in any of these services, we had to avail ourselves of the Lisbon card, which included local transportation, discounted museum entries and tours. Lisbon is not the only one pushing this service – however, here this pass proved a particular good bargain. Once inducted into the ranks of the official Lisbon tourists we proceeded to the biggest vortex of such endeavours – Square of Commerce. This large rectangular square with a statue of the most pervasive Portuguese king Alfonso Something is a transportation hub that connects central Lisbon with its suburbs, near and far - through trams, buses and even ferries that bypass sometimes murderous bridge traffic across Tajo. In addition, here one can catch numerous tours offered in such frequency that would satisfy the most demanding of Grockels.

With our Lisbon cart waiting activation, we could not resist a tram tour given in one of the oldest city cars that must have been around for generations. No more than 40 feet long it offered old fashioned straw filled seats, multilingual audio system and a very animated driver who overflowed with all possible hues of enthusiasm. The tour looked promising, discounted and unique since apart from standard and stifling computerised audio performance we also got this character of a driver named Fernando who indulged us in many a local antic for the next couple of hours. First taken around the central downtown core we were struck by its very uniform, well-planned and almost Parisian nature. The answer is bluntly simple – the devastating earthquake of 1755. The sheer force of this natural phenomenon was so overwhelming that it nearly razed the entire city. Followed by a huge fire and a wallop of a tsunami, the desolation was nearly complete. And yet, despite the lack of post-Discovery period cash and technology, the citizens of this fine city managed to wring a miracle of re-building. One could only imagine what they could have done had it been for money that is currently flowing towards the sinkhole otherwise known as New Orleans.

As it is, the re-building efforts paid off and, and arisen as phoenix, the city lures tourists with its wrought iron balconies, conformist windows and perpetual decorative tiles that also serve as very good heat insulators with smudges of smog all over. Add some pity and city’s magnetic powers are just obvious. And this is not all, as around one corner we stole a peak at the biggest street escalator (presumably) in the world. This one inspired by the genius of Eiffel tower and its renowned builder. In fact, created by one of the Eiffel’s students, this one looked just like a piece stolen from the banks of Seine. Here, in addition to a purely leisurely bend, the elevator offered some utility to those averse to climbing steep local hills. So instead of a short five minute climb up an extremely vertiginous hill, you can stand in the long half an hour line-up to let yourself be transported in this centennial contraption without breaking a sweat. Apart from pure utility, one can also enjoy sweeping views of Central Lisbon, closely inspect the intricate cast iron handiwork or sip an overpriced beverage in the café on the very top.

Well back to our tram, it was pulling us away into less glorious environs of neighbourhoods that smelled of hard working class. The famous re-building circa 1755 efforts hardly made their appearance here. Instead, crumbly pre-earthquake remains were buttressed, shored-up and made do for years. Consequently, the street lay-outs were more or less preserved with their perpetual lack of any space where even neighbouring laundry lines, of which were many, had to incessantly compete for every inch of liveable space. After some belated and haphazard efforts at re-building, many buildings are still basically piles of sturdy rubble patched ups with plaster and tiles with holes gaping with predictable regularity and wanton disregard for basic safety. These things create an interminable sense of chaos, carelessness and derelict in its extreme forms. Surely, some of these are vestiges of poor pre-Euro Union days but a good chunk of it is surely in the blood, in the best sense of the notion of course. Unfortunately, many a tourist, especially ones from glitzy Moscow and Minsk, sometimes fail to appreciate this crucial wrinkle in the local character. They think “dirty”, “primordial” and “despicable” when “charming” and “cute” are much more fitting adjectives. We surely loved this paradise of all things decrepit and compact. Plus since visiting is a much easier task than living in it, we sort of felt like Gulliver on his junket to Lilliputians – “there will be a day when I get the heck out”.

Deeper into the hills, the job of our trusty Fernando became a particularly interesting one, as he had to contend with pesky pedestrians; numerous and chaotic public works; and of course the enemy numero uno – cars. As previously mentioned, Portuguese appear to be completely enamoured by their four-wheeled companions, and even such minor obstacles as extremely narrow streets do not weigh on this affinity even in the smallest of degrees. And since old crooked blocks do not offer much in a way of parking garages - the streets are the only viable parking option. As such our tram had to contend with these plus a whole other set of wheeled implements such as delivery trucks. The last ones seemed to be in particular predicament since any delivery has to fit tight tram schedules that are not really designed to accommodate Wal-Mart loads. Predictably, the streets were lined with tiny mom and pop operations that eke out a living by serving the locals in their daily strife to remain afloat in the ever more competitive economy. Despite dire economics and cute touristics, these little stores in combination manage to carry surprisingly wide and tightly packed arrays of goods – pop, meat and, of course, fish. All seemed to be quite comfortable with one another while scrumptious looking pastries tarried just fine next to the cigarettes and general store dust.

Nice moments of contemplation were not long lived, as our less than laterally mobile condition extracted many a loud word and gesture from our friend at the front. Given some of the latter we kind of figured the former with relative ease. While enjoying the spectacle we could hardly fail to appreciate the perennial difficulties of local tram operators. One would inevitably think of stress and depression. But this must be a very North American notion, as this land did not appear to be as afflicted given the inerasable joyful gesticulation of Fernando. I guess that the points of profitability for Prozac and Paxil were yet to be reached in this fast growing economic miracle. Just give it time…

Passing by the huge and yet graceful Saint Vincent de Fora we got to appreciate the true architectural genius of its creators, as instead of gently settling into more obscure existence below surrounding hills, this one heroically clings to a high ridge exposing its side to wide open lenses of tourist cameras peering from below. So majestic the sight that it inadvertently diverts from the immediately neighbouring Pantheon built to accommodate a number of Portuguese kings on their last life journey. This rotund architectural delight derives its local fame from things of a rather different nature however since it went so far over the budget that it has become a vernacular joke here. So when anyone undertakes a considerable project he is bound to hear a thing or two about the Pantheon.

Past the pervasive Saint Vincent we started our decent towards one of the most picturesque, old and poor districts in Lisbon – the famed Alfama. Consisting of tiny crooked, almost exclusively pedestrian, streets; few churches and bunches of chattering locals - it presented the most colourful splash of things we had already got to know – tiles, red rooftops, peeling walls and tiny court yards. It was irresistible. However, walking seemed to be the only option to cover the area thus it had to wait for another day. For now, having criss-crossed Rua Augusta one more time, we were climbing yet another hill.

The other side of town betrayed a slightly flashier and more prosperous look with its Barrio Alto, the Palace of Parliament and numerous squares, tiny and grand. While Barrio Alto promised a good touristy kick at Fado, the famed art of belting out the blues; the Palace of Parliament strutted a good deal of pride and solidity with its sparkling white neo classic columns, porticoes and windows. It exuded a calm sense of presence that frequently fails to correlate with inside reality. Despite the ominous presence of all things governmental, the streets did not take a hint to widen. No chance, we were still bristling within millimetres of parked steel beasts. On one occasion it got so narrow that our indomitable Fernando had to temporarily remove his rear view mirror lest it perished in some construction rubble. We were duly entertained by his over-wrought mirror moving gusto and dramatics that had to end at the Square of Commerce.

The next stop is the Central Tourist Office. This one is rather efficient, helpful and certainly convenient. Just do not wander further into the building looking for a bathroom, as this labyrinth mammoth of a building could swallow one up without blinking. I could hardly navigate my way back through the maze of some offices, stores and plain open spaces. Finding my way back even felt like a small victory!


Benfica – Impossible Dream
While in the tourist office I made a timid overture regarding high flying Benfica SL who just managed to beat the famed Liverpool, the current holder of the UEFA Championship trophy. Since tourist offices in many other places are typically short on such info, I did not expect much here either. All the more exuberant the excitement when a helpful, youthful and polite Lisbon guide dug out the most welcome news of the day – Benfica played the next day in the Portuguese Cup. Hallelujah! The only remaining trick was to get tickets. You see, unlike more technologically inclined Northern counterparts – Iberian sport clubs frequently do not pursue electronic marketing with the same gusto. On the contrary, the only place to get tickets is the Stadium itself and they accept only cash. I guess they prefer the inconvenience to sift out the fickle and unreliable. Those that show up really care!

So at this point we separated – my shopping hungry friends entered the whirlwind Mecca of local shopping while I took subway to Stadium del Luz (Stadium of Light). Upon emergence I found myself surrounded by buildings and a huge new. The newly renovated and soaring metal/concrete skeleton of the Stadium of Light was only within two short kilometres of its no less sparkly Limon adversary. It could have been light years as far as I was concerned - the two were separated by solid and impenetrable barriers otherwise known as highways. I was not all that enchanted since the Stadium appeared surrounded from all sides by fast moving traffic. Blasted! I had to either walk all the way around trying to find a breach in this pedestrian nightmare or dare crossing in front of fast approaching cars. My Grockel timetable was not all that amiable to the first suggestion. So having inhaled enough air supply for a twenty second dash I climbed over some highway barriers separating sanity from soccer fever…

Luckily, there was some lull in the car besieged Lisbon. I spotted a gap, ran and stumbled over a concrete slab back into safety. Great! Now the tickets were within my grasp. The box office was working extra hard to accommodate hard core fans and band-wagoners alike. The recent win against mighty Liverpool has certainly blown some wind into the local fortunes – financially and otherwise. The nearby office for club fans was teeming with potential new members who seemed to be just snapping any offerings in sight – scarves, t-shirts and hats. The atmosphere was carnival like with thick smoke suffocating the air. Feeling a little dizzy I hurried to find the end of the line.

Having suffered enough second hand smoke to last a couple of months, I managed to squeeze my way to the counter, which exhibited a baffling dearth of marketing fantasies. Only two prices were on offer, period – 8E for official fan club members and 13E for the rest of the riff-raff. Needing to flex my bargaining muscle I was not deterred – I was determined to fish out for best seats possible. All for not! The only seats available were in the Coca-Cola section. No wrangling, no sighing – you get what you are told, basta. Well, there was nothing to complain about after all, as I was finally holding the treasured pieces of paper and could hardly wait for tomorrow.


Fado
With the most important tasks of the day complete and bargain purchases made, the evening was slotted to indulge in the presumed local passion for Fado music. This one is particularly interesting given its unclear origins rumoured to originate anywhere between Portugal itself and its vast empire spreading from Brazil to Angola and Mozambique. No one knows exactly hence so myths surround its sultry and soulful tunes abound. People in Lisbon, the vaunted centre of the art, usually crack a smirk when asked what Fado means to them. For many it is a definite passion, however for the majority it is just another tourist snare with a tinge of the American Idol.

Explicably, the official Portuguese musical establishment does not seem to pay much heed either, preferring levitation in much more exulted strata of Mozart and Bach. Its presumed origins in the colonies are suspect just as well as per first hand testimony given by a couple of my Brazilian co-workers. In fact, people who prefer suffering tunes of Fado generally have much harder time in more jovial, youthful and perpetually celebrating Kingdome of Soccer – no nostalgic and weepy soup for you!

And yet despite all these uncertainties, Fado magnet keeps attracting touristy crowds with a great degree of consistency making some money in the process. The famed Alfama, the putative birthplace of its modern form, even boasts a well attended Fado museum featuring just about anything mythical or factual there is to know. As for us, being warned off Alfama due to security issues of the streets after nightfall, proceeding into more frequented Barrio Alto was a no brainer.

Here, in Barrio Alto, I first realized a huge degree of serendipity that connects Portuguese and Russian languages. This is very surprising considering drastically different origins and geography. On cursory examination there is nothing common whatsoever that is until one comes to sound “SH”. Here, the defiant Portuguese strikes a pride filled pose with refusing to give in to Spanish “Ss” and “THs”. Moreover, it softens “SH” to almost a snake hissing whisper. This softening bears a striking resemblance to my mother tongue that is rife with venomous sounds. Portuguese when resonating across narrow medieval passageways sounds exactly like Russian within a radius of three meters or more. Add some head scarves and well-worn pensioner shoes and just about every Portuguese over fifty looks, sounds and feels Russian! Not often deceived on the linguistic front these multitudes of “Russian” speakers felt particularly amusing in the heart of the Fado district.


Fado – the Cult
Unlike their Flamenco counterparts in Spain, these guys market their product in more subtle and likely more profitable ways. In Spain, a typical Flamenco affair attracts a separate fee with the rest, if available, arriving at regular prices. Here the things are not quite as clear, as you do not pay anything for the concert itself, instead you have to buy highly overpriced food and drinks lest incurring a minimum cover charge ranging anywhere from 15 to 30 Euro. By the way do not expect to have a feast at the minimum charge level typically designed for the cheapest entrees and some appetisers. This whole idea put me on guard at once, as I was desperately hoping for my cohorts to settle in some less pricey options. No luck, cowboy - the atmosphere was paramount and somehow more reasonable establishments lacked it desperately, not counting a dearth of performers when compared with higher grade places.

Our ultimate choice fell on the cozy cavernous chambers of Le Luzo (I guess “Light”). Attracted by its smooth street promoter sporting a nice chequered coat, low persuasive voice and excellent English, we were enticed to an incessant Fado feast scheduled up to 2AM. The latter is a great sales trick since hardly any busy tourist would actually dream of lingering past 12:30 or so.

The first hour of the act was designed purely for crowd tourism with a bus load of patients happily fidgeting right by the stage. This featured numerous acts of dance, song and Portuguese guitar. Everything was going just great as continual succession of visual and audio delights were timely dispensed by a group of performers who generally book few of these gigs each night, staggering them between few similar hot spots at Barrio Alto.

While thoroughly enjoying the authentic art, some basic precautions were slipping, as I fell victim to a local food ordering trick. You see, when served a basket of bread and some butter anywhere in North America, one does not expect this gesture to be anything less than a welcoming and costless sign of hospitality. In many places in Europe it might cost you a couple of bucks. In Fado infested Lisbon they took it a step further – once you touch the bread and butter you have also ordered a sausage and cheese plate with a glass of wine. All at the handsome price of about 10E. I totally felt into the trap well set. My better read and thus informed companions chose otherwise – reading tourist books helps more often than I gave them credit for…Truth be told - my cheese and sausage plates did not disappoint, especially considering that frightened by this tourist racket Tracy did not dare to intercept a single morsel.

Once over with the first set of acts, two-thirds of patrons belonging to a bus-a-tourist club filed out leaving only about twenty of us. The part of the restaurant next to the stage was closed off and an improvised stage was set only few feet away from our table. Now we were loaded for pure Fado. The band itself consisted of three characters – a classic guitar, a Portuguese guitar and a contrabass. The four singers, two women and two men, presented individual 15-minute segments with short breaks in between. Instead of an assembly line feeling of the first act, the new surrounding ambience long on candles, shadows and gliding waiter apparitions felt much cosier to the touch. With stomachs calmed, drinks savoured we enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. The baritones were fantastic – dark jackets, open collar shirts, hands-in-pockets and soulful tunes of unrequited love and hard live pierced right to the heart. Tragic faces and closed dreamy eyes of male singers could enflame even the most resistant of the weaker sex. Their apparent youth was not a detriment especially when juxtaposed with matron like appearance of the female staffers.

Jackets traded for expansive and flowing black dresses, open neck shirts switched places with effervescent shoals and well-made up eyes continued along with their tragic melodies and irrepressible Portuguese guitar. All members of the act were excellent despite obvious differences in temper. While the baritones seemed immersed in oblivious passion, the younger looking matron had little patience for some overly talkative wine sipping Germans. On a couple of occasion when resurfacing back to reality for refocusing her drowning eyesight, she threw many a dart in the less than respectful direction of the nefarious visitors from the Bundesrepublik.

Immersed in candle lit charms we tarried past midnight to be only among very few remaining and certainly freshly minted connoisseurs. With eye lids getting ever heavier, we opted to stay away from 10E cheesecakes in favour of CD purchases offered at the exit. Here we struck a great conversation with Elisa, one of the singers.

She spoke great English and told us a thing or two about Fado. She was very nice, generous and forgiving – even my next day trip to Stadio del Luz did not bother her much greener sensibilities forever given to Sporting FC playing at the Limon. In fact, she seemed to be quite delighted to hear about my soccer fever. But Fado was her real and unadulterated passion. She had sung for years, obtaining much local recognition and becoming a legitimate member of the Lisbon professional Fado scene. The music became the extension of her – “it comes directly from the heart”, as everything else of value of course…

It turned out that basically all members of Le Luzo cast had performed together for quite some time. They were a permanent night fixture here, day after day indulging foreign interest for local exotics. Also being tightly interwoven into the scene, they, from time to time, substituted for others in the neighbouring establishments. And even on this night, the king of the floor Pedrinho had to leave early to belt out a few good ones just around the corner. A bit of a downer for us since we had to leave the place with his CD unautographed. No big deal, our Fado memories were unlikely to fade any time soon.


Alfama
The next day started with a bit of a scramble for timely arrival at the local Alfama two-hour walk. Duly discounted, many thanks to the Lisbon card, and well Englished this promised to be a delight despite my already sore feet. Our tour guide with exceeding credentials was a very well versed young lady with at least a couple of various degrees and amiable disposition. Since Alfama, being the oldest part of town, did not start on the flats of the Square of Commerce we had to endure few more painful references to the 1755 earthquake.

One of these related to the famous church that used to house some odd, mysterious and definitely suspect Knights Templar and their veiled practices, the very ones closely examined by brave and truthful likes of Dan Brown and Co. Luckily for us, the Christians, this “truth” was as hollow as the building itself with only the central façade surviving the famous devastation. The rest accommodated a modern reincarnation with hardly a smell of Crusading marauders.

With that we proceeded to a very interesting, Venetian looking, building that dated from somewhere in the 1500s. To me it appeared to be just a miniature copy of the famous Granovitaya Chamber that occupies the Cathedral Square in Moscow’s Kremlin. The white façade looked like goose bumps created by protruding pyramidal shapes cropping up on every square granite plate that graced the entire face of the structure save for some unusually large and bright windows framed with slightly understated Venetian chiselling. However, even here there was a catch. You guessed it – the blasted 1755. Only two out of four present stories are original, the rest is a re-built. I was ready to move on but Lisbon was still reliving the disaster, as we were fed with yet another set of competing myths piling up one on the top of another designed to indulge in a singular subject of determining exactly which original floors survived – very absorbing…

At last, after climbing a few steps, we were entering the confines of the Alfama itself. Squished streets and narrow allies clearly meant change. The earthquake seemed to matter less and less, after all, the rocky outcrops weathered better than the low swamps. Jews and Moors were becoming more and more prominent. Originally founded by the Romans who first recognized the strategic importance of the direct sea access, Lisbon became a coveted prise for many with bigger fists. In 700s Moors were the movers and shakers with some swords, determination and vision to boot. The harbour prospered as did the Jews, recognised for their savvy in trades and matters of finance.

The rest is yada, yada, yada. Christian retreat, Christian re-conquest, Jewish and Muslim expulsion and viola, you have an impoverished, derelict and irresistible Alfama. What actually transpired is predictable – re-conquering Christian kings did not have much tolerance for infidels banishing them outside the city walls. Hence they successfully denuded material base of the town core, turning it into an impoverished vortex of sailors, fishermen and thieves – sort of a surviving tradition. And yet this is probably one of the most peculiar and interesting living enclaves on the Pan-Eurpean map. Tiny store fronts, pungent fish smells and perpetual laundry. Add some modestly dressed, contemplating and bench presiding babushkas and all collide in one unforgettable collage of colour, impressions and spontaneous creativity. I even felt like an object somewhere in the middle of the haphazard and dreamy art espoused by Van Gogh, Monet and other extravagant types - kind of Grockel sleep walking.

Predictably, the place hid myriads of stories ranging from outright myths to more definitive vignettes of reality. In addition, the quarter boasts its own separate Fado tradition, this one with a folksier character with simpler smell of authenticity. Traditional Fado is purported to have jelled here. Based on only few actual poetic strings put together by some local roughs earning their wages as stevedores by day the art came alive by night. Belted by hard done proletariat in coveralls and with larger than pocket knives it flourished. Ahh… that is where those hands-in-pocket habits come from – the shortest way to concealed weapons.

Only later, once Fado became a fad, did it become adept to female voices, string quartets and recording studios. Alfama would have none of that, still persisting in its old pride, which is frequently unattainable to outsiders due to rampant night crime that is still strongly rooted here. In fact, Maria took us to the ancient walls of some old church, serenely peering into the haze of the harbour, for some proof of this unsavoury local trait. The smell of urine, gang graffiti and protective grills on windows all around, spoke insecurity in more than one syllable. Presumably a whole slew of local gangs still operate in the area. Recruitment among highly unemployed youth is not a problem and nightfall provides a perfect cover for small crime, muggings and turf wars. It was hard to imagine that this sightseeing paradise could turn completely unapproachable by sunset.

This, sometimes sectarian, violence is not a stranger in the area that for years has welcomed impoverished Northerners in search of city prosperity. Many, coming from fishing villages, preserved some of their professional pride finding employment with commercial fishing operations while their wives doubling as loud-mouthed mongers. Others from farming communities have tended to congregate around less adventurous and hard work of port stevedores, loading and unloading huge trade ships by day and night with their wives remaining more domesticated and quieter lot. So one day, as the story goes, fishermen and stevedores really got into a tussle, disputing various attributes of their better halves. One claim after another, blood boiling, forehead veins popping and they got a mini civil war on your hands. Whole town blocks with one-sided allegiances and even separate churches to house feuding saints. Luckily, some cooler heads prevailed and the precarious peace returned. However, it is never as easy task to keep it since whenever hit by revolutions, unemployment and other irksome externatilities the hot blood still manages to boil to the top on more than one occasion. So much so, that they still struggle with the lid.

Well, at least lately, recognising the historical importance of the quarter, the local government, bolstered by huge grants from the EU, has been engaged in a constructive overhaul of the area. Piles of bricks, cement mixers, dollies and plentiful workers are everywhere. Restoring, plastering and installing. The only hope that whatever is left is still imbued with charm unlike other well-developed heritage sites that turn dead by nightfall. Another risk here is of course the rising prices and difficulty of general life conditions. Much has improved even since the 80s when 80% of dwellings here did not have regular baths facilities with some even lacking toilets. This is witnessed by the local bath houses that still cater to those with no services. Although free of charge and full of character, I’d still prefer my own bath if given a choice. Whatever the re-building plans, one thing they are doing right is meticulously preserving quaint originality with its tiny apartments, steep staircases and hardly a place for a regular mattress. The latter is apparently quite a plight for newcomers who drag old furniture along only to rid of it at fire sale prices – it simply does not fit. May be IKEA should source some of its supplies on the surplus edges of Alfama as opposed to the far-flung ridges of China?

As far as rising real estate prices go, they have made some considerably wealthier. To cash in, many move out to the suburbs killing more than two birds at once – cheaper real estate, more comfort and good side income from their former Alfama digs let to students, adventurers and lunatics alike. Not bad except that now Alfama demographics are changing quite dramatically. Instead of full family units bristling with complete sets of generational teeth, we now have either very old or their grandchildren left to their care by hard working parents from the suburbs. Who is then renting you might ask? Well, mostly unattached, single and well-to-do. Bye-bye ancient ideals of family hearth so much treasured since the old Roman days and welcome the whirlwind of the precipitous modern change. Even the old sectarian divides are being slowly replaced by more venal ones – less personal but more economic. What gives?

As a result, each demographic group is passing the sea of life without noticing the other, rubbing shoulders and nothing more, there seems to be a true risk of something going extinct. And these are not mattress touting singles on yet another expedition to find something fitting the staircase. In fact now with families gone, many old folks are left to depend on charity of more able bodied neighbours. Some become very reclusive, descending the steep multi-story sets of stairs only on few occasions a year, completely relying on the outside help for even simple things like groceries. Since many do not even have phones, their windows are the sole access to the world. Many sit by and watch the world go by with some stoicism and poignancy of the aged wisdom and helplessness.

While admiring the pensive lifestyles around, our more energetic bodies demanded us to keep climbing up the hill, all the way to the top – Castle Saint George. Built by the Moors, this one is still in good knick with the best views in town. Everything is so attractive, picturesque and pristine from such heights. Nothing is polluted by suffering, crime and inequality – all except poor waterfront planning. Historically, the long river banks have been used exclusively for commerce with docks, piers and warehouses, creating a landlocked feel to the city core. Last few decades of economic progress did not manage to remove this very unsightly and utilitarian front. So unlike Barcelona and other seaside gems, Lisbon lacks light promenade air on its banks in complete defiance to its nominal and very amphibian spot on the map.

Trying to catch some walk-able waterfront, we took a long train ride to the famous Belem. This turned out almost as highway infested and fume besieged as the rest of Lisbon. The only minor reprieve from the ugly modern urbanity was provided by a park right next to the enigmatic defence tower built back in the Discovery period. Few ups, downs, clicks and poses and we were done and happy to find our way back through rush hour madness. Missing the magnificent Gothic Monastery of Jeronimos did not raise any heckles – anything to get some much needed rest, maybe we were just getting old…


Benfica at Last
After slight the sumptuousness of Fado, I was ready for something simple and familiar. “Benfica” – “Vittoria Guimaresh” game could not have come at a better time. The game promised to be a bit of a hoot especially since we were inducting the Student into the Game of the People. The fun started early with a bus ride. Instead of mundane this one was unforgettable. As you might remember, the whole place is just laced with freeways replete with pervasive, insolent and constantly speeding cars. Public buses are not an exception. Most of them are, of course, fully capable of dealing with speed. Passenger pick-ups and drop-offs are slightly trickier. Sure, stops with pull-ins do provide for some basic road flow management and passenger safety. I bet bus drivers sometimes wish they did not. While slowing down from 80 to 0 with a busload of passengers might be a piece of cake for the hardened Lisbon lot, merging looks to be wrought with complications even for them. Carefully shuffling to the traffic side of the bus we indulged ourselves in this corrida of an experience. First we thought that buses would receive a kind of graceful, if not mandated, treatment of courtesy with politely slowing traffic in the slower right lane. No such luck, time hungry Portuguese did not seem to give a rip about the stranded behemoth with fellow humans in tow. Everyone sped up instead; being counted a loser, tied up behind the bus was not particularly appealing. The scene was worthy of Shaquile O’Neill lacing up hockey skates. The issue is that, unlike a singular TSN laugh, Lisbon bus drivers repeat this procedure many times a day. They must the nerves of steel and patience of crocodiles. First rate mercenary material!

After yet another quick and determinate bus manoeuvre we were at the doorstep of the brilliantly illuminated monster – the Stadium of Light. To simplify logistics, we followed the crowd right into the bowels of this impressive structure designed to accommodate up to 65,000 riled up fans. The crowds were formidable and pressing. I was kind of hoping for a near sell-out. Unfortunately, conserving their energy for the impending dual with the giants from Barcelona, many locals stayed away from the low key affair against the Northern hicks. Anticipating such outcome, the stadium folks only sold tickets in the lower bowl hence creating a decent crowd atmosphere with a lower cleaning bill. Not bad, as the crowd was still thick, red and ready. The best gift of all turned out to be a thousand or so of Guimaresh fans sitting right below us. Surrounded by the customary police and plastic hockey barriers, they occupied a special visiting section. And like playful monkeys on Zoo display, they did not shut up for a second during the entire game.

At first Benfica fortunes appeared to be well positioned. With catchy preliminary hymns sung by everyone around save for the pesky Guimaresh guys, with huge life mascot of an eagle descending from the rafters and with scarves ready, we anticipated complete local domination. Instead, the little visiting team turned in a great defensive performance that was not shy on counterattacking. On one of these rather sharp lunges, they managed to open the score. Benfica rushed to avenge with waves descending on Guimaresh half only to be re-buffed time and time again by their tight defence and their incredible goalkeeper who would have made proud any simian with his phenomenally successful acrobatics.

The time was ticking away, the smoke clouds swirled ever thicker around desperate and discoloured visages of people in red. My next seat neighbour was on his second pack of smokes. The situation was turning dreadful. The longer it went, the rowdier people below became, the closer to the end, the more abuse from above they had to sustain. Luckily, things did not go very much further than a few well known gestures and easily translatable diatribes. With red fortunes sagging, the black and white flags below were having a great work out – shouts, whistles and chants became deafening reaching a crescendo at the final whistle. Nobody could believe it. David beat the Goliath! Guimaresh players, elated by their golden effort, started throwing their shirts across the barriers and over the heads of the doubly humiliated Lisbon cops. The team captain, in all his excitement, decided to part with his shorts to boot. So here he was standing in the plain few of thousands, giving an interview in his Speedo underwear. A great glimpse into the crazy world of European soccer! Despite absence of home team goal, even the Student found some solace in the proceedings.


Sintra
On our last full day here we decided to day-trip to the strange and enigmatic town of Sintra located within half an hour train ride from Central Lisbon. On the way we swung by the local art jewel – Gulbenkian. At first slightly disappointed by its flat and listless concrete of 1970s, we got to appreciate what was inside in a pretty short order. This is a great treat for anyone wanting to brush over some basics on the art history train without getting bogged in numerous details so prevalent in likes of Louvre or Uffizi. Originally a private collection, this one has allowed Lisbon to climb some rungs of recognition in the art world. It contains just about anything from ancient Mesopotamian art to modern ambiguities and all of it at a great price of three Euros. Brushing by countless Egyptian shards, Persian vases and Chinese silks, we devoted our scarce attention to the Medieval Dutch and Italian Renaissance. Many a creative spark of the middle ages leaves just about anyone spellbound and we were no exception. In addition, who can pass by a nude without sneaking a glance? Sort of like legal voyeurism with no sense of guilt attached. Well, enough of things sordid, as we had to catch our train…

Once in Sintra, we could hardly believe the transition. Literally minutes from the Soviet style concrete globs of apartment living back on the flats, we were in fascinating and lush mountainous terrain that boasted immeasurably fresher air, gentle green peaks, precipitous valleys and very opulent architecture. Who can resist the transformation, especially when it comes with one hundredth of the population density of the central Lisbon? Neither could Portuguese kings in the course of many generations. First building their extensive digs in the town itself, they finally succumbed to the lofty temptations, no doubt seduced by their previous occupants, the Moors, who built their own fortress on a mountain top.

First descending into town, we plunged right into the thick of bus crowds. American was heard everywhere and locals were virtually non-existent. Here, unlike the unassailable cocoon-ness of Alfama, the victory of mass tourism was undeniable. Hordes upon hordes fell upon its frail victim with a great degree of ferocity, devouring everything in sight – hot dogs, beer, museums and views. Nothing, not even the very unique and prickly tiles roofs and narrow vertiginous access roads, could keep the tides of curiosity away save the for night time when streets transform into eerie emptiness of material prosperity. The riches can easily snatch one’s soul in exchange for sacred traditions.

Fighting this poignant trail of thought, we nevertheless took a good stab at enjoying the central village since it still managed to deliver some atmospheric sidewalk cafes, fighting with bus fumes and stains of coke on seat covers, souvenir shops and, of course, the royal palace itself. The latter was a particular delight due to charge free admission, thanks the Lisbon card. While definitely lacking the grandeur of Versailles, the order of Buckingham and the elevation of Alhambra; it struck with its austerity and age. White walls, steep staircases, creaky wooden floors and simplicity of décor betrayed its ancient roots of demure and simplicity – apart from bi-centennial Discovery induced prosperity, Portuguese crown had been perennially overshadowed by the size and might of its larger cousins. And yet the palace had a rather unique feature – a pair of nuclear station like stacks thrusting into the air at the expense of any other architectural features. What may be the reason for this incongruity? Food! It was prepared in two huge kitchens fully stocked with pots and dishes varying from tiny to behemoth, copper and iron, unwieldy and cute, piled up and hung up, tables, cutting boards and open fire pits. And this wrack yard of ancient cutlery culminated in two upward thrusting chimney ceilings that revealed no protection from the open sky at the end of their necks, each resembling a top of a champagne bottle. Probably the most colossal tribute to something that tends to disappear faster than it takes to prepare – all things edible! I guess Portuguese kings, being left in the dust of Spanish and French greatness, were somewhat pragmatic and decided to enjoy live instead of future grandeur left for exclusive use of posterity – a great lesson from the book of Ecclesiastes!

Barely escaping the century old smells of cod and garlic, we still had time to indulge in the most famous of all local attractions – Pena Palace. It tempts everyone with its perch on the neighbouring hill with its odd shapes, colours and styles. It looks old but was really built less than hundred and fifty years ago, quenching the fancies of the King Consort Dom Fernando – sometimes there is nothing wrong with being a consort – just ask Prince Phillip.

One actually cannot see the palace from Sintra itself as you have to climb about two miles along a wavy and narrow road in the remarkably fresh and airy surrounding of the pine forest. The other, a much more convenient, way to get to the top is take the Sintra loop bus that gives unlimited daily access to its services and all this for a poultry sum of 3.85E with a colourful ticket featuring instructions written in bad English.

As Grockel timetable does not typically allow time for invigorating walk-able ascents into the mountains, the bus was the only option. Right outside the busy centre the one-way road drastically narrowed and plunged us into a kingdom of suburban tranquility – large villas, impenetrable forest and hardly any walkers made us forget of the cauldron left just few steps behind. I could help not but recall my ancient experience of walks along pioneer stone hedges in New England – occasional house or stables with the rest still very much given to majestic nature of rustling leaves, wild flowers and lurking creatures. I was almost drifting into an unscheduled mid–day nap…Suddenly; we spotted a mirage of the famed palace. Invading all my senses, the mirage brought me back to life! It appeared precariously suspended on its pointy cliff perch and surrounded nothing but by bottomless sky and sweeping vistas. Its ephemeral bright colours were just scintillating in the setting sun and its windows undulated like a smoky apparition – welcome to the doorstep of the unbound fancy! Sort of like 19th century Vegas.

Dropping us at the bottom of the cliff hugging lush royal park we fell yet into another bus venture that served a short uphill route for a minimum fee of 1E for a round-trip. Not a bad bargain considering that it spared a fifteen minute climb. The driver turned out to be none other than a plain old Ukrainian who shed some light on the immigration in Portuguese style. This is very interesting since on this side of the ocean we always think that North America and Australia stand alone in their migrating adventure. This is forgetting that sometimes emigrating from Chechnya to Moscow or to Kazakhstan from Turkmenistan might be even more crucial in one’s ability to provide for his family and children, or even preserve one’s life. So here is the proof, as one of the poorest nations in Western Europe like Portugal with a minimum wage set at penurious 380E per month can and does attract guys like Victor. He, like many thousands of others, left former Soviet block in search of better fortunes some years ago. He came when Portugal was in the middle of digesting its first wallops of the EU money with predictable shortage of cheap labour. At that time getting some basic legalities through was not much of an issue as it is today, so he was able to stay and eke out a living in a variety of ways. In the last few years he got really established after receiving more permanent docs and landing this bus driving job in Sintra. Now he clears just over 1,000E monthly and feels very happy about his modest fortunes and an ability to provide for his family back home. Still single, he looks forward to setting up a family here one day. For now he enjoys Sintra and his annual visits home. When going home he prefers a two-day bus ride that is cheaper and gives a phenomenal European overview all the way from Iberia through the Swiss Alps and on to the Carpathian Mountains. Not bad for about 200E one way, but only if you can deal with cheap airline seats for some 40 hours straight.

Bye-bye Victor, for now back to our horses with the weird architecture in sight. Dom Fernando, being a rather radical convert of Enlightenment, decided to let his fantasies fly when his designed his dream castle in such a dizzying array of styles as to flabbergast just about any connoisseur of high art. Arabian minarets, gothic turrets, pervasive tile work and patchwork of splashy colours create an almost indigestible visual sensation. Snared, as many Grockels cannot resist, we ended up using mounds of film and exhausting just about any posture combination possible. Thank Goodness for digital technology with its sparing use of resources, otherwise the whole trip budget could have been in trouble. Anything of note means everything in sight had to be immortalized in still forms. Outer ramparts, balconies, cornices and even internal decorative confusions so prevalent in this masterpiece of haze. At first having hard time concentrating on anything in particular I swiftly managed to discover a trick to all of this creative madness. The key, exactly like contemplating Impressionist art, was just to relax and de-focus. Best done by slowing down, finding a place to sit, sip or puff, both if possible. Sink in and lose all detail. Works best in small dosages otherwise you might never want to leave. This is particularly soothing when outside on the ramparts overlooking the soothing and hazy outlines of Atlantic beaches from Cascais and beyond. What could be better – refreshing breezes, old Moorish history and extravagance of the industrial age mixed with western philosophies and Chinese silk – unforgettable!


Gas Angels
The time had come to bid adieu to the Lisbon chaos. The day was gloomy with torrential rains descending like a window curtain on a draughty day. Much learned and seen, time to pack up and mount our creamy workhorse on our last long track to Seville. With wine and chocolates packed, we blissfully plunged right into the midst of the rush hour traffic. Predictably and despite all preparations, we took a wrong turn, got stuck and lost – wasting prodigious amounts of time navigating through the highway maze. God bless spouses and their backseat friends!

Once on the right track, I just concentrated on fight with the rain and remaining kilometres of which there were still many. Past Setubal there was no traffic all the way to Algarve, getting us there in less than three hours – much faster than our original struggles along the coastal route. The only downside of the choice was felt at the toll booth just outside Faro – 17E please and have a nice day!

Now with everything seemingly free of charge all the way, we looked forward to a change of scenery. The only remaining issue was the quantity of diesel in my tank. You might remember that, unlike most places, we had to return our tank empty. For all boasting about my nebulous Jewish connections this presented a slight personal problem. When a full tank is to be returned there is hardly anything to gain, you just gas up at about 5K remaining to your destination and that’s it – the arrow is still clinging to the full mark while you have squeezed a few free drops of costly gasoline – everyone wins except for the next guy to rent!

The notion of an empty tank presents a different dilemma – how much is really left below the “empty” line? Typically I do not care to find out, but this time the temptation was as irresistible as to Cramer on his Jerry’s SAAB buying shtick. That’s why when leaving Portugal, the dipping needle brought to life my worst instincts – the ones that you manage to successfully repress most of your life unless in stride to qualify for a place in mental institution. So with needle mostly on zero we were about to cross into Spain. I made a silent vow of not stopping until reaching the land of Cervantes for our next drop of fuel - one of those psychedelic decisions strictly qualifying under the notion of “just because”.

Since my confidence in Spanish supplies on a major highway could not be moved, I was truly astonished failing to find any semblance of a gas station for ten, twenty and even thirty kilometres after the border. Little pangs of desperation started gnawing at my oesophagus. The only other option was to turn off into some town on the way. But who knew exactly where that might be? Staying the course looked only marginally brighter. Communicating the truth with my companions was painful but necessary. Suddenly the car started loosing power with our future prospects becoming less than obvious by the second. Muttering amidst stony silence, I realized to have committed another “first” of my life – running out of gas, or diesel to be precise.

Slashing downpour, brown road-shoulder dirt and speeding humanity did not bode well at all had it been not for an emergency phone booth that happened to be just a hundred meters back from our resting spot. Nearly losing my cool and scrambling to deal with the situation, I ran through the soft brown mud like Ben Johnson minus steroids. The beaconing orangey booth was the only refuge in the raging ocean. It had no telephone receiver instead it offered a huge two-way interlocutor to communicate with the local police. Helpful on most occasions my Spanish wheels were coming off – thundering rain drops, traffic noise and general pitiful state of my harried mind were playing tricks. Ultimately managing to convey my announcement, I was heart broken to find a complete dearth of local charities for stranded drivers. The only help available was a hire of a towing rig, “servicio privado” kind, which definitely was going to come at a price – cheapness does not always pay! And indeed my options were looking bleak along with my pale face and mud splattered shoes.

As I was pondering my options, I happened, with a corner of my eye, to catch a glimpse of a big Portuguese truck (“Vehiculo Luongo”) pulling onto a gravel parking lot just in front of the Jaguar. I guess he just pulled in for a quick rest on a long track with his buddy who was just slowing down to turn. This time I ran like Ben Johnson on steroids.

Within few short minutes I had my own, freshly sucked out, diesel emergency supply in a Coke bottle, cut in half for the occasion. Happy prance back to the car and we are back in business! My newly found angels would not take any money for the favour instead I gave them a nice chocolate bar to munch on. Only God could have let us have our lesson shortened in such a dramatic fashion. Had we run out of gas on any other kilometre of that highway and our troubles might have had far less humour in them. As it was we swerved to the nearest town a fill up and much to the astonishment of the gas station attendant, I requested a mere six litre fill up – old Jewish habits die hard and I was nearly sure of my calculations…

With the needle back in the safe territory, our finish in Seville was almost in sight. Suddenly with still thirty kilometres left, we bumped into a serious rush hour traffic jam. Crawling at 20 KMH was half the problem. The other was the insolent needle once again started dipping precariously close to zero. My original mileage calculations were made on the basis of fast driving. Now the whole thing was just unravelling. I clutched my jaw in stubborn denial when passing a couple of gas station. I tried to keep a straight face and not let our companions feel the true suffering ripping at my greedy strings. I felt like bursting. The pressure of reason burst the pecuniary dam and I gave in. This time I went for a gigantic three litre fill-up! You should have seen the incredulous smirks of the clerks seeing the king’s ransom dolled out for my latest shenanigans! They asked for empty tank and empty tank they were going to get!

Being in stuck in traffic in a foreign city when in a time crunch is hardly a pleasure at the best of times. Now, after 700K and a near death experience, Grockels were not even close to joviality. This time fist-fighting was narrowly avoided despite mad detours, unnecessary loops and bad directions descending all at the same time. Remember, have a detail map of any place you go and do not rely on goofy maps in Rick Steve’s books! Finally we were back to our old clay mudded parking lot – tired, hungry and apprehensive. My mind was churning in all possible directions when coming up with excuses for those treacherous bumper scratches – the only blemishes on my basically faultless 3,000 kilometre Iberian saga. My pulse started racing, my temples pounded and sweat was cropping up on my visage – the office clerk just left to inspect the vehiculo. I vainly tried to grasp any sign of displeasure as he strolled back to the office. Nothing – his face the same old indifferent self. “Todo Bien” – “All fine”. I just stared at him in disbelief. “All fine?” “Si, all is fine.” Thank you Lord! I almost galloped out of there. Tanya and Tracy were just as nearly dumbfounded and relieved. Bumper scratches in Spain must be treated similarly to road muck back home – inevitable and certainly forgivable.

At the railway station, we were happy to learn that our wait was going to be less than two hours until next available train on a busy Friday afternoon. Ready to settle into the comforts of the super speed wonder, I was utterly put out to learn that a purchase of “Ida y Vuelta” ticket in Spain confers slightly different results than those in other more transparent locales. An acquisition of a round trip ticket in Canada typically means no additional charges on the back end. On Renfe (Spanish Railroads) it means that you paid most of it with the rest due upon return trip seat assignment. I pleaded ignorance and bad Spanish; they insisted that it could not be otherwise. With all meagre trumps exhausted, we grudgingly paid an additional 34E per.

Now, back on the familiar train we snatched customary free headphones, opened the munchies and waited for the rest of cookies and tea service to arrive. Twenty minutes, one hour, another twenty passed – the service was nowhere to be seen despite frequent sightings of people in uniforms. The crimson of consumer rage was palpable. Taking matters in my own hands I went in search of the train supervisor. After all I wanted “My Cookies”! Well child, sometimes things do not work out the way you want. This time our seat assignment in Class Touristico lacked necessarily credentials. As far as our “cheapest” tickets on the first trip – they were Class Business and only became cheapest since they were the only ones left – I needed a remedial Spanish class. Feeling exhausted and spent, I craved for Madrid.


Madrid – Birth Place of Galacticos
Eventually we were pulling into the great city, the one I had heard and read so much about. The place of historic triumphs, political putsches and artistic miracles – much bespoke of its importance and glorious destiny – with some in the past and much yet to transpire. Transformed in the early 1500s from a dusty inconspicuous village into a centre of the most powerful Imperial power at a stroke of pen, Madrid is definitely unique. Its many conversions proceeded through the thick and thin of changing geopolitical fortunes, with much being done even during less than lustrous years of the Franco regime. He was just as susceptible to glamour as many mortals with a penchant for wide Parisian boulevards, large neo classic utilitarian buildings and uniform dress code – very dear to my ex-Soviet heart. The latter is especially liberating – just imagine how much more we can accomplish when preoccupations like haut fashion are thrown out of the window!

Fashions come and fashions go but some things do remain perfectly impervious to time. One of them is the pan European passion for football, otherwise known as soccer in hands of less capable. The passion for the game could be touched, felt and heard in London, Paris and Monchengladbach. It reverberates across plains, climbs over mountain ridges and slides through waterfalls, calm and turbulent alike. It is infectious and disturbing, with occasional misfortunes making their instant splash across world’s headlines. It is a huge part of life and some would say that it is life. Staying away from such heavy philosophical subject, one thing is for sure – when it comes to European club soccer, Madrid stands out like a giant among dwarfs. The position earned by the most trophy rich club in the world – Real Madrid.

With its golden time had at the expense of everyone else back in the 60s when Real claimed innumerable European Championship titles, the club still retains its magic, prestige and coffers. Fame is surely a nice accompaniment, but money is frequently the precise reason of its perennial successes. In fact, the club boasts so much of it that they alone can assemble a cast that routinely uses players like Beckham and Ronaldo as substitutes; it alone can manage to have national captains of England, France, Spain and Portugal play together. No wonder that the team’s nickname is “Los Galacticos”. Sure, in the last couple of years they have only managed a mediocre harvest with some uncertain times ahead. But regardless of its current performance or future expectations, Real Madrid is still the very face thousands and upon thousand of annual visitors come to see.

I am no exception among millions who follow the beautiful game and this visit to Madrid meant to soothe the fever, slightly. Of course, there are Goya, Velasquez and Phillip the Forth. There are bullfights, tapas and flamenco. All things are beautiful, worthy and haunting but none stood out as a visit to Santiago Bernabeu, the home of Los Galacticos.


Madrid – Immense and Local
Hungry, tired and sweaty were the first three things I could think of when dragged by our suitcases in the direction of Antocha Subway Station. Happy to quickly discover the most economic way to get around Madrid, carnets of 10 rides, we shortly found ourselves panting up to the fifth walk-up affair steps away from Principe Pious Station. A not very pleasant task hardly assuaged by helpful efforts and self-emulating demeanour of Victor, our next host du jour.

The promise of three separate bedrooms held this time like a charm. All were small, utilitarian and undecorated. Inexpensive (75E per night) and helped along by a tiny living room with a couch and a TV plus a decently sized kitchen and other more private facilities. All fit the bill just so, with austere and grey Victor’s visage finding a perfect match in these humble surroundings. His lack of colour undoubtedly came at the expense of a long smoking career, while drab curtains and old couch covers seemed to have been suffering in their current reincarnations from the times of Generalissimo.

Simplistic or charming, the unbeatable feature of our digs was their location. It could hardly been any more central and convenient. So much so that we used just over half of our subway tickets with the rest being donated to a wind-battered guitar case of a street musician. On our first sortie around the corner our nocturnal senses were simply overruled by the gigantic and white outlines of the Royal Palace. Soaring in floodlights on the top of the hill, it appeared to lack an earthly attachment and literally swooshed in the night sky with its foundation disappearing into the darkness. The latest effect came as a courtesy of the royal park, which remained unlit at night.

Slightly revived after a very long and trying day, we explored the area around Plaza Espana. A nice modern piece of Madrid with architecture mostly dating from the easy going 20s, the surroundings reminded of various excursions into Americana. Buildings, square and tall, exhibited an understated superiority that only money could buy – sort of Wall Street style. Streets, wide and glamorous, strove to lure many an automobilist into the world of oversized, gas guzzling and credit worthy vehicles. Shops, spacious and neon-lit, did not even pretend to emulate but outright export with Starbucks, McDonalds and Gaps on hand. With torturous autumn like rain, it felt like London. Standing on Strand or Baker Street would have felt just as natural with just a spoonful of Castile in the mix. The neighbourhood even had its share of English speaking Broadway shows. It felt odd, familiar and marshy. We needed to get away but did not know how. This would have to wait for another day. Succumbing to modern comforts we ended our first escapade with an oversized burger and fries. Spain anyone?

It is amazing what a few hours of rest can do. Add a dash of daylight and things were looking up. I just felt the need to get up and go. Going for a run towards Santiago Bernabeu appeared to be the best exploratory option. Combined with some utility it was irresistible. Since proud Madrilenos sniff at Internet, the best bet to get tickets was at the Stadium. At first, eyeballing the map I figured that I could do a round trip in about an hour. Well, with lungs polluted by cigarillos and exhaust, and my map eyeballing skills in need of rehab, I barely managed to reach the place in fifty minutes. Despite the delay, I did manage to cover some key points of local geography – a very useful tool when you are short on time.

Running, I anticipated to see the fateful Stadium that staged some of the most dramatic battles of the 1982 World Cup just around every next corner. Thirty, thirty five and forty minutes into the run, it was yet to be seen. Ultimately, it emerged in its heavy and concrete baulk destined to intimidate any opponent. Grey, multi-layered and almost non-descript, it would have been destined for absolute obscurity had it not been home of Real Madrid. As it was and despite an early hour, the parking lot contained at least five tour buses loaded with Blokes, Japanese and Koreans ready to part with a hefty 12E fee just to see famous trophies at the museum and take some photographs by the pitch. I had a slightly better idea lining up for tomorrow’s game with Real Betis. Luckily, and much to my relief, some tickets were still available in exchange for just half an hour of my time and 40E per (hard earned cash and no credit cards) – a rather steep official price in a European sense. And these were some of the cheapest with the prime seats leaping upward to 150E each. I was happy not to have snagged any of those numerous Internet re-sales just starting at 80E. I guess being a little cheap is OK sometimes…


Madrid – Medieval Vault
The best way to explore older Madrid is, of course, on foot. With the best offerings originating at the tourist office located right in the heart of the city – Plaza Mayor. Originally designed for public displays of gory entertainment and brutal justice, the square is a huge hit with tourists and locals alike. Plethora of overstuffed trinket shops, pricey restaurants and overcrowded tapa bars, the place threatens to become yet another epicentre of money making that no longer offers much in a way of authenticity. But for now, some indigenous spirits still persist in the iron clad, almost prison like, conditions of the modern economic sensibilities. Trying to avoid most obvious pitfalls, we happened upon a real gem – walking tours that cost a mere 3.20E per that offered two hours of exhilarating and fact packed pace not forgetting all things dainty and unique.

The theme of the day was “Medieval Madrid” delivered by a dark eyed and fiery lover of all things artful – Nadia. Somewhere around the nebulous cusp of early forties with smallish frame that was almost lost in the folds of her black coat and touting an occasional cigarette – she was a personification of anything Madrid. Expressive, assertive and loaded with tiniest historic details, she was loaded for a bear. Plaza Mayor, while a major focal point, was soon abandoned for more obscure and all the more interesting locales in the old town. In order to get a better grasp of all pertinent events, tales and royal successions it was important to learn some geopolitical basics right of the bet. Luckily, Nadia exhibited incredible knack for distilling things down to H2O. Two names to remember – Phillip and Carlos. You see, despite riches, glory and their world-wide notoriety Spanish kings lacked most basic creativities when it came to christening their male successors. Surnames have not fared much better – Habsburg and Bourbon are the only options. This is it in the nutshell! The rest is just arithmetic: all you have to know is some numbers not exceeding thirteen or fourteen. The rest is a piece of cake with just few historic mazes to weave in and out.

Going around these tiny passage ways and dead ends was great fun despite rather predictable nature of the subject. Just repeat: Romans, Moors, Re-Conquistadors, Americas, English, French and Franco. One more time: Romans, Moors, Re-Conquistadors, Americas, English, French and Franco. And voila! You are ready to pass Spanish history 101.

Nadia loved her art and was not about to dwell on basic outlines for too long. The time was short and stories were many. In one of them, a defiant and defeated French King refused to bow to his Spanish counterpart claiming equality even in the face of his military misfortunes. The only way to subjugate the recalcitrant king was to build a special undersized arch for him to walk through to yet another lavish reception (much better than POWs under Geneva terms). Being the only way to enter the banquet, the esteemed Valois bowed, fulfilling the vain wishes of his conqueror without losing his own face – a very Japanese of them, do not you think?

Few steps down the street with a bagful of stories, mystical and plausible, we were treated to yet another peculiar sight. This one arrived in a form of a very tall bridge spanning between the Palace Hill and so called Moorish quarter (Moors in reality did not really occupy much of the village prior to its ascension as the capital). Being so lofty and focal, the bridge has been a subject of many a tale. One of those recounted a certain unfortunate love connection between a poor carpenter and a daughter of a noble family. Any attempts by the lovers to legitimize their relationship came to naught, as her dignified family would have none of it. Ultimately, the desperate bride decided to throw herself off the bridge to end the misery. Fortunately, she survived completely unscathed – all had to do with one of those elaborate and gigantic dresses of the time that served as a great pre-cursor to the modern parachute. Overjoyed by the miracle and apprehending the depth of the attachment, her family relented and the marriage was blessed. Just do not do it next time!

One of the most interesting stories for my taste was one of a Madrid envoy who got sent to the king of Samarkand with instructions to survey, report and make sense of fairy tale riches attributed to that far away kingdom. Very impressed and not willing to loose face he, in turn, resorted to elaborate riddles when describing his own land where people scaled heights like cats and lived behind the walls of fire. Mesmerised, the ruler of Samarkand could not resist but send a delegation of ambassadors who found the flourishing Madrid with its population Christian and its walls made out of flint stone. The former took back their digs by ably climbing Moorish castles while the latter left a fiery train of sparks whenever brushed with metal objects. Simple, prosaic and disappointing…

Apart from much historic intrigue, Nadia was also big on some current local tips such as restaurants, theatres and other good stuff. Some of her descriptions were vivid and mouth-watering. So much so I could not resist but check out a couple of the recommended places. In one such place, a small family-run affair called “La Chatas” I managed to commit a Faux Pas of the day while enquiring about some authentic dishes. You see, my desire to partake in a dish of “Rabo del Burro” (ass’s tail) unfortunately sounded a little less tasty to my sardonically laughing hosts who had much more defined preference for “Rabo del Torro” (bull’s tail). Laughing at myself was the only option – humiliation and amusement usually walk hand in hand.


Zarzuela
To finish our first day we needed to get a cultural kick. What could be better than a ballet performance at Zarzuela Theatre? The notion of Zarzuela has much local flavour as it is an operetta like art practiced alongside its more cultured and elevated cousins of classical ballet and opera. While these are performed in much vaunted and prominently located Opera, Zarzuela is practiced in less conspicuous surrounding hemmed in a grid of narrow streets near Puerta del Sol. Despite resting in the shadows of international obscurity, many in Spain have soft heart for Zarzuela due to its folksy character that derives much of humour and wit from daily scenes in some contrast to lofty and well-lit studios of high browed intellectuals. Ready to proceed down darker alleys of fiery Spanish character, we were eager to taste this delight except for a little scheduling issue - regular Zarzuela season was over and we had to settle for a performance by Spanish National Ballet.

Snugly in the highest tier seats, we posed in anticipation of what turned out to be a two-hour plus Flamenco extravaganza. What a pleasant surprise, especially when you can share in the national pride with connoisseurs as opposed to tourist only stage-ups touted all over. The two act spectacle was a true gem, save for a couple of minor distractions – a never ending German chatter from below and extremely heavily made-up old Madrilena in a very spooky dark garb with frills. We turned out blinders and tunes in.

The first act was of more traditional Flamenco art with habitual attire, steps and themes. The second with a strong surrealistic bend that included floating bread loaves, pointless bike rides and a freaky oversized electronic eye that lived, searched and died in slow succession of general chaos. All this presented hard to untangle collection of evocative and meaningless stage motions only occasionally assuaged by firm and timeless steps of Flamenco - Salvador Dali would have been undoubtedly pleased...

Due to determinate efforts to stay away from deciphering dizzying illusions, we walked out inspired and re-charged for more. Others around were of the same disposition as they did not mind in your face sidewalk entertainment provided by a very pronounced low operatic voice emanating from a Pavarotti like character with crazy hair “a-la Einstein”. A number of heavy Euro coins clunked their way into his wide, spread out hat. After all, entrepreneurial and unemployed artists deserve some crumps courtesy of more fortunate counterparts. Some even do double shifts as our Pavarottian Einstein surfaced an hour later on the doorsteps of Opera, disgorging its latest clients at the end of a cultural feast. Falling rain and hurrying caped aristocracy could hardly tame his expansive and, at times, shrilling notes. Many felt compelled to cooperate. Few more Euros softly landed on wet felt - hopefully enough to satisfy the ample girth of its master.


Bourbon Madrid
Having enjoyed our first walk with Nadia, we could not resist the temptation of the next offering delving into the luscious and tasty bits of the Bourbon dynasty. Ready and touting capped plastic coffee cups from Duncan Donuts (!), we shared the morning with a couple of teachers from England and a retired cute pair of mixed origins plus a couple of Americans. Friendless (Tanya had to attend yet another art collection) but cosy we schlepped behind our indomitable guide.

This time, instead of inspecting narrow quarters of medieval and haphazard recesses so much favoured by reclusive Hapsburgs, we enjoyed wide avenues, lavish palaces and spacious parks – all unmistakable hallmarks of expansive Bourbons. They surely could have started with much less conspicuous tastes but after the escapades of their most famous son, Luis the Fourteenth of France, they could not turn back despite some moral and fiscal constraints. Spain, taken over by Luis’s descendants in the mid 1700s, bore full costs of many luxuries without having all that much to say in the process.

No more Hapsburg austerity, concealed riches and understated appearances. Bourbons were much inclined not just to leave their mark but also do in a very clear, decisive and abrupt manner to ensure that no mistake was made about who the new boss was. And yet in some cases they had to be a little more circumspect in deference to some strong local sensibilities. As such they (Carlos V to be exact) preferred an “accidental” fire and not an outright demolition to dispose of the old Alcazar. Still in cinders, the old structure did not stand a chance and promptly succumbed to its lavish successor regally occupying the whole hill with its marble staircases, countless rooms (over 1,500 in all) and priceless art. The new Royal Palace was not the only novelty, as many other governmental structures, wide avenues and mansions of influential courtiers promptly transformed the capital landscape.

This is how the famous Paseo del Prado and the boulevard de Recoletos arose amidst the primordial mud of neglected suburbs. The new dawn of Spanish art flourished with likes of Goya and Velasquez forever transforming our perception of the Iberia, the one finally emerging from the dust of Inquisition and Imperial collapse – vive la France (is this a sacrilege?).

With all this in mind, Nadia was only delighted to take us around Bourbon inspired highlights that extended until the dawn of the previous century – a very prolific period of creative outbursts reverberating through easy times preceding the devastation of the WWI. Neo classic was certainly in vogue, together with neo Gothic and, predictably neo Baroque they duked it out in a productive and fiercely competitive triumph of what makes today’s Madrid so pleasant, diverse and appealing. One of the last vestiges of the golden age is a couple of hotels next to el Prado museum. The two were constructed in a hasty run-up to the wedding of Alfonso the Thirteenth in 1913. The undertaking was almost an afterthought upon a sudden realization that the impending nuptials were not going to be sufficiently equipped to receive its high flying crowd of guests. Despite undoubtedly tight deadlines, one of the latest Bourbons pulled the feat admirably well with thousands salivating at posh digs that still lure many regardless of steep first class prices. Alas, our time with Nadia had come to an end complete with a parting photograph and a couple of tips on how to spend the next couple of hours before our el Prado date with the Student.


Rastro – a Breath of Life
Among a number of alternatives, attending Rastro was a no-brainer. Being the largest and the most vibrant weekend market this is a must for ardent seekers of anything new. When in the last throes of a trip this is particularly rewarding considering that one can really load up on cheap and numerous presents. The choices are nearly endless ranging from raunchy underwear of questionable quality to better takes at leather coats and exquisite shoals. Our initial and tentative approach did not unveil anything new in the already much animated scene around the Plaza Mayor – street musicians, professional beggars and purveyors of anything useless shoved the rest, of what we call live, aside. Trying to safely navigate while attempting to take in some degree of sightseeing was the best we could do.

Suddenly, bending around yet another tight and very medieval corner, the sidewalks became virtually impassable with any attempt at sightseeing denigrated to the much more prosaic art of shopping. Stalls, colours and people changed at light speed even if you did not move an inch. Not quite ready to stop we just plunged into this meat grinder of colours and senses, just hold to your purse!

From then on, the only thing I could concentrate on was my bag that swung to the front providing a barrier to any nefarious attempt at pick-pocketing. Not a bad idea considering complete absence of personal space and unfortunate need to use one’s money from time to time. With this on my mind I kept stumbling behind quick and sure footsteps of my, much better equipped for shopping, half. At times, entirely lost, I had to resort to “Creature” calls in order to recover my bearings. In other instances I was busy at convincing Tracy that our new, ample and already overflowing suitcase was a clear and nearly ultimate evil. Much of it worked as we managed to leave the place with just a handful of bargains with some counting as true gems that included a couple of shoals procured at less than 4E per pair. I was elated with not having to buy yet another piece of luggage while managing to indulge my meagre acquisition juices with a pair of trinkets to justify simple tastes of my dear mother.

In addition, the outing did dish out a little serendipity arriving in the shape of the elderly Madrid pair from England who just took a Bourbon tour “a-la Nadia”. They were happy to introduce us to some Rastro specialties such as pastry lottery, which kind of works like “Scratch-and-Win at the Bay” – i.e. you always get the least possible advantage. At first, instead of a sweet and hollow tube dipped in honey you get a lottery entry for your Euro. Then, you spin a wheel to arrive at the precise cholesterol intake of your next snack. I think we could have gotten up to three-for-one deal. Fortunately, our old and artery conscious friend managed to get her hands on just one such death stick, which she hastily and graciously donated to our more voluminous and breathing with life heartbeats. Excellent! Spanish-English-Canadian peace preserved, hospital visits saved and Big Pharma failed to sell yet another overpriced pill!


El Prado – Century Twenty One
Propped with some extra sugary energy, we successfully propelled our senses further to the brink of overindulgence – El Prado (By the way, Mr. Gates! This word deserves to pass your spell-check!). This one is rumoured to be one of the top five art museums in the world was an obligatory and yet surprisingly pleasant leg of our weary journey. First of all it was Sunday, which meant the entry was FREE. Secondly, despite many tourist books’ assertions it turned out to be rather manageable and not very intimidating - just wait till they double the footage to exhibit all three thousand masterpieces at once! Do they still qualify as masterpieces when there are so many of them? Lastly, the gift shop is welcoming and is abounding in not so expensive trinkets designed for many a taste and wallet.

While starting with a close look at Renaissance, after giving a cold and very discerning shoulder to earlier and decidedly flatter antiques, we were quickly imbued with colours, intricacy and fresh thoughts wafting from the picturesque banks of Arno. Much to our surprise the clear winner of the bunch did not even arrive at the expense of things Tuscan, as Belgian Bosch took the prise with his futuristic display of the…future. Having indulged in fanciful and chilling imaginary of Heaven and Hell, we found it hard to concentrate on early Dutch gloom of the 16th century with the likes of Van Dyke left behind in the brownish merchant dust. Instead he created a veritable Sci-Fi colony of indecipherable meanings and scattered thoughts.

The next on the list was obligatory Goya with his life in the open just like those of Paris Hilton and Brittany Spears with the exception of style – “He” was scandalizingly artful and “They” are artfully scandalous. His unexpected changes in direction when it came to styles, colours and moods ranging anywhere from suicidal to celebratory, were truly astounding. My appreciation for his vacillating transformations between misery and triumph left a chilling reminder of human mortality and haplessness that finds no other solace than God Himself (the time had come to pop in an extra Paxil pill…or may be, quit reading the book of Ecclesiastes).

Well, as I needed some burst of extraneous to revive my spirits none could have been handier than Velasquez with his propensity for pomp, plump and purple. Royal families in abundance of red, effulgent rose and raven black, for a penultimate finish, managed to resuscitate if not completely restore. Chased with a reasonable dosage of Rubens flesh, the memories of Goya were setting on the horizon. In fact, I could feel my carnal instincts taking over all of my spiritual recesses by never-ending “bloody” Rubens. This guy was just like those liberated bra-less northern types besieging the beaches of once pristine Mallorca; he just could not concentrate on anything unless it had its nipples exposed.

Everything was getting a little blurry by this point. Crusading for “El Prado in less than three hours” is never an easy task and now I urgently needed some air that arrived at the expense of none other than the over-appreciated kings of all things elusive – impressionists and their ever present King Vincent. Now I could finally exhale and enjoyed life as nothing in this section of the museum invited any sort of concentration – smudged shapes, explosive colours and deformed minds - they soothed, swirled and spat us back out to the remains of the sunny day in Madrid.


Real Madrid – a Rotting Empire
After partaking in a good cup of coffee with rude service in the Mirror Café, we arrived at the deafening scene in front of Santiago Bernabeu. The first signs were extremely encouraging – large milling crowds with silly horns, souvenir shop with everything overpriced and hundreds of out of town buses rendering life completely stationary. Forget about Rafael and Sandro, this spectacle was live and exciting - less clever no doubt, but much more invigorating for sure.

Finally finding our gate, we entered the Mecca of modern football. A perfunctorily body search revealed some excessive local interest in bottle caps – water, pop and bear were the equal victims. Since not allowed, we had to say good-bye to our personal anti-germ barriers left lying in the mounds of their counterparts of all colours and sizes – I understand knifes, petards and even forks, but what is the deal with the bottle caps?! Well, I could sacrifice a couple for all inclusive sighting of David Beckham (Is Posh included?). Now, we had to climb never ending steps - the award of all things cheap – nose-bleed seats. Only a row or two from the very top, we cosily baked in the evening sun, together with thousands hailing from about all corners of the Planet except Madrid itself. Predictably blond Japanese were touting their latest blitzing gadgetry, ruddy cheeked Blokes from Tyne were sporting US Marine hairdos and tame behaviour that evenly matched all sorts of Spanish out-of-towners trying to blow country’s health budget with a myriad of premature lung diseases.

Surely there were a lot of celebratory attributes with many a flag, banner and scarf. The stadium was slowly filling with pre-game expectations and Los Galacticos were doing their silly warm-up goose-steps below. Nobody was paying a slightest degree of attention to the lowly visitors, all eyes set on mostly underachieving superstars. Much to the chagrin of countless Grockels, Blokes and Krauts the likes of David Beckham and Ronaldo were conspicuously missing from the starting line-up. I was bracing for the worst while making the light out of the situation for my less disappointment-equipped companions. The Student wanted a home goal fast, Tracy was pining for smokeless Tofino breeze and all I could hear were those blasted and exceedingly colourless blow horns. The cacophony was reaching its crescendo when the game was about to start with introduction of obligatory relics in a shape of tattered team banners and a listless Real song blown through huge speakers with hardly anyone in the crowd to pick up the tune. The eighty thousand seats were nearly full, the horns were blasting and the atmosphere was outright dead. Forget about the unison glories of Anfield or crazy racket of Nou Camp, this was not promising in the least. Apart from few miniature pockets with large and aged flags, the only sector of the stadium in elation was a lonely patch of die-hards behind the home goal. They waved, shouted, chanted and sang – all in vain with screechingly foreign horns squeezing remaining life out of the overpriced entertainment.

The game itself hardly managed to show off any redemptive qualities. Of course, there were some dazzling saves by Casillas, brash runs by Roberto Carlos and thoughtful game management by Zinadine Zidane. But all of this led precisely to naught with pesky Betis defences comfortably swallowing less than potent attacking waves of their rivals. On a couple of occasions, they came tantalizingly close to goal markers of their own. After an absolutely dull intermission exclusively marked by massive smoke break that emptied the crazy enclave behind the goal for a ten minute pause. It was sort of peculiar to see the lifeless banners spread over the seats while their ardent owners went out for some fresher outside air to inhale. I even got a sensation that it was not only banners that were lifeless…as even they owners did their game antics for something less noble than pure enjoyment of the game. Everybody was just going through the motions – players got oversized packages in exchange for lifetime of second hand smoke while transient and multi-national supporters hid ugly emptiness of local seats due to exceptional marketing powered by the very dollars they brought. Truth be told, long gone were he times of sheer and unadulterated success, Real Madrid had turned just into yet another well-promoted product on the shelf. Just like Coca-Cola, it is addictive, useless and expensive. The sugary water from the Deep South fills you with gratuitous calories and Real Madrid art fills you with…

Even the momentary appearance of Mr. Beckham on the sidelines did little to create excitement. Clinging to the last bits of the sinking ship I was not about to lose the moment. With camera in tow, I sprinted deep down into the bowels of the arena to find a better shot. With every subsequent level on the way down, the security got tighter and tighter. The lower level with thick doors and menacing guards proved to be particularly impenetrable. Conceding the weakness, I had to settle for a decent second level zoom directed right at the twenty five million dollar bottom of unsuspectingly calm Mr. Posh. This was about the only highlight deemed especially judicious since it was the last we saw of the bench-riding treasure that night. With the score 0:0 and the Student decidedly downtrodden we mourned the loss of 40E per, together, in an artful display of mutual misery.


Toledo – Plastic Paradise
Our last day in Madrid was allotted for a day trip to the old capital of Spain – Toledo. Many have referred to it as one of the world’s wonders, many have penned a poem or two, and some have profited handsomely by exploiting every living stone for all its worth. Tour book writers are the most predictable culprits who propel thousands to taste the presumed historic delights much sharpened by the perennial rivalry with its younger sibling, Madrid. While the latter managed to bite off decidedly bigger piece of the ruling franchise, some weighty remains of the former lingered behind for years clinging to claims as a religious epicentre of the state.

Today with much of the past bitterness irrevocably resolved in Madrid’s favour, Toledo has found its contemporary calling by snagging numerous tourist distinctions that culminated in World Heritage Site designation. With anti-Madrid sentiments on the wane, it has instead adapted to feed on its strength and proximity – sort of like an older underemployed sister living rent free in the heavily mortgage abode of her upwardly mobile brother with a Porsche and a Blackberry (or Crackberry as it is better known for its remarkably addictive qualities). This sister boasts fast modern train connections, heavy undiscerning bus loads of Madrid staying tourists and high mark-ups on anything spanning from remarkably amazing marzipan to gaudy oversized swords and shoals at 8E per (exactly the same ones from Rastro at less than 2E). All benefits and no midnight rowdiness – Madrid can keep its drunks, garbage and public urinals all to its splendid self. A perfect revenge, do not you think?

Even in the low season, Toledo is so popular that the only train tickets we could get were of one- way kind. On the way back, we would have to struggle all on our own. Taking a bit of a risk we proceeded. Only mere forty minutes later, the train dumped us out at the local train station on the outskirts of town. The extra distance was not particularly vexing though, as it gave us a chance to stop by well-situated bus station to discover that buses were many and they were cheap at mere 4E for a trip back to Madrid.

Happy to have a return passage, we climbed the steep approaches to the old city, surrounded by impressive ancient walls and donned into distinctly subdued tones of brown. These came courtesy of the town ordinance that requires that any buildings, new or old, retain their unique architectural uniformity. And since the brown is a natural stone colour in the area, it lands its heavy hand on everything that ever gets built and re-built inside the old walls. Picturesque to be sure, the inside scenes, right from the start, appeared to be unnecessary sterile and lacking in character. Yes, the architecture was superb and marzipan delicious but everything else inside lacked a certain degree of spontaneity and chaos that are so well preserved in the likes of Seville and Granada.

The actual life seemed to have stopped here long ago by disgorging the locals into new suburbs with the old town given exclusively to tourists. Predictably, all that brown felt outright fake. Just like a medieval version of Disneyland. Even discovering some of the town’s landmarks provided little joy save for a magnificent valley views from the precipice near old Alcazar. By the time we were descending upon the Cathedral with precious El Greco frescoes inside, I could not care less. All I wanted was to stop, sit and look at the lofty spires – much better than starring at sudden uniformity of passing humanity. The contemplation certainly helped with some spontaneous entertainment to boot. One act was provided by rambunctious travelling pensioners in search of life and the other came at unsuspecting expense of two amazingly local figures pacing Cathedral Square with back-and-forth precision of a Swiss clock. These rickety octogenarian pair was the definite highlight of our visit here and a living proof that life still went on despite all that cosmopolitan clunking of hard currency and other commoditizing signs of globalization. Alas, our Grockel ways called us into action soon enough, successfully killing any inkling of creative contemplation. Trudging and ruminating remaining marzipan explosions we jumped on the multi-level elevator contraption for the sake of a “done that” credit. Quickly freezing in the lifeless coldness of the famed gem once again we made our final exit with little damage and even less regret. It was time to give up and move on to a sweaty, authentic and cheap bus to Madrid – the Porsche driving brother with the character.


Missing the Meninas
The rest was just a matter of mechanics - tasteless and overpriced paella dinner at Plaza Mayor; miserable and torturously short sleep with a 4AM wake-up; and an embarrassing dash to the airport cash machine to pay for the cab due to some “careful” cash management on my part. All was just perfect in its unravelling. The time to go home had clearly arrived and not a moment too soon.

Few hours later, on our second leg, third nap and a fifth movie, Tanya decided to assuage her fatigue with some useful “been there” check marking by going through the Rick Steves’ version of Spain. All went well until, oh horror! WE MISSED THE MENINAS!!! The painting that is considered by many as the only masterpiece that can rival indomitable Giaconda (Mona Lisa) was right in front of us! We must have walked right by it while trying to consume the exuberant colours of Velasquez on his kick to kiss every royal ass around. His techniques while as vibrant as shimmering late summer sunset, proved to be sweeter than molasses that we could swallow no longer when The Meninas came into the view. That’s the only possible explanation I can come up with for the grandiose faux-pas of an omission for own fiercely travelling ranks. Long settled the dust behind the empty Jag and famed Jeronimos left orphaned with yet another Goya denied a look but this one palpitated as one big disappointment. We could have been born different I suppose but we were not.

Well, too late to go back to Prado and I fell back into the torpor of an airborne attempt at sleep while The Meninas was begging for a repeat…