crossroads

you've approached a fork;
what's funny's when you don't know,
you need only move

Lucky bird

The rooster is Portugal's national symbol of good fortune. Souvenir shops are full of rooster-shaped bells, rooster-painted tiles, rooster flags, rooster plates. Rooster corkscrews.

On today's visit to Lisbon's dewy-fantastical-mountain-etched neighbor city, Sintra, I found two live roosters.

Since I was alone in a keen hillside park when I heard the clucks, my small cry of delight at this novelty was mostly swallowed by the park's boulders and wood chips. Amused and thrilled by the roosters and their sweet park, I hung out for a bit. The roosters posed. Clucked. Dug a few arbitrary piles of dirt. Mesmerizing.

When the roosters disappeared behind some trees, I continued up the path, and kept hiking a few miles up to the crest of the mountain, to catch the beautiful gardens of Palacio da Pena [photo left]. Ask me about 'em.

Flight to Dublin-New-York-Chicago tomorrow!

Lisbon expert e bom vista panoramania

Yesterday morning, I met up with my flatmate Ray's good friend, Christie, who happens to be a wondrous city host, and delightful company.

Christie ordered us two Brazilian-style coffees (half strong espresso, half milk) and we opened my map. In Lisbon about a year and a half, Christie claims to be part tourist herself. I beg to differ. As I looked on, thrilled, Christie bullet-pointed a few of her favorite spots in Lisbon, giving me an idea of what places to consider indispensable and what to avoid during my abbreviated stay here.

While I grinned, Christie led me beyond a hillside park and down an ensconced set of narrow steps to a great little lunch spot–an eclectic, informal outdoor cafe with a view over western Lisbon and the water. (It's hard to get enough of these vistas. Lisbon's colors and texture are intoxicating.)

We walked up and down Lisbon's Chiado and Barrio Alto areas and Christie pointed out that she'd never been to a place with so many publicly available city view-points. Sure enough, after we gazed out at the eastern half of the cidade, I followed Christie's advice to climb to the hill-top Castillo on the other side of central Lisbon for another perspective, and to a nearby church to add to the panorama. Thanks to this girl, yesterday I caught some of the best vistas I've seen yet in the city.

Christie's easy, fun company enriched my afternoon in Lisbon, and I look forward to hitting up more of her nifty recommendations...Thanks again, girl! (And thanks, flatmatey, for hooking us up!)

Many more photos on Facebook.

Multicolored sunglasses

San Sebastian, Espana. Woman on the middle beach. Not enough space left on Flickr this month, so I uploaded a few more photos of San Sebastian, and some early Lisbon shots, to Facebook!

San Sebastian, e Papa em Lisboa

I'm in a couchette car on a train from San Sebastian, Spain, to Portugal. It's morning; there's about an hour to go. Outside: alternating reels of deciduous trees, sienna-shingled rooftops, modern motels, fields, small orchards, palms.

This train has been lucky. Examples: my couchette car has a rare, single power outlet, plus a clean sink. I'm the only one left in the car, so I can freshen up. And though my ticket is really only for Coimbra, the ticket-man is letting me stay on until Lisbon, at the end of the line.

My nine hour 'layover' in San Sebastian yesterday was a treat. I was lucky to be there on a sunny, warm dia between two thunderstorms. Post- dropping my pack off at an Internet café, I wove through the old part of town following a local's recommendation, then hiked the perimeter of the place's three coastal beaches to find a solid reading spot. I'd hoped to jump in, too, but no one was near the water. A sunbathin' town it was. Aye, and a practiced one. (You could tell because the lot of the local folk turned their towels, knees, bared chests and all to face the sun, rather than the water.)

So I took a sunbath, although it didn't get me cleaner, only warm, and then a series of large clouds took away all the fun of it. Then I spent the rest of my least-active-European-afternoon-yet walking the coast, snapping photos, reading and thinking of haiku. Sun down, I scored a free half-hour at the Internet café from a kind older gentleman (think Neverending Story). Then bought a pincho de tortilla de patatas, for old pinchos' sake, and got on the train.

More keen luck: one of my friendly train roommates, a Portuguese woman with olive skin, a portly maternal air, a perpetual smile and a mouth full of words, gave me the name of a pastry to try in Lisbon. She also reassured me that the quiet customs officer that suddenly came by to check my passport was doing so because –Oyche, the Pope is coming to Portugal. And i' tweel be a mees!

***

I'm in my hostel in Lisbon. Papa Bento is indeed in town, and his arrival has stopped all public transportation along his route into the city, at least for today. On the walk from the train station to the hostel, the roads are blocked off. There are policia everywhere. There's even a website for the occasion. It's exciting, to have arrived at the same time as an internationally-known figure, who has his own mobile.

I'll tell people we came together.

Ash evasion; adventure afoot

Icelandic Eyjafjallajökull's stubborn volcanic ash cloud, from which my flight to Europe two weeks ago just barely escaped, is now effecting parts of Spain and Portugal.

The cloud shut the gates of Porto's little airport, canceling my flight there yesterday, and keeping me in Lyon another night.

Having delayed check-in for two hours, delayed the flight another three, and given an unclear explanation of the cancellation to a group of chaotic, disenchanted travelers, my budget airline gave each passenger a coupon for 4.50 Euros' worth of airport fare, and the option to apply to refund our tickets.

The process wore me out, but in a fatigued, head-achy state, I got me back to Lyon's main train station and called my host mum, hoping she'd take me in another night. No deal; nice as she tried to be, Michaely was out for the night and coordinating a rendezvous without a local cell phone would be tough. Then our phone call was cut off.

By email, I reassured Michaely I'd be fine and 'splurged' on a budget hotel near the train station. Chilly, bare floors. Solid bed, working shower. I collapsed without brushing my teeth.

Ah, but then I slept. Utterly refreshed this morning, I found that in my slightly-blurry, slightly-defeated state last night, I'd made a solid decision. With the help of a very knowledgeable young SNCF rail-clerk, I'd reserved seat on an overnight train to Irun, Spain for tonight. Irun is just over the southern border of France.

If I can, I'll hit up San Sebastian, supposedly a gorgeous beach town, which happens to be just nearby Irun. Planning my trip back in March, I'd attempted to work this town into the plan. Mom wrote 'be careful with those thoughts.' She says they make things happen.

Once in Irun, I'll buy another overnight-train ticket for Coimbra, Portugal, which is between Porto and Lisbon. I'd planned to spend a couple of days in Porto, but I'll be low on time by then, so I'll probably head right to Lisbon from Coimbra.

My route from Lyon to Lisbon will look something like this.

I'm grinning right now. Those stringed instruments in my chest are warming up.

Most posts are more delightful with photos, so here's one of Lyon at sunset, from the banks of the Rhone river.

Il pluet!

For the past five days or so, it has rained here in Lyon. Plus, it has been cool. Today, it was chilly enough that I borrowed a yellowish-goldish coat from my host, and wore it with a bright red pashmina scarf. I noticed a lot of glances came my way on my walks to and from French class. Maybe because looked like a chic Ronald McDonald.

Still, I can't stay inside for too long in a new city. So I've been walking and taking photos, two of my favorite things.

Have you heard that car companies shoot commercials on wet roads, because it makes the picture look fresher, makes the car look sharper?

That may not be quite the case with this set, but the rain did have some cool effects.

...Well, for Pierre's sake! Have a look. :o)

chocolate, cream, coconut, pistachio, vanilla bean, yes.

Treat yesterday: 'chocolat pistache'

Mmm.

Pont-crossing

Breakthrough. Cet apres-midi, after a walk through the river-side outdoor market and a small picnic lunch, some classmates and I crossed a footbridge. As the day was gray, but less cold, and we were jolly and on a bridge, the thing to do was take a photo together. We asked a passing duo to do the favor.

As it happened, the female half of the pair, Mercedez, was from Spain, here visiting her friend Tomas.

Upon learning that Mercedez came from Madrid, I got excited. I'd spent my first two days in Lyon inserting Castellano-Spanish words into my attempts at communication in French. [My brain: Sorry. You can't find the French word. Would you like to resort to default foreign language?] So at this juncture, I'm sure I lit up. Golly wizard! I thought. Someone I can converse with, sans hesitations and free of oohms! [Oohm is the thing I say when I want to buy time. 'Oohm.' With a bit of 'nase.' It sounds very French, I tell myself. Totally legitimate.]

To convey my delight vocally to Mercedez, I burst out - Ah cool! I lived in Madrid. I like it very much! -

But the words that I thought would spill forth like Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil instead tumbled out in Euro-interlingual chaos. Spanish cheese or French ham. [A strange complementary mix: okay, but not quite as good.] To Mercedez, I said the equivalent of - Oh, tres cool! Je was la during une semester. Il liked it tres bien!

Phew.

Reader, you're confused. It's cool; I was confused too. At first. But here's my point, and maybe a note of comfort for anyone who wants to learn to speak a new foreign language in their early 20s: as Mercedez and I shared a more fluid conversation, I was thrilled to realize that my default foreign language has finally been upset! I wasn't falling back on Spanish, or even English as easily; I've become accustomed to working to find the French!

This seems to mean I can't resort to Spanish anymore, and I have to be intentional about switching accents and vocabulary. It means things won't be so simple. But it also means that French is a contender.

Some of this beautiful language is sticking. It stuck to my shoe, as we left Mercedez and Tomas and crossed to the other end of the footbridge.