Give me a couple months and I will have an ass of Steel...

Yesterday a few of us dragged our hungover little bodies to Cintra, a charming little medievil town a short train ride outside of Lisbon. The Moorish castel perched high atop a hill is probably its main attraction, but we instead opted for the Quinta Da Regaleira, an obscenely overdecorated estate located in vast garden grounds with a slightly insane metaphysical subtext. There are beutiful palaces and castles and churches all over this lovely town...and we pick our destination because we heard there are caves you can play in....childish much?....Brutal hangover aside (the Bario Llto plus extra hour of fun night...what can you expect) we spend the afternoon...well playing in caves and checking out this very bizarre Porugese man's ideas on interior decoration and the substantive and spiritual nature of metaphysical reality. I am not making this up...but I do suspect a very odd guide pamphlet translation my be the cause of some of this wierdness. That night we headed to a little club for yet more drinking and a little celebration for Jose's (a 25 year old architect from Mexico city) birthday, it apparently not having been celebrated sufficiently the evening before. I have made some Aussie friends, and their dedication to the drink is making my affinity for the stuff look like mere childs play. This evening we leave for Lagos, but I must say Lisbon is truly gorgeous and I will miss it. However, holy hills batman. I have spent days trekking about the city, (which really is all I have done, save for the Castelo se Sao Jorge, a medievil structure perched atop..you guessed it, another hill) just wandering around. But while I adore the location of the hostel, it's proximity neccisitates a near epic climb up to the Bario Alto. If I keep this up i will be able to crack walnuts with my ass....seriously....

Do not pour water on the floor....

Lisbon is amazing. It reminds me so much of San Francisco it's weird. There is a golden gate bridge, and I do mean a near exact replica, the whole city is incredibly hilly and cable cars are zipping everywhere. If San Francisco had an illegitimate half sister, it would be Lisbon. It made me feel very at home, except everyone kept insisting on speaking Portuguese to me, go figure. I arrived on a Friday, with no reservation of course, and soon (by soon, I mean after an exhausting 3 hour hike around the city with a 20 kilo pack strapped to my back) found there were no hostel beds in the city, at all. I ended up in this crappy pension run by a woman who spoke NO English, tried to rip me off, not once but twice (big ups to the lovely Lisbon Lounge worker who sorted that little mess for me), and had signs posted all over warning you not to pour water on the floor. Is this really an ever present problem, guests who pour water on the floor? But after this little snafu I happily settled in for 3 days in what has quickly become one of my favorite European cities. Then night life is amazing, totally unpretentious fun. The Barrio alto, a neighborhood atop the hills that looks kind of empty and nondescript during the day, throws open its doors and the streets fill with kids clutching 1 or 2 Euro drinks that are served in plastic cups, so that you can take them from bar to bar. Everyone is so chilled out, the local girls are dressed in jeans and t-shirts, a nice change of pace from the de riguer baby hooker gear sported in almost every other major European city, and everyone is having a great time. How much do I love it that my hostel is right in the middle of it all. It also happens to be within 50 meters of the miradour de Santa Catarina. This is a little park like overlook thing that everyone gathers to have a few beers and watch the sunset. Kids, old people, hippies, tourists, students. Everyone just sort of sits down and has a drink while the sun slowly descends behind the bridge and disappears into the river. It really is a truly lovely sight.....doesn't hurt that the beer is really cheap too....

Off to Lisbon...

My day in Porto was a good one I think....if anaimal based cholesterol hasn't totally saturated my synapses. I spent much of the day stalking various touristy type attractions, including the 250 stair climb to the top of the church tower. It was a lovely view, made all the more poignant when I realized that the screen covering the restoration work currently taking place on the facade featureed a 50 metre tall Pierce Brosnan looking all suavelike while shilling beer. I also tracked down THE sandwhich, the francesinha. Regaled by tales of its supremecy by my fellow travellers, I knew I must have one. It is a slice of white bread, topped by steak, chorizo, sausage and ham, topped by another slice of white bread with melted cheese on the whole thing. Coat the thing with a spicy tomato sauce and surround with chips, or freedom fries for all my republican friends, and you have a culinary masterpiece, or heartattack...I'm not sure which. After my comsumption of a menagerie's worth of animals, I set off to buy yet another scarf, which I have decided is the penultimate of all tourist purchases. It is cheap and lightweight while managing to add a bit of panache to my dreary backpacker garb. It is also a bit of European camoflage, as every single person from this continent appears not to leave the house without one artfully wound around thier neck. Impulse purchase needs sated I returned to the hostel to gather my new insta-friends for a bit of dinner at the restaraunt from the previous night. Even though we lacked a Portugese speaker, we feasted on various grilled meats (i literally had the best pork chop of my entire existence) and vihno verde for about 6 Euros a head. Then off to find some bars....both filled with the most disintrested locals ever. I spent yet another night hearing about how evil Bush is, which while in I'm in total agreement, I refuse to endure without argument or comment from a Brit...I take my Bush and raise you a Blair.....

I really like Port...a lot

Porto is beautiful. The city is coated in luscious architecture in various states of disintegration and granduer and home to dozens of port distelleries. I spent the day (ok, the afternoon, morning having come too soon after a night of heavy drinking) wandering around the city and tasting port. Have I mentioned that I really like port? The douro river meanders by the tasting rooms making for a truly lovely afternoon. This evening I went out to dinner with a few folks from the hostel, including a guy from Brazil. If I have learned one thing from travelling it is "let the guy who speaks the language order". We had an amazing meal, starting with some strange, but incredible tasting, soup of black beans, corn meal and god knows what parts of a little piggy and bacalhao, portugese salted cod, a local delicacy. Add in a bottle on vinho verde (Portugese green wine) and some carmelly pudding and it was amazing, all for 10 euro. Have I mentioned that Portugal is cheap as well as beautiful. Full and happy we returned to play cards and drink 1 euro bottles of wine....and more port. Have I mentioned that I really like port.

I'm back.......

I know, I know...as you all have reminded me (multiple times thankyou) I have been terribly remiss on this blogging thing. I sorta ended up glossing over Italy, which is unfortunate, as I had an unspeakably amazing time. But I solemnly swear to be a better blogger and citizen, and keep things up to date. You can also keep your eyes peeled for "Italy:The Lost Blog", sometime in the near future. As for my whereabouts, I have arrived in Porto Portugal after a heinous ryanair flight which included both violent turbulence and a vomiting child. But hey, what can you expect for 30 euro. I made my way to my hostel sometime after 11 PM but managed to drink enough that I'm sure this post will be rambly and incoherent. I immediatly enlisted a few fellow travellers and set off in the pouring rain to find a bar of some sort. We sat down to share a bottle of wine and soon the bartender had emerged behind the bar to play the guitar while a strangely bland looking middle aged man sang and played the keyboard. All in all it was a lovely evening and totally worth the thorough soaking I recieved. I then settled in at the hostel with a girl from Dublin and two of the hostel's owners, both Portugese guys in their twenties, to drink cheap beer and listen to how evil Bush is. I thought my hatred could go no deeper, be no more complete in its totality, but now that he is personally responsible for my having to listen to hours of European bitching about "The Bush" I am thinking of declaring a fatwa.