The Tenth Country

The travel part of this journey is really working my last nerve.

I really just want to go back to Portugal.  The soonest I can go back is sometime in February.  Until then, I still have two months left on my Turkish visa.  I figured I’d stay there until my Schengen days reset, but I didn’t want to deal with any more rain.  January is the coldest month for that region.  Since I was already in the states, I figured I’d dip down to the Caribbean and soak up some sun for a few weeks then return to Istanbul.

Arranging the flights, though, was just … ug.  My flight out of Huntsville was at 7 pm to return me to Atlanta.  The next flight was at 6 a.m.  So, yeah.  From 9 p.m. to boarding, I wandered Atlanta airport along with a bunch of other holiday zombies.

It sucked. 

Then, somehow, despite being at the airport for hours, I still ended up caught in numerous lines for baggage drop off and security.  One minute the place was nearly deserted and then suddenly it was full of folks, including dozens of military troops on midnight deployment.  I also had to check my carpet bag as well as the rolling bag for the first time this year, at my expense, of course.

I’ve had this persistent, phlegmy cough for days now.  American food no longer agrees with me so I also have a mild stomachache most of the time and some tricky bowels.  Not exactly in tip top physical condition to withstand the lack of sleep and a general air of I’m-tired-of-this-B.S.

Finally boarded the short flight to Ft Lauderdale.  Yeah, I know.  Florida.  It couldn’t be avoided.  Then it was onto the next two-hour flight … if I could figure out the lines.  The place was packed with people, none of whom knew what was going on, including a little girl who insisted on wailing the entire time.  I knew how she felt, but I still didn’t want to hear it.  We stood in a cluster for a full ten minutes after boarding should have started with no sign of progress and no word from the attendants.  I tried to move forward only to have a man with an apparent Napolean Complex put up his hand and shake his head.  Well, then tell us what’s going on, you little sh -- 

Apparently, there was a medical emergency.  Some guy had passed out and we had to wait for the med staff to show up with a gurney.  I felt for him, but still couldn’t figure out why that was stalling our boarding.

We got on the plane.  Yay!  And then … nothing.  We just sat there for around two hours.  The captain would periodically come on to say that the ground crew was still calculating the weight of the plane for takeoff or that sitting on the tarmac had depleted our fuel so they had to call a fuel truck.  It was only after an hour of loud complaining were we finally allowed to unbuckle our seatbelts and were offered some water.

Just my luck, the loudest complainer was the man sitting next to me in the middle seat.  While I agreed with his outrage, I still didn’t need his loud, accented voice in my ear.  I just closed my eyes and tried to keep myself calm.  Yes, this delay sucked and the airline could have handled things better, but at least I was out of that airport and away from all those people. 

The way I saw it, I’d brought this on myself.  I put Florida on the no-fly list earlier this year for a reason.  But, no, I just had to go to Jamaica.  Since I couldn’t find a non-stop flight, I had to go through Fort Lauderdale.  During the Christmas season.  This was entirely my own boneheaded fault.

Even after finally taking off and landing safely on the island, the trip didn’t get any better.  It actually got worse.

Just as a refresher, I’ve had the privilege of traveling through nine countries this year; Portugal, Greece, Ireland, The Netherlands, Bulgaria, Türkiye, Thailand, Singapore, and Costa Rica.  I say this with zero hyperbole – Jamaican immigration is the worst experience I’ve ever had entering a new country.  Even worse than my first trip into Türkiye. 

Americans don’t need a visa to enter the country.  Everyone coming off the plane is required to fill out a form online after landing.  Okay.  I scanned the QR code and started inputting the usual stuff like name, passport number, duration of stay.  Then the questions got a bit intrusive.  They asked occupation (I don’t have one – you gotta problem with that?), what pharmaceuticals I brought in (do my prescriptions count?  The attendant couldn’t answer that), what did I intend to declare (my computer, maybe?  The attendant couldn’t answer that one either), what countries had I visited in the last six weeks (a couple – all better than this country even, God help me, the U.S.).  The questions just went on and on.

When I was finally okay with my answers and showed the attendant my confirmation, he then sent me onto a kiosk.  This part seemed pretty standard as I had done it in multiple other countries.  I tried to scan my passport but kept getting an error message.  One of the roving attendants saw the trouble I was having and scanned it himself with no problem.  

Then there were more questions.  Where was I staying (answers must be in a specific format that I couldn’t get right the first time)?  Was it a hotel or a residence?  What was the airline and flight number that brought me here? Jamaica, I’m already tired.  What else do you want, a blood sample?

The attendant saw my progress and directed me to take my glasses off and look up for the camera.  The kiosk then spit out a receipt full of info, including a grainy black and white photo of a haggard looking woman.  I took the receipt to stand in line for a woman sitting at a desk.

I handed her my passport and receipt and she asked to see my phone.  I glared at her.  I just spent 10 minutes entering all my info on their website.  THEN I did it again on their kiosk.  Why the #%#% would she need to see my phone? 

Before I could hand it to her, she waved me off as the info had appeared on her screen.  Goody.  She checked my passport and info, then sent me off to the next hoop I’d have to jump through. 

The hallway leading to baggage claim passed through a brief shopping area.  Women tried to entice me with perfume and booze while I shook my head and kept walking.  Then it was time to jostle for position to find my checked bags.  Now, I know that Jamaicans are a very laid-back people, but with as long as immigration took, the bags should have been unloaded by now.  Still, I stood there watching for my bags on the conveyor belt, getting more upset and frustrated.  One of the women beside me commented that they were taking bags off the belt on the other side of the room, so I went to try my luck.

I found my bags quickly, breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been lost.  Ignoring the time I’d wasted watching the belt, I grabbed my stuff and looked for the exit.  Only I couldn’t find one.  Instead, I saw desks headed by signs for Declare (in red) or None to Declare (green).  Taking a guess, I got in the green line. 

I noticed an x-ray machine up ahead and sighed again for other reasons.  Like I haven’t been through enough machines to permanently fry my organs at this point.  A woman met me before I got there and checked my passport.  AGAIN.  She asked me what was in my bags.  Things to cover my nakedness, why do you ask?  I made a show of opening my carpet bag to show her the mess of everything that wasn’t clothing or my computer.   She walked away with my passport (not the first attendant to do that) and I dragged my stuff over to the x-ray machine.  She gestured me to stand to one side as my info was checked then handed back my passport and waved me on.

Finally outside and able to breathe some fresh air, I was faced with even more confusion.  Why the hell was everyone just hanging around outside of the airport?  The road in front was loaded with cars. but no buses or taxis to be seen.  It was the same chaos from inside just out in the hot air.

With most of the benches full, I found a ledge to sit on and finally lost it.  Fatigue, frustration, lack of sleep, too much noise, too many people, and too little food had me at the end of my rope.  I just sat there and cried for a while. 

Yanking up my big girl panties, I pulled it together and went off in search for a cab.  By some miracle, I spotted one and ran over.  He was indeed available and accepted American currency (my host had already informed me that the ride over should be about 35 USD).  I told him the location and we were on our way.

What to say about the ride over?  At least in Istanbul, they drive on the right (usually)?  In Jamaica – yeah, no.  There were plenty of abrupt stops, dodgy turns, and rough streets to rival Türkiye.  I looked out the window and tried to be excited to be in a new place, but I was just too damn tired to care.  When my driver asked about my trip to the island, I told him it had been awful and that I was wiped.  He told me it would take a few days to get acclimated and he was sure I’d enjoy my stay.  If you say so, pal.

He got me to the place with no problem (didn’t even need to use my phone) and charged me the $35 as expected.  I handed him a 50 and he asked if I had something smaller.  I did not.  The bill was a Christmas gift from the father, so I told him to just keep the change.  He would end up earning it.

The Airbnb I rented is in a gated community and the gates closed just as we pulled up.  I knew it wouldn’t take much more to have me in tears again.  And, look at that.  My phone won’t connect to the internet.  No access to Airbnb and the instructions I’d need to get into the place.  Pushing the button on the intercom was useless and the woman in the car behind the cab honked at us to get out of her way.

Well, that did it.

I went from cursing to crying in about three seconds.

My cab driver, lovely man that he was, asked my name and used it repeatedly to get me to calm down.  “You’re in Jamaica on vacation.  Just relax.”

The gate opened and we drove through.  He got out, again telling me to breathe, and asked a nearby woman about the Dr. Thomas I’d been told to ask for.  A man soon appeared, calling me by name.  Since I was still a weepy mess, I’m sure he, Josef, had no idea what he was walking in on. 

The driver handed off the hysterical woman onto the new stranger.  I thanked him as well as I could while gulping for air and followed Josef to my new home for the week.

Do I have to explain that Jamaica and I are already on bad terms?  The island will have to do a lot to make me not regret this trip.

Return to Fatih

 

Like I said in my last post from two weeks ago(!), the transition from Portugal to Türkiye was a rough one.  I was in Istanbul for three weeks and it rained almost every day.  The temps hovered around the mid-40’s with just enough drizzle to make sure everything was wet and miserable. 

I’d go to sleep in blackness and wake up in gray.  It did a serious number on my state of mind.  I didn’t want to write, didn’t want to study, definitely didn’t want to look for a job.  Just not the best trip to the city, though it did confirm for me that I will choose Portugal over Türkiye for a new home.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I extended my stay in the Taksim apartment for another week since it was a decent place.  The host did make things a bit more … interesting by asking for a cash payment instead of going through the Airbnb app.  A cash payment in euros.  But, we’re in Türkiye.  How’s that supposed to work?

All over Istanbul are rows of ATMS.  They usually appear in clusters of 3-5 all from different banks in the city.  They can be tricky, though.  Some do give out denominations other that Turkish lira, but they don’t always have signs to indicate this.  Some have limits to how much they lend, usually 4000 lira at the most.  That’s about 138 USD. 

The host asked for 315 euros which meant I had to hit a couple of ATMs and then find one of the many conversion offices on Istiklal Street.  Needless to say, it was more of an adventure than I was planning on. Despite that issue, I paid the fee and enjoyed the rest of my time in the place. 

I booked the next place for a week in the Fatih region.  I called for an Uber only to realize that in the city, the taxis are the Ubers.  I ended up in a non-Uber taxi thinking it was the one I called, then had to cancel the other one.  Since the new guy had no idea where we were going, I had to lend him my phone with the directions.  I still don’t get that.  Everyone and their mom has a phone.  I shouldn’t have to provide mine for directions in your city.

The new neighborhood is called Sehremini, a nicer looking place than the last.  Although, my intro to the new apartment was not the greatest.

There was a noticeable temperature change when entering the apartment.  Could there be actual heat in the place?  It was very warm, yet I never saw a heating system (there was a radiator in the kitchen, but it was inactive).  It just reminded me that I could never get any of the radiators to work in the last place.  I just bundled up and hoped for warmer weather.

The place was eerily quiet.  That’s usually a good thing in an Airbnb.  But in Türkiye?  It was just weird.  Where was all the horn-honking and random shouting?  The nightly screeching of the neighborhood cats?  I could barely even hear the calls to prayer.  In Istanbul!

In my last place, the call was so loud in the back of the apartment, where the bedroom was located, that I would usually wake up just before 6:30 because I knew it was coming.  I actually like hearing those calls.  It’s part of the charm of the place.

Not to worry, though.  My neighbors made up for the lack of street noise by constantly stomping on my head and talking loudly at all hours for the first couple of days.  Because of the rain, that person was stuck inside as much as me and I really grew to hate him.

Walking along the streets on that first day, I clearly saw the difference in the neighborhoods.  The sidewalks are wide and unbroken, the side streets usually traffic free.  And again there is the quiet.  While it was nice not to have to constantly watch my step because of the broken tiles, bobbing and weaving to avoid the motorcycles coming up behind me on the sidewalk, I think I prefer the bombed-out warzone of Taksim.  There was always something going on outside my window (usually two cars trying to go in opposite directions with a taxi and a delivery truck blocking the way – so many horns!) and the street felt more alive.  My only view on the basement level of the new place was the lovely patio area and that’s it.

As my taxi driver so succinctly put it in his broken English, “Taksim bad.  Fatih good.”  I see what he means.

As with any place in the city, there was easy access to food, shopping, and pharmacies right around the corner from the quiet back street of my apartment.  A weekly farmer’s market set up only a few blocks over.

My last two days in the apartment saw the glorious return of the sun.  So bright!  So pretty!  I went out in the 50-degree weather and just stared at the sky like a woman transfixed.  I was able to walk near Sultanahmet for lunch (making sure to steer clear of Zaza’s hunting grounds).  I strolled along the sea and for a time, all was good in the world.

It didn’t last, though.  As much as I love the city (everything is so cheap!), I’d made the choice days before to get out of that weather.  I knew the decision was a good one when departure day arrived and the sky was gray and foreboding again.  And my taxi driver was another confused man.  I used Uber to get him as well, so he knew we were going to Istanbul airport.  He just didn’t know where at the airport.  His phone led us past a security check on a deserted back road and, after a mistaken turnaround, to the cargo department of Turkish Air.  He pulled over and I just stared.  I’m not getting out here.  I don’t even know where here is! 

He found a guard and asked for directions.  And again, I was confused.  This is a cab driver in Istanbul.  Are you seriously telling me the guy has never dropped anyone off at the international terminal of the biggest airport in the city?  How is that even possible?  Why would the directions on his phone lead to the cargo terminal?  I just don’t understand.

Laughing it off, he let me off at the terminal.  I was just grateful not to have been left in the middle of nowhere.  Then it was onto not one, not two, but three security checks.  First it was the screening as soon as you enter.  Then the main screening which only stood out because they no longer make you separate your liquids or take out computers.  That was a nice touch.  Didn’t stop me from losing another corkscrew and a pair of hair shears.  Totally my fault this time.  I hadn’t remembered to put them in the checked luggage.  Sigh.

The third check was a surprise.  I had walked the six miles to my gate (the airport is massive) only to find it closed off by plastic panels.  My passport was then checked three times before I got to a table where the staff searched my bags.  Then a chick patted me down and waved a wand over me.  Seriously?  We’d all been through normal security.  How much more dangerous could we have gotten in the hour since then?

I sat down to wait, feeling violated and exhausted.  Nothing like being treated like criminal when you’re a paying customer to really take it out of you.  And I had a 12-hour flight ahead of me.  Yes, it was back to America.  It had been almost two months since my last visit so I figured it was time to pick up my mail and figure out my next move.

Madeira Views for Days

 

Since I simply refuse to learn the bus system, when moving day came, I took my chances at finding a cab.  Surprisingly, it didn’t take long to flag one down.  But, once again, it took way too long to get to my destination.  The cabbie had to call dispatch twice to figure out how to get there.  Even then, I had to guide the dude the final few feet to the actual apartment … since I’d already been there.

It took weeks for our schedules to line up.  Some part of me didn’t want to see the place again.  Would I still consider it the best place I’ve stayed since starting this journey?  Or had my time away just covered the place in a haze of nostalgia?

Nope.  It’s still the king, baby!

There’s some work on the façade that obstructs the view a bit.  I knew about this beforehand as the host had put a note on the listing on the Airbnb website.  The microwave has mysteriously disappeared (although I did find a couple of the glass plates that go inside the oven to let me know that I hadn’t imagined the appliance being there last time).  Other than that, though, the place is just as awesome as I remember.

Why do I feel so comfortable in this apartment?  Even if I am fortunate enough to move to this gorgeous island, there is no way in hell I can afford anything like this.  The place is massive!  And to be able to own a three bedroom/two bath apartment with killer views like this and not live in it, the owners must be loaded.

God, I need a job.

That part of my day still sucks.  Not only is it dealing with rejection, but it’s also wading through links to jobs that don’t exist anymore, trying to avoid scammers, and reading listing after listing for positions that just don’t fit. 

On the search for any kind of income, I’ve even considered starting my own business.  Again.  I had an Etsy store for about a minute 10 years ago that went nowhere.  Now, I’m looking at the possibility of being an American living in Portugal trying to run a print on demand business while having to pay taxes to my former and current country and dealing with the tax issues of any other state or country that wants to charge them. It’s a bit daunting.

Madeira remained as lovely as ever.  Over the last couple of weeks, I watched the Halloween decorations morph into ones for Christmas (no Thanksgiving here to interrupt the money flow).  My last weekend on the island, there was a crafts fair featuring live entertainment. 

As far as I can tell, tourist season is a year-round thing here.  Every day, there are at least two cruise ships in port, disgorging their guests onto the city streets.  Mostly Brits and Germans, though I have heard some other accents/languages.

The location of the apartment made it, once again, too easy to visit the many cafes and restaurants nearby.  Once you get down that hill, of course. 

               (Seriously, screw that hill.)

I was having a lovely sangria with my pasta one day and enjoying the beautiful weather.  Then a bear showed up with a bouquet of flowers because … of course it did.  Ah, there’s some of the weirdness I haven’t seen in a while.  Wouldn’t want my life to get back to ‘normal’ any time soon.

Another bit of weirdness I discovered about the windows in the kitchen of this awesome apartment. When viewing the cable cars from right next to the window, they appear quite small.  I was lying on the couch in the living room one night with a clear view of the kitchen and from there the cable cars looked huge.  I thought I was just tired until I took pictures of the windows from different parts of the apartment the next day.  I wasn’t just imagining things.

This was taken right next to the window.  You can barely see the car.

This was from the entrance to the kitchen.

And in this one, I was standing in front of the sliding glass door in the living room.

Freaky, right?!

Unfortunately, it wasn’t all fun and games while I was in the place.  With the job search going nowhere and my Schengen days running out, I had to start thinking about moving again.  And the thought of that ruined my last week in Madeira. 

I’m not in vacation/tourist mode anymore.  I came back to Portugal with a purpose.  I was all set to face the scary Portuguese bureaucracy, ready to search for an apartment and go through the nightmare of getting all my stuff out of the U.S.  I was ready to set up my new home.  Instead, I had to plan my next move and flee the country.  Again.

Winter is coming.  And though it’s lush and beautiful on the island (75 degrees F and sunny most days), everywhere else is preparing for the big freeze. Too cold in the British Isles.  Schengen laws meant that most of Western Europe was out.  And there was no way I was heading back to America.  I REALLY just wanted to stay in Portugal.

But … sigh … it’s onto the next town.

Up in the Hills of Madeira

 

Location aside, I was good with leaving that apartment.  Even though the bedroom was as far from the busy street as you could get, there was still a lot of noise to deal with at night.  There was also a Halloween decoration of a ghost in front of the club downstairs that drove me nuts with its constant wailing.

Dealing with the gap between check in and check out for my AirBNBs, I ended up hanging out in the park for a while before getting lunch.  I quickly discovered that there are no Uber drivers on the island.  So, after the meal, it was off for another adventure with a cabbie who didn’t know where how to get me to my next place. Seriously, what’s up with that?  He had a phone and yet he had to ask the other nearby cabbies where the place was located.  The island’s not that big, guys.

Climbing up into the hills, the guy dropped me off at a spot saying, “there are a lot of apartments in the area, it must be around here somewhere”. Thanks.  That’s so very helpful.  Turns out my own GPS could locate the place, up a hill, around a corner, and up another hill.  I managed the trek while lugging all my stuff along roads that only had intermittent sidewalks and some fast drivers. 

When I found the place, I stood across the street with my mouth hanging open.  And not in a good way.  I realized that finding my apartment did not mean the end of dodging traffic.  No.  It was just the appetizer for the meal I’d have to deal with for the rest of the week.  What do I mean by that?  Well …

 

That first time getting into the place was not fun.  I was trying to keep all my stuff (and body parts) out of the way of oncoming traffic while looking at the host’s instructions on my phone.  Then it was putting the right combination in the lockbox, fishing out the keys, trying to figure out which of the three went into the lock.  CAR! Then drag the bags inside with a deep exhale, grateful that I didn’t get run over.  Yeesh!

No friendly host to usher me around this place, which is how I usually prefer it.  But I wouldn’t have minded someone to help me get up this narrow set of stairs. 

The stairs are just beyond two other apartments. I wasn't sure if they were occupied or not.  I never saw anyone, but I could have sworn I heard something downstairs. 

My new home for the week was tiny but serviceable. It was definitely set up to be a short-term rental as it is basically a glorified hotel room with a kitchen, not a place to live long term.  In spite of that (and the treacherous step out into the street), the apartment did have some advantages over the last place.  While the location wasn’t nearly as good, at least it was quieter.  There was a decent sized double sink in the kitchen and hot water for days.  The bed wasn’t the most comfortable, but it least it was a queen.

And whoever designed this bathroom with the large step needs to rot in hell.  I stubbed my toe a couple of times misjudging the height of that thing.

Another advantage(?) of this place is that it guaranteed that I’d get those steps in.  Since I haven’t really been doing the tourist thing on the island this time, my only exercise is my daily walk at lunch.  This apartment is nowhere near the shore, so my walk was always to the water.  The long, long, long walk to the water.  Seriously, why would anyone build on so many hills?  Yeah, they’re pretty to look at from a distance, but walking up and down those bad boys …?  Oy.

I really need to learn the bus system.  While there are grocery stores and cafes in the area, the area is mostly made up of apartments.  You want to get anywhere else without a car, you either have to hope for a taxi or hop a bus.  After taking that first long walk to the shore, I figured I’d need to get some motorized transport for the rest of the week.  But … I’m still cheap.  And I needed the exercise anyway.

Ahh Madeira

 

Yet another trip across the pond back to Heathrow.  I was ready for security this time.  I didn’t top up my liquids or add any more in the states, so the quart bag was unchanged coming back through.  My bags were fine this time, but just to keep me on my toes, this time I got flagged.  I went through the metal detector and was asked to step aside.

Seriously?  Do I have to remind you how many times I’ve been through airports this year?  Other than the underwire in my bras and the screws in my eyeglasses, there is no metal anywhere on me.  I know the drill by now.

It seems the machine detected some residue on my clothing that it found suspicious.  The guy swabbed my hands and the waist of my pants, scanned them again, then gave me the go-ahead.  This whole process is just …. I … I have no words.   

At least the flight went well.  I did note that while it was sunny when we left London, it was raining when we landed in Portugal.  The rain may have had something to do with my flight delay.  Here I am, all set to get this last leg over with, when the travel gods decided I needed to spend some more time in Lisbon airport.

Then, once we could actually board the flight, we ended up stuck on the tarmac for 45 minutes because there was a backlog of planes on the ground that had to leave first.  Sigh.  Just get me to the island in one piece.

Yes. I’m a wienie.  It was late and I’d been travelling all day.  But I was almost ready to cry when the plane finally landed on Madeira a little before 11:00 p.m.  It truly felt like I was coming home after months of wandering.  Not that the wandering wasn’t fun, but there is still nothing like the feeling of returning to the beautiful familiar.

I know.  It’s not official yet.  May never be.  But the island still feels like home.

I grabbed a cab and, for once, I was totally okay being in a car with a strange guy driving like a bat out of hell.  I was tired, it had been a stupidly long couple of days, and I was more than ready to reach my next temporary home.

The host was a friendly man named Alberto.  He lives next door to the rental property and was very understanding about my late arrival.  He was also clearly thrilled to share his island with guests.  After he showed me around the place, he whipped out a map and pointed out some of the areas depicted in the pictures he’d sent me earlier.  He told me the bus numbers and where to catch them to get to the good hiking spots.  He told me he would love to take me there himself, but he doesn’t own a car, only a motorbike.  I’m nodding along thinking ‘dude.  I am exhausted.  I’ve been traveling for almost an entire day and I really need to be unconscious right now’.  Not wanting to be rude, I listened to his spiel until I could discreetly get him the hell gone.

Left to explore on my own was interesting.  I got mixed feelings about the place.  The location is killer.  Close to the ocean, a bunch of restaurants, and the colorful doorways that I love, all without having to climb any hills.  The location also sucks because it’s right next to a couple of popular Fado clubs with people singing and carousing all night.  The apartment is spacious but has no oven and two single beds as opposed to a queen.  I liked the recycling bins in the kitchen, but I hated the lighting in the entire apartment.   While there was hot water in the shower, the sinks in the kitchen and bathroom remained ice cold.  I'd have to boil water to sanitize the dishes after I washed them.

And then there’s the hole.  Right above the toilet is a gaping hole in the ceiling.  There’s no screen or door and I could clearly see the rafters of the roof.  I couldn’t tell which was worse, the daytime when sun streamed in through it or nighttime when I couldn’t see a thing and it was just this void.  No.  Nighttime was worse.  I just did my best to ignore it on the many occasions I had to drop trou.

But back to the location.  The front door leads directly to a narrow, one-way, cobblestone street where people speed by.  A few steps away is the first of several restaurants lining either side of the street.  Crossing that street, there’s a park popular with the locals.  There are always groups of men sitting at the picnic tables drinking, talking, and playing games.  Just beyond the park, with the cable cars launching from the right, is

and

And I have to keep myself from repeatedly shouting “God, I love this place!” as my outbursts tend to upset the tourists.

I get such a sense of peace just looking out over the water.  I remember having a chat with a waitress in Cascais and I mentioned wanting to live on Madeira.  She scoffed, “you don’t want to be stuck on an island.”  Yes.  Yes, I do.

I don’t consider it being stuck.  As much as I’ve seen of the island, I’ve still only scratched the surface.  I haven’t been on any of the hikes that my host recommended.  Haven’t even been on the cable cars yet.  There’s still so much here to see.

For the time being, though, it’s back to my established routine.  Looking for work in the morning, exercise and meal at midday, then back to the apartment for study.  It’s not the most exciting way to spend my days but hopefully I’m getting closer to making a new life for myself.

On one of my trips around Funchal to reacquaint myself with the city, I stumbled across a bunch of cars in one of the courtyards.  Thinking this expo was somehow related to the Porsches I saw in Cascais, I didn’t think much of it.  I just thought ‘Hey.  There are cars over there.” 

I didn’t find out until later that this was a staging area for Rally Madeira (Rali Vinho Da Madeira), a race around the island that happens every year.  I had no idea this was such a big deal.  But it does explain why everyone drives like the cops are chasing them – they’re just keeping in practice.

Costa da Caparica

 

Once again, moving day had arrived.  I would have stayed longer in that apartment in Cascais, but it wasn't available.  Besides, I figured it was time to see more of the city.  Though I wish I had moved the day before since the morning started off cloudy and gray.  Despite having great weather the rest of the week, a light drizzle began just as I was leaving the apartment.  Great.

Grabbing an Uber, I traveled across the bridge from Belem to what I thought was Setubal but alas, no.  The apartment I chose was a bit farther from Setubal than I thought it was, being located in the city of Costa da Caparica.  Totally my bad, but I had to make it work ...

Once I got to the right place.  The driver dropped me off in front of a pizza joint as the GPS couldn’t get him to the exact address (an issue I’ve encountered more than once in Portugal).  I figured the apartment was just across the street but alas, no.  I contacted the host to let them know my location.  The response I got back was ‘see you soon.’  Not sure if that meant I should go to them or they would come to me, I decided to start walking.  Better to walk in the rain than stand in the rain (learned that lesson in Bulgaria).

Why do I have so much stuff?  Seriously, what is all this stuff?  I dragged all my crap down the sidewalk in what I hoped was the right direction (again, GPS is wonky in this country).  About five minutes later, a car stopped across the street and the driver stared at me.  Turns out, the hosts, a husband and wife, had jumped in the whip to come get me.  Beyond grateful, I waited for them to turn around and then hauled my damp behind into their car.

The couple didn’t speak much English (AirBNB has a handy translation mode on their messaging system), but we managed to communicate just fine.  The apartment set up was on the first floor (convenient for the bags) but located behind a door that would plague me for the rest of the week.  I don’t know if the weather made it stick or not, but it usually took a bout of hulk-like strength just to get that bad boy open.  I hated that door.

The apartment was nice enough if a bit cold.  The décor, not the temperature.  Too much white on the floors, the kitchen, the bathroom.  It made the place feel like a hospital.  Not my favorite.

The hosts, though, were top tier.  Not only did they show me how everything worked in the place, but they had also amassed a ton of brochures about attractions, a card for a private driver who lived nearby, a list of recommended restaurants, a map of the area on the wall marking the grocery store and other vital places, and a schedule of busses along with directions on where to catch them.  Very thorough and not something you get with every home.  Making sure I had the wife’s number on WhatsApp, they left me to it.

Once situated, I went off to explore.  The rain had finally slacked off enough, though the sky was still gray.  Honestly, there wasn’t much to see there.  The apartment is in another maze of buildings with some restaurants and businesses scattered around.  There’s a huge camping site across the street near a decent sized park.  Though I found the small grocery store, I was still surprised.  There wasn’t even a Pingo Doce in walking distance.  What?  That store is everywhere.  At least, it will be everywhere I stay from now on.

The small mom and pop store did at least carry my wine.  And, at 3.69 euros as opposed to 4.19 in greater Lisbon, it was a bargain.  Sweet.

While there wasn’t much to see on foot, the beaches were still the main draw of this area.  Me being me, I made a beeline for the water.  The nearest easy access point was about a mile away and the route wasn't nearly as scenic as in Cascais.  A long walk, but worth it in the end.

The ocean in this area was pretty epic.  The winds are high there so the waves can be massive (not Hawaii massive, but still).  It was very moody with the gray skies.  I kept hearing U2’s New Years Day when I looked at it.  The video for that song was taped in the winter with no water in sight, but the gray scale of the video reminded me of the waves.

There is a nice boardwalk area dotted with the usual restaurants and surf shops.  The beaches are broken up by rocky outcroppings.  Those were a bit sketchy to walk on in the middle of the high waves, but still made for some great shots.

With nothing else to do, my routine stayed the same.  Job search in the morning (still sucks), walking to the water for lunch and exercise, then back to the apartment for study and as much writing as I could get done.  The rain was intermittent all week, making it easier to stay inside and focus. 

On one of my daily explorations, I walked along a stretch of beach that was covered in washed up jellyfish.  Fascinated, I took as many pictures as I could.  I probably looked like a madwoman, but … wouldn’t be the first time.

Foods of Many Nations

 

This is a restaurant in Singapore.  I didn’t eat there but had to take a picture because … yeah.  I figured it was a good image to start off this post about my food experiences of the past year.  In no particular order …

This is the weirdest mojito I’ve ever seen.  It was more like an alcoholic mint slushie.  I had it in a funky café in San Jose that had live music and was decorated with stuffed animals and a jungle theme.  The drink wasn't too bad if I recall correctly.

Near the Sacavem apartment in Lisbon, I sat down at what I thought was a steak restaurant.  Turns out I was one row away from that place.  I was instead seated at a sushi place.  Raw fish is not my food of choice, but I was already there so I ordered the sample platter and took my chances.  It was ... interesting.

It was always hard to find something to eat in Singapore.  Not because there weren’t plenty of restaurants, there were actually too many.  It was hard to choose, especially when most of the items on the menu were alien to me. I stumbled into this one place where they serve traditional Chinese dumplings.  The chefs even yell their greetings when you enter.  Never been in a restaurant where they do that and it was pretty cool.

The meal was good, though I was not feeling that pumpkin patty dessert.

The Portuguese do strange things with steak.  Not bad things, just … strange things.  This is bitoque, a traditional Portuguese dish that you can find everywhere.

I still don’t know what the fried egg adds to the dish, but it is my go-to meal when I don’t want pizza, fish, or a burger.  I’ve also had it swimming in sauce. 

See what I mean?  Strange things.

Türkiye was big with the kebabs.  You could find them everywhere.  Also big there are pides which are like a variation on pizza except shaped like a long wrap. 

I ate at a restaurant in Türkiye that served only pilaf dishes.  The base was always rice and chickpeas and then you could order other stuff on it like various meats and vegetables (I had chicken on mine).  A simple, cheap, filling meal you can also get anywhere.

This dining experience was particularly memorable.  I was seated outside and this cat parked himself by my chair.  I was more than accustomed to being stared at by stray beasts as I ate, but this creature upped the ante by repeatedly poking me in the butt.  With its claws, no less!  Being the crazy cat lady that I am, I did not feed him.  I tried to reason with him.  I explained that there was food all over the city and he wasn’t getting a scrap from me, so beat it.  He eventually got the hint and went to poke other customers in the butt (dang varmint). 

Behold the lethal concoction I’ve dubbed The Devil’s Lemonade.  Not exactly an accurate nickname considering that it’s made of cachaca, limes, and sugar.  A better name for a caipirinha is Houdini’s Limeade as these suckers disappear way too easily.  My first taste of one was in Lisbon back in March and it has become my mixed drink of choice.  It’s served all over Europe and is a lot easier to find than most other mixed drinks.  It’s either this, wine, or straight up hard liquor.

Breakfast in most of the places I’ve been to are usually simple meals.  Coffee and a pastry do it for most people.  The notable exceptions to this rule are Dublin with its full Irish breakfast (including a half pint of Guiness) and, of course, the epic deliciousness of Turkish breakfast.  The first one I had was still the best, but I did try a few other variations that weren’t too shabby.

Below is a sample of the famously odd flavors of snacks available in Asia.  Pictures only -- I wasn't bold enough or hungry enough to try any of them.

And one snack from Greece that I did purchase and they were absolutely delicious.