A Deeper Dive into Cascais

 

And it’s another glorious day in Zamunda – I mean Portugal. (10 points if you get that reference)

Seriously though, the weather for the month of September (except for a couple of days) was amazing.  Temps in the mid 80’s to low 90’s and lots of sun.  It made my afternoon walks all the more enjoyable.  

My week in Parede came to an end and it was time to move from one AirBNB to another.  Since I liked the area, I decided to stay there rather than go up to Porto (which I still need to do at some point).  The next place is just up the coast from Parede in the city of Cascais – yes, the city I visited a few weeks ago.  After a short Uber ride, I was dropped off at my new home for the week.

Oh.  Where do I even start with this place?  I know.  The smell.  As soon as I opened the door, I knew this place was gonna be a pain. The stench from the bathroom reminded me too much of the place in Athens.  And just like that place, you can’t put toilet paper in the toilet because the system is old and can’t handle it.  Great.

On top of that, the faucet in the cramped bathroom was very difficult to lift.  Until, of course, the handle flew off in my hand.  Putting it back in place, I could still get the water to come out, but most of the time I didn’t even bother and just washed my hands in the kitchen sink.

And about that kitchen.  I was glad to see there was an oven and the induction cooktop was one of the rare ones that I could actually figure out. But the placement of the cabinets and the water heater left much to be desired.  I had to keep watching my head while doing the dishes so I didn’t hit the water heater.  I did bump my head on the awkwardly placed cabinet by the window when I was throwing out trash.  Left a nice bump, thank you very much.

The place made me wish I'd stayed in the last place.  I would have happily extended my stay if it weren’t booked up. Even the blinds were better in the last place.  These have to be raised manually (well, I never!).

The building is in a maze of other apartment buildings.  There were some small businesses sprinkled around the area and a small grocery store across the street.  It was more of a hoof to get to a larger grocery store and the more commercial area of Cascais.  There are the usual shops and restaurants in the main area as well as access to the beaches.

With the weather being as nice as it was, the beaches were always busy. I spent a least a couple of hours there every day soaking up the sun.  And, oh yeah.  Watching sweaty, half-naked, bronzed, Portuguese men playing volleyball without using their hands.  Nice. 

Have I mentioned lately that I freaking love this country?

There’s a marina a bit further up the coast with its own set of shops and restaurants.  On the way there is a gorgeous swimming spot.  There were even some brave souls who would jump from the rocks along the walking bridge into the water.

Have I also mentioned just how many beautiful black people there are here?  It’s been my habit to take note of the number of black folk in the countries I’ve visited this year.  Portugal takes the cake.  It’s not just the African immigrants in Lisbon proper, but the people working the restaurants, the groups of kids walking home from school, the interracial couples and their gorgeous mixed-race kids.  When I mentioned being a solo black female traveler to my relocation specialist, she looked at me like I had just insulted her mother.  Lowering her voice, she said, “We don’t really say that.”  I asked what she was talking about.  She explained that in Portugal ‘black woman’ is not really a distinction that they make.  I know, I nodded, that’s one of the reasons I want to move here.

When I talk to someone in a store or on the street, they automatically assume I speak Portuguese because they have no reason to think otherwise. It's starting to bother me that I have to say this phrase on repeat; 'Eu nao falo portugues' (I don't speak Portuguese).  There are black hair care products in the stores (not the same brands or variety in the states, but still).  There is a level of acceptance of not only black folks but of tourists of all nations that I truly admire.  All the more reason for me to want to be a super cool Portuguese chick.

Parede

 

Another week, another AirBNB stay in Lisbon.

As much as I’d like to head to Madeira and start the apartment search in earnest, I’m hesitating for multiple reasons. 1. I want to be in Lisbon near the migration office in case they need something.  2. I don’t look forward to dealing with another plane ride, even a short one.  I’m enjoying the break from security searches and having to throw away perfectly good items to lighten my load. 3. The less time I spend on travel, the more time devoted to the job search.

And it is pretty soul-crushing.  I got through a couple of rounds of tests for a copywriter position that I really wanted, then my writing sample got rejected.  With over 13,000 applicants, not only could the company afford to be picky, but they didn’t even have time to offer me any feedback.  So, I’m left to stew in my disappointment while racking my brain to figure out what I did wrong and how to improve it.  Oh, the glamorous life of a writer.

Since the transition from happy wanderer to unemployable loser has been a sobering one, I’m thrilled to find that most cafes serve excellent caipirinhas.  No, it’s not like I’m getting drunk every day.  But after looking for jobs in the morning (and the subsequent depression), I look forward to my walk, my lunch, and my drank.

This practice continued in the new apartment that I chose specifically because it is near the beach.  Parede is located further up the coast from Lisbon, just south of Cascais.  A bit of a drive from my last place in Sacavem in the north, but well worth it.

I had to wait a while when I got to the place as the host’s assistant was late getting there.  But once the surfer-looking Claudio showed up, he got me inside the apartment and showed me around.  This is a nicely laid out spot with a decent sized kitchen and bathroom.  I was impressed.

Then Claudio showed me something that would be a source of amusement for the rest of the week.  All the buildings in the area are equipped with electric blinds.  With a flip of a switch, you can plunge a sunny room into complete darkness.  It was so dark in the bedroom at night that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.  I took this picture to show the difference between the bedroom on the left and the cavernous void that is the kitchen on the right.  This was at 8 a.m.

The blinds also made the place soundproof.  Lying in the bedroom at night would have felt like a sensory deprivation chamber if not for the sound of the oscillating fan.  The only sound coming through the walls was in the bathroom.

A last note about that bathroom.  While I wasn’t crazy about the tiny shower with no shelf for product, or its close proximity to the toilet, this faucet is the hotness.  Kinda drippy if you don’t jigger the handle properly, but still, that is a sexy faucet.

Within a short walking distance is the beautiful coastline.  Most of the area is made up of rocky cliffs, but in between the rocks are sandy areas of various sizes.  The weather was hot and sunny, even in late September, so all but the tiniest beaches are covered with people. 

The coast is lined with surf schools, one of which even posts a sign offering classes all year round.  There were surfers everywhere, on the shore teaching classes, running past the cafes to get to the water, bobbing along in the waves.  Can’t say I blame them.  The water is gorgeous. 

I ventured to get my feet wet one day, but hesitated when my I took my shoes off.  The sand was way too cold.  I soon found out why when the surf came in.  That water is freezing!  Why?  The temps hovered around 85 degrees every day.  It’s September – you’d think the water would have warmed over the summer.  But nope. 

And yet the surfers (in body suits, admittedly) still clamored for the sea.  I’ll stick to just staring at the waves, thank you very much.  In doing that, I could see multiple jellyfish floating around.  I found one washed up on the beach that was the size of my head, confirming my notion that the ocean was best enjoyed from far inland.  I’ve already been stung once this summer.  Not looking for a repeat.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; the Portuguese are a hardy people. Like the last apartment, my new one has no air conditioning, just fans.  Couple the warm living quarters with being willing to dive into frigid water, and these folks are a lot more tolerant of extremes than I am. Even after sweating profusely throughout every day, I have no interest in jumping into an ice bath filled with jellyfish.

Belem and Cascais

Way back in March (so long ago, somehow), I stayed in the Belem neighborhood when I first visited Lisbon.  I took another trip back there to see if I still loved the area and Portugal?  You are two for two!

Belem is just as lovely as I remember.  I didn’t do much more than walk around on a sunny autumn day, but it was enough. My only real mission was to find the restaurant where I had one of the best meals of my entire journey.  I found the place, had the same meal (with the same lackluster service), and it was still delicious.  Grilled bream (dourada grelhada), potatoes (batatas), vegetables (legumes), bread (pao) and cured cheese (queijo curado), with a caipirinha.  Still a winner.

Back in the middle of Lisbon, I also found this great restaurant near the dump called Manifest Lisboa.  The place had a laid-back atmosphere and played R&B music from the 70’s.  Went there for breakfast twice with great results. A Turkish style charcuterie board the first time and caramel pancakes for the next time.

I also took a trip by train from the Cais Do Sobre Metro station to the city of Cascais at the end of the line.  It’s still amazing to me that a short 45-minute train ride can take you from the heart of the city to gorgeous beaches.  One of the benefits of being in a small coastal country.

Hating that tiny room as much as I did, I gave myself an early Christmas present by ditching it a day early.  The host of my next AirBNB was very accommodating. She allowed me to check in at 11:30 instead of waiting around until 3.  Works for me. This place is closer to the airport than the Bela Vista place and is not far (about 2 miles) from the Oriente Metro station I’d visited days before. 

If the last dump made Bela Vista look like a palace, this place is a nice 2-bedroom split level (like my house in Woodstock).  In reality, it is a studio with a galley kitchen and a decent sized bathroom (with a tub – a rarity in Europe).  The bed is … a sofa.  Not even a pull-out.  Just a sofa.

And there’s no A/C or Wi-FI.  In this day and age?  Wow.  I was so busy checking that the place was a decent size with a washer that it didn’t even occur to me to check for Wi-Fi – I just figured it was a given.  Guess not.

This journey is teaching me much more than I ever imagined it would.  I learned that you can use your phone as a hotspot.  I picked this up from some random guy on a train in Ireland.  His phone didn’t have a connection to the internet, so he asked to use the one on my phone.  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  Those steps that he showed me came in handy in this strange Wi-Fi-less apartment.  Of course, I ended up burning through way too much data on my eSim in the course of a single day, so I had to find an alternative to feed my internet addiction.   I broke down and purchased a portable hotspot from the mall and I was soon back up and running.

The first Monday in the new apartment, I received my NIF number from Accessoria Migratoria.  Holy crap, this is really happening.  I then got a link to the official government site where I’d have to log my taxes.  Having no idea what was required of me, I emailed the office with a big huh?  They basically told me to keep my panties on and wait for further instructions.  Okay.

My big girl panties firmly in place, I set to the arduous task of looking for a job and … yeah.  I know why I put it off for so long.  What with checking YouTube for resume writing tips and the state of the job market, trying to optimize my LinkedIn profile (I really know nothing of social media), finding out just how many jobs I’m not qualified to do and … sigh.  At least I established a new routine for my days.  Job search in the morning, a couple hours for lunch and exercise, then a few hours in the evening on Coursera.  My skills are very rusty, so I’m trying to shore them up with a couple of computer programming classes.  With the first week being free and then a $44 monthly fee afterward, I figure it’s worth it to make myself more marketable.

The walking section of my day was the most pleasant.  Like with most of Lisbon, there are wide sidewalks and walking trails crisscrossing all over this area.  The grocery store, along with a few restaurants and shops, is a short distance away, while venturing further gets you to the trails by the water.  Plenty of sunshine and fresh air to be enjoyed in the many sitting areas.  There’s a line of restaurants by the water and an always-crowded food court in the mall. 

Then there’s this area which I adore.  It’s near a school campus, just before you reach the mall, and it is a whole other kind of gorgeous.  There are three of these cone-shaped fountains with this curtain of trees around the whole area.  A nice place to sit and chill.

The Tales of Lisbon Continue

Up until the first week in Lisbon, I had retained contact with Zaza.  Things were going well for a while, but then he started asking me for money again.  One day I’d finally had enough.  I told him that I was looking for a fun, sexy fling, not stress and pressure.  He accused me of only wanting him for sex (this coming from the man who came on to me the day we met).  I wished him good luck and ended the interaction.  I didn’t block him this time – didn’t have to.  We were just done.  I archived the chat stream and haven’t looked at it since.

Once I ended it, I felt like a great weight had lifted off my shoulders.  Suddenly, I was compelled to go back to some of my go-to YouTube channels about narcissism.  About a week after dropping him, an interesting video about the texting habits of narcissists drew my attention and … wow.  Once again, a complete stranger described everything I’d just experienced with this man.  Constant texts followed by sudden, unannounced disappearances, sexting, sending numerous selfies – all present and all designed to keep the narcissist front and center in the target’s mind. 

Yep, my knack for attracting vampires continues.  Not happy that I caught another one, but I am actually grateful for the experience.  We did have some fun during the love-bombing phase, especially while I was in Costa Rica and in a bad head space.  I’m very glad I got out before it went any further.  Now I can focus on my own needs without distraction.  And I now know this new aspect of narcissism (and text habits) that I have to be vigilant of in the future.

Still a shame, though.  I had tentatively planned to go back to Istanbul in October.  I was looking forward to it, but now ...

Attracting the wrong people like I do, it’s often hard to spot the good from the bad.  Where’s the line between someone sharing their story as a means of getting to know me and someone spewing their emotional garbage onto the nearest nice person they see?  I’m 52 years old and I still haven’t figured out that distinction.

My next challenge came when I was in between AirBNBs.  I had to get out of the current one (I wanted to stay but it was booked up) by noon, but the next place wasn’t ready until 3.  I ended up hanging out in the park area behind the building.  Maybe not the prettiest park, as there was little in the way of green grass, but the trails were extensive and accessible from all the buildings in the area.  A kid walked by me and said hello.  I greeted him, barely looking up from my book, then he struck up a conversation.  His name is Lamin and he is a 21-year-old refugee from Gambia.  He told me about leaving his abusive dad at the age of 13 and trekking through Africa until he reached Italy.  He lived there for three years (and wants to go back) and has been in Lisbon for the last six months. He gave me some tips about Lisbon, gave me a hug, and went off to meet some friends.

I’m still not sure why he stopped to talk to me.  Was it because I was an older black woman, an elder who needed to be respected because of his culture?  Was he coming on to me (that was unlikely, but after Zaza …)?  Or was it the ‘I attract vampires’ thing and he wanted to vomit all his feelings onto me?  Unknown.

(He could have just been a nice kid who wanted to make a connection.  Again, I can't be sure.)

Anyway, it was on to the next place and … yeah.  This place was a dump.  It made the place I had in Singapore look good -- at least that hotel had an elevator.  This place is located up four floors of rickety wooden stairs, behind two narrow doors that buzz loudly when you press in the code.  It had clearly once been one big apartment that had been broken up into 7 smaller rooms off a long hall.

The bureau wobbled, the bathroom was too narrow and difficult to navigate, and, other than the bed, there was nowhere to sit.  The communal kitchen featured the only sitting area as well as a washer and dryer that I couldn’t use because they were always busy.  I hated the place on the spot.

Price, availability, and location.  This was what was around at the time, so it would have to do.  The one benefit to the place was that it was close to the building for my relocation appointment. 

On Tuesday, 9/12/23, I met Gilda, the CEO of Assessoria Migratoria.  I had arrived early out of extreme nervousness and we sat down in a closed conference room for the meeting.  It was brutal.  She stared at me like a bug under a microscope, thinking over every answer I had to her questions.  I told her about getting laid off and how I had been on sabbatical since January.  She was less interested in my journey or the money I had in reserve as she was the fact that I was an unemployed foreigner looking to live in her country.  But after an hour, she told me not to be nervous.  She hadn’t given up on anyone yet.  She set me off to find a job, collected my fee, and prepared to apply for my N.I.F (Portuguese tax ID).

Getting out of vacation mode and back to being a responsible adult was not easy.  It didn’t help that I hated that room so much.  Every morning, instead of getting right into job-search mode, I would get dressed as quickly as possible just to get out of there.  I wandered the city most days, feeling like I was haunting the place.  One day, on a whim, I decided to take the Metro to Oriente station as suggested by Lamin. 

Once again, the benefits of a well-laid out city are clear to me.  This station dumps right into a mall.  I initially thought it was just a few stores, but when I got further in, I realized that the place (named after Vasco De Gama) is huge.  Three floors of living mall with a big Continente grocery store on the lowest floor.  Going through the mall leads to a courtyard area with restaurants, sculptures, and flags.

And then there’s the ocean.  I am still stunned that these incredible views are available to so many people every day.  I’m accustomed to big cities being a massive grid of roads dotted with glass and steel buildings.  I was just happy that the Atlanta area had trees to break up the man-made landscape. But this is so much better.  There are miles of trails through a park area as well as right by the water with plenty of places to sit and hang out.

I mentioned earlier about being happy to be out of the states again.  Being back in Portugal is joyous enough, but there was plenty of motivation to leave my home country.  While I was in Georgia, there was news of a racially motivated massacre and the separate killing of an unarmed pregnant black woman by a cop.  I was only in the country for a few days.  The U.S. is just too dangerous to live in.  Blaxit (meaning black exit and modeled after Britain’s Brexit) is real and should continue.  I just hope my visa comes through so I can stay in Portugal.

Lisbon on Repeat

 

Nope.  Portugal is still awesome!

My first day back in Lisbon was wet and miserable.   The wind was trying to rip the jacket off my body and turn my umbrella into modern art.  The tiled walkways (while pretty) kept tripping me up and threatened to rip the wheels off my new new bag (so far so good – this one is a Samsonite which is supposed to be top of the line and it better be for what I paid for it).  I still, embarrassingly, don’t know any Portuguese, having instead learned more Turkish during the last few months.  None of that stopped the city from being amazing.

I loved that I remembered the Metro system, loved going through the city to get to the shore where the wind was kicking up some water, loved the feeling of being that much closer to establishing a new home.  I was so thrilled to be out of the states again for numerous reasons (more on that later). But first, getting out of the states.

I flew out of Logan on Tap Portugal, the country’s official airline.  I’d flown this carrier between Lisbon and Madeira, but this was my first long flight with them.  As this plane had the screens in the back of the seats, the flight safety demo was in video form.  This thing was amazing. It almost brought me to tears.  Yes, I’m a big goober, but it hit me particularly hard.  The video was full of people of all races, colors, genders, and nationalities who had immigrated to Portugal and were speaking in Portuguese.  British guy, Caribbean woman, German guy – all these folks who had gone through the process I want to start and come out the other side, still happily residing in the country and assimilating by learning the language.  All while showing these people enjoying the beaches, the food, the culture.  It’s an awesome way to introduce newbies to the country.  Go check it out.

TAP Safety Video 2018 - YouTube

That video was pretty much the end of the goodness on that flight.  We went through awful turbulence crossing the pond, making it difficult to sleep or eat.   I had a window seat, but as much as I tried to jam myself against the side of the plane, the woman next to me kept elbowing me throughout the flight. It was too hot in the cabin.  The design of the plane itself made no sense.  The controls above the seats were too high to reach while the gap between the seat and the window was too wide for comfort.  I couldn’t wait to get off that plane even knowing what would come next.

By that I mean that the flight was an overnighter so I arrived in Lisbon at 5 in the morning.  Check in for my Airbnb was at 3 and I couldn’t move that time up.  Time to wait and boy … do I love to wait.  Just love it so much.

I managed about 2 hours in the airport before I was itching to leave.  It was a little wet outside, but I figured the rain had stopped.  I caught the Metro per the host’s instructions and emerged at the Bela Vista station to discover that a light drizzle had started.  Oh well, I thought, I was already here.  How far could it be to get to the building?

Yeah, it was far enough.  The rain picked up as I crossed busy, unfamiliar streets, lugged all my bags, and hoped that I wouldn’t pop another wheel on those uneven Portuguese tiles.  I found the building (one of many brightly colored apartment complexes in this area) and went to the café at its base.  Wet, tired, and regretting not staying at the airport where it was dry and there was a bathroom, I found an awning and used it as shelter until the worst of the rain stopped.

When I got a break in the weather, I ventured into the café and ordered an espresso (um café).  I offered to pay too much, confusing the woman who only spoke Portuguese.  Another customer who apparently spoke English, Portuguese, and French translated for me and I took my tiny cup of coffee and sat down.  I sipped as slowly as I could to prolong my stay, really feeling dumb for not knowing more of the language.  I managed to stay there for a while before the owner tired of my luggage taking up space and gestured for me to move. 

Back to the awning I went until the host finally appeared.  He got me upstairs, giving me detailed instructions about everything.  A little much, but I appreciated it.  He was a friendly Russian man who told me about his wife and four kids and how he’d immigrated to the country 22 years ago.  I told him my plans and he assured me I could do it.  Wishing me luck on everything, he left me to it.

Now this is an apartment I could live in.  The place has two bedrooms, a kitchen with an oven and a separate laundry room on the balcony.  I could use a little more counter space in the kitchen and could lose the bidet for some more counter space in the bathroom, but the place was definitely doable.  The nearby train station provided access all over the city and was right next to the biggest Pingo Doce I’d ever seen.  This grocery store was more like an American Walmart than any store I’d encountered in Portugal.

Like a woman possessed, I went straight to the extensive wine section.  I’m here!  I’m finally back in Portugal!  Where is my wine?  I could not find it!  What I did find was Casal Garcia’s sweet wine (it was okay – kinda tasted like sparkling apple cider).  I figured out that the blank space next to the sweet stuff was for my Vinho Verde and the reason it was sold out was that it was on sale.  Normal price was about 4-5 euros. The sale price was three bucks – no wonder it was sold out.  But still … don’t these people know I’ve been deprived for three whole weeks?  They have access to this wine all the time – that wine was mine! (picture a grown woman stomping her feet and pouting in the middle of the wine section)

No matter.  This is still Portugal.  I figured I wouldn’t have a problem finding my wine elsewhere.

This trip to Lisbon was based all around the appointment I’d made with a placement service to start the visa process, still a week away.  In the meantime, I worked to get my mind out of vacation mode and back to being a responsible adult.  Time to look for a (gulp) job and an apartment.

Still, there was plenty I hadn’t seen in the city.  I’d noticed a train stop labeled Jardim de Zoological.  Sure, I could visit the zoo.

The place is called a zoo garden for a reason.  It really is like a big park with benches and fountains and look!  There’s a giraffe! 

It is a gorgeous place to spend the day.  There are cafes outside of the official entrance, so you don’t necessarily need to buy a ticket to see the animals.  You can just as easily hang out, get a glass of beer or wine, and have lunch among the pigeons and peacocks.  Just don’t let the big birds steal your lunch – the peacocks roam freely throughout the area and believe me; they own the place and are not even remotely scared of you.

The U.S. and Onward

Even with the prospect of another long travel day ahead of me, I was quite ready to leave Costa Rica.  I have to say that the city of Jaco is much closer to being livable for me than San Jose.  But the constant rain, frequent power outages, bugs, lags in infrastructure (there is no post office in walking distance), oppressive heat and … well, you get the idea.  That’s a few too many variables.  The place is a little too wild for me.

I messaged the host to let him know I was leaving and headed to the bus stop.  He had already provided me with the info to get my ticket and had offered to see me out.  It was 6:30 am, though, so I didn’t want to wake him.  Good host that he is, he still came out after I’d already lugged my stuff to the bus stop (making sure to carry my new luggage and keep the wheels off the Jaco sidewalks).  He told me to flag the bus down to make sure it stopped and gave me directions upon reaching the airport.  We said our goodbyes, he went back inside, and I sat down to wait.  The bus arrived about 15 minutes later.  This sweet man actually came back out to confirm it was the right bus, wave it down for me, and put my bag in the back.  Now that is the kind of attentive host you want in an AirBNB. 

Two hours later, the bus arrived at the airport.  The driver pulled my bag out of the back … but it was missing two wheels.  When?  How?  He handed me one of the wheels, but I have no idea where the other one went.  I was too busy standing on the curb, cursing out the bag to notice if the other wheel was still on the bus or on the curb or …?  A BRAND NEW BAG and it didn’t even make it to the airport intact.  Just … really?

A nice man nearby helped me get the one wheel back on and I shuffled my way to the terminal.  As I was checking in, I got a text from the airline telling me that my flight to Atlanta was delayed.  It was only 9 am.  My flight to Atlanta was 12 hours later.  I knew there was a storm brewing in Florida (although, when isn’t there a storm in Florida), but still … like the day wasn’t already off to a shaky start.

After about a two-hour flight, we reached Fort Lauderdale.  This was a new airport for me and I didn’t know what to expect.  I will give them credit over Newark, though.  There were people waiting as I walked into the airport to tell everyone who had a connecting flight that they had to recheck their bags.  JetBlue was also good about explaining that before the passengers deplaned.  Thank you!  The check-in process may have been a pain, but it was better than having to track down my bag like I had to do after leaving it behind in Jersey.

I had a nice conversation with the customs agent.  She asked how could I stay in Costa Rica for so long and was I retired.  Nope, just a wandering bum looking for a home.  I told her about getting laid off and my plans to move to Portugal.  She wondered if that was expensive and I told her that places like SE Asia and Türkiye were cheaper and that even though I have a boyfriend in Türkiye, Portugal is still the plan.  Surprised at hearing about Zaza (I told her that no one was more surprised than me), she said she hoped she didn’t see me on 90 Day Fiancé and wished me a good trip.

Then began the long wait for my flight.  What was supposed to be a 3-hour layover turned into a 7-hour layover as the flight was again delayed.  The thing that killed it was that Fort Lauderdale was sunny and dry, not a cloud in the sky.  We had some turbulence coming down, but nothing major.  And yet still we sat.

This tears it.  Remember what I said about putting Miami airport on the no-fly list? Scratch that.  I’m putting the entire state on that list.  Every time I go through that place, regardless of the time of year, there’s always a problem.  Seriously, stay away from Florida.  It has way too many issues to even bother with, not even for a (supposed to be short) layover.

Thanks to the plane being so late, I didn’t get to Atlanta until after midnight.  Again.  At least I had my gimpy luggage with me this time (piece of crap!).  I took another taxi to get to my hotel (yes, Uber is cheaper, but at that time of night, at my level of fatigue, I wasn’t willing to get into a stranger’s car).  Exhausted, I checked in at around 3 a.m., took a shower, and crashed.

It’s days like that one that make me even more eager to set up a new home base in Europe.  Even if that means I have to get a (gulp) job sooner than I’d planned.

Just like the month prior, I had to order an Uber to take me back to the airport to pick up my rental car.  The ride went well enough until we got about one mile from the terminal.  Then Atlanta welcomed me back by reminding me that traffic here is a raging beast that will never be appeased.  A short, walkable distance to the terminal and yet we were stuck. Forty-five minutes of just creeping along until suddenly we weren’t.  With no indication of what had held us up, we were moving again.  Typical Atlanta garbage.

At least my rental car was nice.   I was upgraded to a sweet Mustang Convertible.  Of course, I couldn’t figure out how to pull the roof back, but it was still a fun car to drive around.

I came back to the states instead of going directly to Europe from Costa Rica because the trip was cheaper and didn’t have any crazy layover times in strange airports.  Also, I’d set some things in motion that I wanted to check on in Georgia before moving on.  My Bank of America debit card was about to expire, so I had stopped into a branch before heading to Costa Rica to make sure they had my updated address.  They assured me they did and I expected to find my card in the mail when I returned.  But … no. 

Time to go talk to the bank again.  Since it hadn’t arrived, the bank clerk recommended deactivating the card in case it fell into the wrong hands.  I didn’t want to do that but understood why it was a good idea.  I didn’t use that card for travel, but I liked having it as a backup in case I lost the Charles Schwab card.  Now it was dead and I had no idea when I’d be back in the states to pick up the new card or if BoA would just not send it because they don’t like P.O. boxes.  Either way … sigh.

I had another good conversation with the woman at Bank of America who helped with my card.  She asked if I had plans for the holiday weekend and that was enough of a prompt for me to blurt out my plan to head to Portugal.  We talked travel and how she had also been to Costa Rica.  She wasn’t anymore thrilled with the place than I was (too many bugs) as a potential suitable home.  I asked about her accent and found out she was from Belarus.  In the very next breath, she said “don’t go there”.  The country is right in the middle of the whole Russia/Ukraine mess and very unsafe.  She said she wouldn’t even go back to visit her family.  I sympathized.  She was the first person I’d ever met who had a personal stake in the war.

A quick note: I had a couple of good meals while in the states.  After the gastrointestinal distress I’d experienced in Costa Rica (seriously, it shouldn’t take days to get rid of 2 cups of coffee) and the stomach upset from the bland food in Hilton Head, decent meals were a pleasant surprise.  The shrimp and grits were from Marlow’s while the BBQ pork was from Food Terminal.

Travel day arrived bright and early.  It would be another long day from Atlanta to Boston and then overnight to Lisbon.  I don’t think I’ve ever been to Boston Logan Airport and I have to say that I’m rather impressed.  The terminal we arrived in was just next to the one for international flights.  No train, tram, or long walk required.  There was no gate number on my ticket so I assumed the flight would leave out of the E terminal with the rest of the international flights, but it turns out that my flights into and out of Logan were both from the same C terminal.  Convenient.  

Logan is also set up with many seating areas and charging stations to allow passengers to work.  It’s still no Changi as far as beauty goes, but it is highly functional.  Boston pride is also evident in the souvenirs, the food, and the historical figures memorialized on the walls.  I had a delicious New England Clam chowder as part of a ridiculously overpriced meal and bought a t-shirt bearing the words “Wicked Smaaht” on the front.  I’ve always liked that phrase.

During the six-hour layover in Boston, I got a text from Charles Schwab concerning fraud on my debit card.  They had five transactions they wanted me to yay or nay over text.  Everything looked legit until I checked the dollar amount for the gas I’d put in the rental car that morning. $175? I’d only put in about $25.  I initially approved the charge, then typed no instead.  This got my card blocked.  My only cash card that I was about to take overseas. Panic quickly ensued.

I called the bank and the woman explained to me that gas stations tend to put a hold on debit cards that they take off once the amount clears.  I’d heard that before, but never directly experienced it.  Hell, I’ve barely bought any gas in the last few months, so what do I know?  Once I okayed the transaction, she sent me to another department to get the card unblocked.  A royal pain in the butt to have to go over the same info again, to once again prove it was really me, but the card was eventually unblocked.  I sighed in relief.

With that crisis over, I was left with nothing but time to ponder.  I realized I was actually a little nervous about going back to Portugal.  Excited, but nervous.  Would I still see the country the same way after visiting eight other countries since that first trip in March?  Maybe I had inflated the place in my mind as some utopia when it was just another flawed country.  Maybe my travels had permanently altered how I would see the place, making it less suitable than I thought for relocation.

Jaco City Limits

More than ready to leave that place, I messaged the host about my departure time.  He insisted on having the key physically handed over before leaving.  I waited around until Rita appeared again, handed her the keys, and went outside to wait.  It was only as I made multiple attempts to get an Uber that I realized I probably should have warned her about the trashcan.

She figured out pretty quickly that the lidded kitchen trash was now crawling with maggots.  Hey, not my fault.  All I did was throw the trash away.  I figured living in the jungle, the hosts would be accustomed to the mad bug issues (they had provided a can of bug spray), but judging by her call to her husband, it was still a surprise.  My Spanish stinks, but I distinctly heard her lament that ‘it’s only been a few days’ as she took the can outside to hose it out.

As I mentioned, it took several attempts to find an Uber as no one was available.  I sat outside the gate on what could only marginally be called a curb in the middle of nowhere as Rita puttered around in the apartment.  Eventually, she disappeared again without a word and I saw her jump onto a golf cart that sped her away.  And there I sat, swatting away bugs and sweltering in the sun all by my lonesome.  Travel can be so much fun sometimes.

I squealed in delight when I finally booked an Uber.  Dude showed up in a tiny car with no trunk, so he shoved my stuff into the backseat while I rode shotgun.  A silent 20-minute trip later and he dropped me off in downtown Jaco.  The Uber app couldn’t find the exact address, so I ended up in front of a tourist shop.  I had to walk a bit to get to the correct building.  The host came out to help me up the stairs.  Good thing too, because even with his directions, I wouldn’t have found the place.

The apartment, it turns out, is just up a set of stairs visible from the front of a glass-fronted building.  The first landing houses a gym while the next landing has a laundry room and a door behind a security code.  The host said I had free access to the laundry room and the gym while showing me into the apartment.  With lots of wood accents and cracks in the drywall, the place felt kind of old.  Still, it was clean with an obstructed view of the water.  An odd setup, but the place is already a step up from the last place simply by having two A/C units, one in the living room and one in the bedroom. 

Getting settled in, I discovered why my suitcase had been harder to manage during the walk to the apartment.  The rutty streets of Jaco had caused one of the wheels to fall right off.  Great.  I only just bought this suitcase a couple of months ago in Bangkok.  I had to buy that one because I found out in Sunny Beach that my original bag had developed a crack.  I really need these bags to last more than a couple of months.  I only hoped that I could find a replacement in a tiny beach town in Costa Rica.

The building is right around the corner from the beach.  This is a much livelier part of the ocean, making Jaco a beacon for surfers. There are at least three surf shops in town and a couple of stands on the beach offering lessons. The swell there is incredibly strong while the water is warm and inviting.

Having no interest in doing any more moving for a minute, I booked the place for another week.  Any other towns I might want to visit (namely Tamarindo, another popular expat spot) were hours away.  There was too much unpredictable rain to solidify any plans for tours or travel.  I mostly spent my time walking the main drag or hanging out on the beach.

The apartment itself was decent other than the noise.  There was construction going on all around the building.  There was a dude with an electric saw behind the house and a new building going up next door.  Then there was the gym downstairs with its loud music and the sound of weights hitting the ground.  The banging and clanging started around 7 a.m.  Good thing I’m usually up by then.

On Sunday night it began to pour outside.  It was the rainy season, so I didn’t think much of it.  Until the sound of water got really loud.  Like ‘in the apartment’ loud. I jumped up and turned the light on in the hall only to discover that it was the light itself that was leaking.  I quickly put a pot under the leak and messaged the owner.  Before I even heard a knock on the door, I heard all this banging and stomping above my head.  The leak soon stopped and I heard voices in the hall.  I opened the door to the owner and a woman ready to clean up.  He apologized and said he was looking for the source of the water.  After the initial surprise, I was more amused that annoyed.  I knew the place was old and it does rain a lot there.  I was just glad the owner lived in the building and was on the case so fast.

The next night the power went out. It had blinked a couple of times before, but, again, I didn’t think anything of it.  This time it was more than just a blink.  A quick check outside let me know that while the entire top floor was out, the gym was just fine. The hosts returned to switch on a battery powered light in the living room, assuring me that the power would probably be back on in a few minutes.  Again, I was just amused, even when the battery powered light shut off moments later.  The power came back on after about an hour.

I’ve been a homeowner and now been on the road for almost 6 months.  I’ve learned to roll with the punches.  So on Tuesday, I found myself wondering what was going to happen next.  Other than torrential rains (still the rainy season) there was nothing out of the ordinary to report.  The power went off again a few days later, but since it was during the day (and it wasn’t raining) I bugged out to the beach to wait it out.

My last place was still worse than this one.  At least I wasn’t killing bugs every morning while sweating buckets, so … shrug.

The town has plenty of restaurants, souvenir shops, and pharmacies.  I found a place that serves a great chicken chimichanga and strong, quickly disappearing adult beverages.  There are also places to rent ATVs and cars as well as stands promoting tourism.  One thing I was not fond of was the number of people wandering the streets panhandling.  I felt for them but quickly learned to clutch my purse a little tighter while on the street.

The thing is, I wasn’t feeling the pura vida (pure life) that this country is famous for.  Mostly, I just felt a sense of desolation.  I know that doesn’t make sense.  The place is green and pretty, the beach is great, the people friendly.  But there’s something underneath that feels like everyone is just getting by, like the laid-back attitude is there because there’s no point in reaching for something more since it’s not going to happen. I’m sure I’m just projecting some of my own weird feelings of displacement onto others but that’s still the impression I got.

This is an awesome place to have an adventure.  If you want to go there and rent a 4-wheel drive and just wander around, Costa Rica has much to see.  There are beaches, waterfalls, forests, and lots of animals.  You can go surfing, parasailing, ziplining – you name it, and it’s there.  But since I didn’t enter the country with that mindset, a lot of the place’s attributes were lost on me.  I can see dealing with the bugs and the heat and the crappy roads as part of a short-term experience, but actually living there?  I don’t think so.