Georgia, Alabama, and an Unexpected Reunion

 

Considering the issues I’ve had in the past whenever I return to the states, this trip went off fairly smoothly.  No problems with late arrival, no lost luggage, no unexpected layovers.  I landed in Atlanta, collected my rental car, and proceeded to the Airbnb I rented in Roswell.

This was a change from the hotel I normally crash in when in Georgia.  It was cheaper and I wanted to switch things up a bit.  I’ve never rented an Airbnb in the states.  I quickly noticed the difference in American vs foreign hosts.

Most of the notes in the Airbnb listings of other countries merely mention no smoking or pets.  This place had a laundry list of dos and don’ts as well as detailed instructions about using the cookware, taking out the trash, and stripping the beds.  It was a bit much and reminded me that Americans are seriously uptight.

The place, however, was just as advertised and very nice.  It was a little strange being in the in-law suite underneath the hosts as they stomped on my head, but it had its own entrance and was a good place to stay for a few days.  I felt right at home while still acutely aware that I have no home yet.

I ran into the hosts a couple of times, once when the man left the house and once when a disoriented woman came down to the apartment.  Good thing I wasn’t walking around naked.  She apologized profusely, saying she had been out of town and wasn’t sure why the door to the suite had been left open.

My few days in Georgia were all about collecting mail, visiting the storage unit, and handling all the business I couldn’t conduct from outside of the country.  Then it was back to the airport.

After a short plane ride, I arrived in Huntsville, Alabama.  Spending nearly a year as a displaced traveler, sometimes in countries where the residents barely spoke English, I found myself very much in need of the familiar.  Of family.

I declined to stay at my parents’ home – that would have been too much for me to handle.  I chose instead to stay at a local hotel and let my stepmom know where to pick me up the next day.

When she got out of the car, I was proud of myself for not crying.  It was just really good to see her.  I hadn’t seen Cynthia since her visit to fair Woodstock for my surgery in 2019.  The woman has been my lifeline while I’ve been traveling.  Don’t know what I would have done without her support.

We went out to a cozy place for lunch and caught up.  She is recovering from surgery and not doing as well as she would like.  I thought she looked wonderful.  She’s a tough chick who’s been through a lot and is still smiling. 

The table next to ours was full of a bunch of lovely young ladies drinking it up and celebrating the 21^st birthday of one of them.  Cynthia, being the extrovert that she is, struck up a conversation with them.  Even though she has throat issues, she was still convinced to sing a birthday song.  One of the ladies was gracious enough to take some pictures of the two of us.  We’ve known each other for two decades yet we didn’t have a picture together until now.

After lunch, we continued our tour of the city.  I shouldn’t have been surprised by how much it’s changed in 20 years, but it was still a shock.  I haven’t been in Huntsville since the late 90’s and since then that big, small town has become an actual city.  All the construction reminded me of the Atlanta area and not in a good way.  The easy traffic I remembered from my 20’s was long gone as all the new transplants and houses in the area had overrun the back country roads.

While on one of those roads, I suddenly recognized one of the cross streets we passed.  “Cynthia, are we going to your house?”  “Oh, we’ll just go by it.  I don’t think your father’s home.”

The garage door was up.  Oh.  Guess he is home.

Sigh.

“You don’t have to go inside if you’ll be uncomfortable.”  I just shrugged.  Whatever.

I haven’t seen the man in twenty years and with good reason, considering the mess of our dysfunctional family dynamic.  He’s still the same stiff, rigid, creature of habit he’s always been.  Can’t say I was happy to see him, but it didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would.  I even hugged him when offered.  And since Cynthia is reading this, that’s all I’ll say about him.

She took me on a tour of all the changes she’d made to the décor.  Over the years, she’d ripped out the fireplace and the carpeting, replacing the latter with hardwood floors, changed the countertops in the kitchen and furnished rooms I remember as being barren the last time I’d seen the place.  They’d built a deck off the dining room and a shed for his boat and multiple cars.  It was a whole new house.

After the tour, she settled in her favorite chair while the father ate his usual meal of chicken, rice, and broccoli.  That part hasn’t changed.  Nor has his habit of disappearing into the garage for hours at a time as he did after his meal.  I lay on one of the sofas and soon became engrossed in the PBS special playing on the big screen TV.   It was very cozy.

It was also very weird.  I was in this place that had been my home for nine months after college, the same place I had avoided in the twenty years since.  Cynthia had made it over to be very comfortable, a real home full of character and family memories … and I really didn’t belong there.  Didn’t belong anywhere.  Just like my last Airbnb, being in that house just made me long for a place of my own that I simply didn’t have yet.  

I had to leave.  Not wanting to wake my stepmom, I kissed the top of her head and called an Uber.  There was a bar on the front door that I didn’t want to disturb so I begrudgingly went to the garage, hoping the door to the outside was open.  It wasn’t.

I had disturbed the bear from his cave and he jumped up to see to me.  I explained the situation and was told to open the garage door.  Then, since the driver hadn’t arrived yet, he told me to wait inside and he would lock up after me. 

As a parting shot across my bow, he asked me where all the money for my travel was coming from.  He mentioned my age (as he never fails to do when we meet) and the fact that I should be saving for retirement.  I assured him I had it under control and ended the conversation.  I knew from experience that he didn’t ask from genuine concern.  He just wanted to piss on my rainbow again.  That’s just who he is.  I know that by now.

I thanked him for my Christmas card and wished him a happy holiday.  Jumping into the Uber, my shoulders slumped in relief.  I listened as the driver answered a call from his mom.  Apparently, the next day was his birthday.  He explained later that this would be his 51^st anniversary of life and he always devoted the day to his mother as a thank you for bringing him into the world.

That’s nice.  Meanwhile, my mom is long dead and the only person who cares about me lives with a man I can’t stand to be around.  Merry f#^%ing Christmas.

I wished him a good one and headed off to bed.

I checked out the next morning and camped out in the lobby for a while.  My flight out was not until nearly 7 that evening, so I was in no hurry to get to the airport.  Cynthia called and offered to drive me over, stopping for lunch beforehand.  Not necessary or expected but much appreciated.

We lunched, she drove me to see some more sights, we spoke to her daughter, a woman I hadn’t interacted with in years.  We reached the airport and said our goodbyes.  Then it was time for me to leave Alabama, unsure when or if I’d ever return.

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.

Freaking Turkiye ... Again?

 

Okay.  This move hurt. 

My last day in Funchal was a strange one.  The wind kicked up something fierce and the sky was as pictured above.  Does that ring around the sun mean something?  Like to sailors or astrologers?  I don’t know, but it cast a strange light over the entire day.

I also woke up with a sore throat.  For those keeping score, this is the third time on this journey that I’ve gotten sick.  I rarely got sick before traveling.  I don’t know if this is just the changes in climate or my advancing age or what, but it is highly annoying.  And I’d be getting on a plane soon.  Yay.

I got a cab late in the day because, just like last time, my flight out of Madeira was at an ungodly hour of the morning.  Arriving at the airport at 11 meant I’d have lots of wandering time before my 5 am flight.  Then it was on to Lisbon for another wait.

But there was a problem.  The very same bag I had no problem getting on the flight in Madeira, was now suddenly too heavy for Turkish Airlines.  I went to check the bag and the woman told me I hadn’t paid for it beforehand (I’m pretty sure I did – I’ve booked quite a few flights in the last year).  Then she sent me over to the ticketing desk to pay.  Where now?  I asked two people the location of this desk and neither of them knew … in the airport they work in every day.  Already tired since I hadn’t slept the night before, dragging all my stuff around Lisbon airport looking for the ticketing desk just made me even more upset about this entire trip.  It’s not like I wanted to leave the country, why are you making it even more difficult?

I eventually did find the desk.  After some more waiting, I got saddled with the bill for my bag.  You know?  The one I’ve been carrying around for months?  Suddenly it was overweight to the tune of $318.  Are you sh$$ing me!?  I just stared at the woman.  That cost was almost as much as my ticket!   

I don’t want to do this anymore.  The planes, the airports, the waiting, the expense … I’ve had enough.

Sigh.  Gotta plane to catch.  Nothing for it now.

At least I got a good seat on the plane, right?  That’s … something.

The ticketing agent upgraded me to an exit row which meant legroom for days.  They wouldn’t let me keep my small bag under the seat, so I had even more room for the 5-hour flight.

There were multiple reasons I chose to return to Istanbul.  One: obviously, I love the city.  Two:  Türkiye is not in Schengen.  Three:  I figured the transition from Portugal would be easier if I were going to another place I loved.  And four:  I’m still considering a continuation of my trek east that I began over the summer.  It will soon be summertime in Australia and New Zealand, which may be a little too hot, but it still beats the alternative (the thought of such a long plane ride, though? Eeesh).

As for that alternative … I knew it would be an adjustment coming back to mainland Europe from a tropical island but damn, is it cold in Istanbul!  It was 70 degrees the night I spent in Madeira Airport.  Night one in Istanbul?  55 degrees.  Yikes.

The last area I stayed in Istanbul was the lovely Balat neighborhood.  This area of Beyoglu near Taksim Square is more like a … um … bombed out warzone?  I was already well familiar with the bumpy, uneven streets and the beaten-up sidewalks in this city, but this area has got to be the worst of the places I’ve stayed.  It’s weird, though.  Not far from my apartment are the higher end hotels, Hilton, Grand Hyatt, Ritz Carlton.

Weirder still is the fact that, once again, you can’t judge a book by the cover.  The street may be a crowded, uphill, narrow nightmare where you’re dodging traffic every few feet, but the apartment is lovely.  No central heating (yes, I’m a spoiled American), but still a nice place. 

The bedroom is huge for Europe with a very comfy bed.  The balcony would be a great place to hang out if not for the cold.  Not much of a view, but spacious.

And right across the street is a building with only one inhabited floor while the rest of it looks burnt out.  Go figure.

Going out the first day, I was greeted at the front door by a cat rubbing against my legs.  Yep.  Definitely back in Istanbul.  I admit to kinda missing the cats in Portugal. 

The apartment is not far from Dolmabahce palace, Galata Tower, and Istiklal Street.  This is a famous street in the city and the main drag featuring a ton of stores and restaurants.  It’s also about 95% pedestrian.  The remaining 5% means you’re dodging police cars, motorcycles, the through traffic from a couple of cross streets, and the famous trolley car.  The tracks run right down the middle of the street.

I really don’t understand why there aren’t dead bodies lining the streets.  The chaos is real, people.

And it extends to more than the traffic.  I was in a restaurant listening to Turkish rap music – yes, that is a thing Heijan & Muti - AYNEN (Official Video) #HERMANO - YouTube – and wondering again about the influence of American culture in other countries.  Granted, this music is just as incomprehensible to my old ears as modern American rap, but it was still strange to hear.

Additionally, all along Istiklal Street are signs touting Black Friday sales.  Not Kara Cuma (the Turkish term) but Black Friday.  I stood there tilting my head at seeing these words on signs and the lines of text in English encouraging people to enter.  It also never occurred to me that foreigners might specifically come to Türkiye during this time of year to do some bargain shopping for Christmas.  I wasn’t even sure the country celebrated Christmas, but seeing the decorated trees in the airport led me to believe that it does.

I really don’t see any other appeal to Istanbul this time of year.  The city is just too freaking cold!  My first day back, there was some sun and the temperature reached the low 60’s.  By the end of the week, the temperature actually dropped to record lows.  The sky was overcast most of the time with the occasional bout of rain.  First it was too hot in the summer and now it’s too cold in the winter.  The city does get the four seasons – which I’m kinda over as a life experience.  There’s a reason I want live on a tropical island.  I don’t do cold weather.  These temperatures just make me want to hibernate.

I had considered hanging out in Türkiye for three months and then just going back to Portugal.  I made sure to get my e-visa before my flight, so no problems there.  But I’m not feeling the whole move-around-the-city process that I did while in Lisbon.  Again, the impulse to hibernate is too strong here.

I love you, Istanbul, just not right now. I miss Madeira too much.

One last note.  While I celebrated a non-traditional Thanksgiving in a foreign country, one of my earlier stops this year devolved into chaos.  I still don’t know all the details about the knife attacks in Dublin, but I am shocked that something like that happened.  And the resulting rioting is just … wow.  Dublin is a beautiful city full of a lot of nice people.  I really hate to see them take a page out of America’s book with this violent reactionism.  I wish them the best.

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.

An Unexpected Detour

Sigh.

The trip back to the states just gets harder on me every time.  I already don’t want to go, don’t want to spend the money, don’t need the hassle.  What I do need are the replacement credit/debit cards that (hopefully) awaited me in my P.O. box.  And since they can’t come to me …

Packing to leave a place has become second nature to me.  The only times it’s a problem are when I’m leaving an apartment/location that I like or when I’m preparing to board an international flight.  In this case, I HATE having to leave Portugal (the place truly makes me happy) and I HATE going back to the states (what I said about Portugal but the opposite).  I could leave the apartment and Costa da Caparica, though.  Neither were my favorite.

Having to ditch perfectly good items isn’t my favorite thing either.  While traveling within the same country, I am the crazy woman carrying way too much food, paper products, and a big bottle of Persil.  Why purchase these items before I have to if I can just shove them in an Uber and move on to the next place? 

Of course, the thought of lugging these things around an airport … not so much.  Those trips require having as little as possible for me to carry and have to worry about remembering.  Then there’s airport security.  More on that later.

Uber has been incredibly convenient in Portugal, particularly in this location as cabs were harder to come by than in Lisbon or Cascais.  The driver spoke pretty good English and I was impressed with his driving skills.  Unlike most Portuguese I’d met, he didn’t drive like the cops were chasing him and was very adept at maneuvering out of the tight parking lot in front of the apartment.  We did get stuck in traffic just before the gate at the airport and he mentioned that it was always bad in this area.  I scoffed.  Buddy, you’ve obviously never been to Atlanta.  Now THAT is some bad traffic.  This was just a minor hiccup.

Getting through the airport was easy enough and I was quickly becoming more familiar with Lisbon Airport.  And I ended up having so much more time than I thought as my flight that was supposed to leave at 11 a.m. just … didn’t.  No explanation, just a whole bunch of people milling around a gate waiting for a boarding announcement that never came.  We had gotten so far as to line up for boarding, with some people already let through, only to watch those people get off the plane in disappointment. 

Then we all waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And watched our gate used for another flight that did take off on time.  Then watched as the gate sign changed back to our flight number, which at this point, should have taken off a couple of hours earlier.  Yeesh.

Eventually, we did take off.  It seems that the plane had mechanical difficulties and they’d had to call an engineer out to repair it.  The flight went smoothly (thank goodness), but any chance of me getting to my connecting flight was completely shot.

The airline was prepared for this, though.  As soon as we landed in Heathrow, agents were waiting to give us vouchers for food and transportation to a nearby hotel.  Guess I’d be spending the night in London.

But not with my luggage.  I asked about picking up my checked bag before I went to the shuttle and the guy said I wouldn’t have to.  Uh, but I kind of want to.  Not only were all my clothes in there, but I didn’t like the idea of, once again, being separated from my bag and not knowing when or if I would see it again.  But I would just have to deal with it.

It was raining when we arrived in London (surprise).  The shuttle took forever to reach us, forcing a bunch of people who didn’t want to be there to huddle under an awning in the windy gray weather.  Not my favorite memory from this trip. 

We arrived at the Arora, a simple-looking brick structure surrounded by row houses.  I shared my disappointment with my fellow passengers as we had passed a nicer looking Hilton hotel just before this one.  But, beggars can’t be choosers.

Check-in was easy enough as the hotel was expecting us.  As for the rest of it … not so much.  The first of the two elevators I tried refused to move.  I pushed the button for two, it lit up, then went dark again.  The doors opened and another woman entered.  The same thing happened when she pushed the button.  We both then exited and went to the other elevator.  The couple coming out of it were also in the hotel because of British Airways.  We mentioned the elevator issue and they told us about not being able to use the safe or adjust the thermostat in their room.  They also helpfully suggested that there was a liquor store in walking distance.  Not that we’d have need for booze during such a short stay …

I did like everyone’s attitude during our unexpected side-journey.  Instead of dealing with a bunch of angry entitled Americans, there was a sense of ‘we’re all in this together so let’s just get through it’.  I appreciated that.

I felt for the staff though.  They did their job as well as they could, but it can’t be a morale boost to work for a hotel that no one wants to be in.  The Arora wasn’t anyone’s choice, it wasn’t a go-to destination in London.  It was just a way station for tired, displaced people to crash for a night. 

The room was clean and serviceable except for the toilet.  Sometimes it flushed and sometimes it just didn’t.  No reason; it was just temperamental.  The thermostat could not be adjusted and the safe was indeed unusable as I’d been warned.  I didn’t care so much about that.  The wi-fi was decent and the bed comfortable enough.

The dinner was comped with the room.  Nothing special and no alcohol, but they did have a butter chicken that was very tasty.  I know that Indian food is big in England, but I didn’t expect to have such good food in a bargain basement, last-resort hotel.

I did face a dilemma after dinner.  Was it better to shower knowing I’d have to put on the same clothes as the day before?  Or was it best to just not shower and keep the same clothes on?  I chose the latter option as the thought of putting dirty underwear on a clean body was just too gross to consider.  At least I had my deodorant with me.  I slathered it on the next morning and hoped for the best.

Breakfast wasn’t much more than boxed cereal and coffee.  I grabbed a packaged croissant, a cappuccino from yet another wonderful machine, and took a walk around the neighborhood.  It was a bright and gorgeous, if cold, morning in the town of Slough (is it pronounced like ‘slow’ or ‘sloff’ – I have no idea).  It slowly warmed up as everyone began to gather out front.  The shuttle was again late so we waited a while, but I had no worries as my flight didn’t leave until later in the afternoon.

Back at Heathrow I ran into a problem.  Please remember that by this point, I’d been traveling for seven months.  I’d been through at least 20 airports and had learned what will get through airport security and what won’t.  Early on, Dublin security proved tricky because they did not accept liquids in the gallon size Ziploc bag that everyone else accepts.  They insist on quart bags that they provide for customers at a station where you’re expected to throw out anything that doesn’t fit in the bag.  That was highly annoying, but since I was flying back to the states, it didn’t bother me too much.  I knew I could just replace the items while there (and have no problem leaving the country with them).

Heathrow was set up the same way.  Only quart bags, throw everything else out.  Sigh.  Okay.  Whatever.  So, imagine my annoyance when my bag got flagged even after doing this.  My belongings have been flagged multiple times on this journey and my cursing gets louder every time.  I’ve lost lotion, shea butter, conditioner, toothpaste, and that rare jar of Jif Extra Crunchy peanut butter that I found in Bangkok (found it there and couldn’t get it out of the country).

This time I lost a pair of hair shears that were too long to board the plane and my bottle of deodorant.  I’d left the states with these items, been through multiple airports without issue.  And now they get pinched?  Are you sh(%%ing me!  Believe it or not, I was more upset about the deodorant than the scissors.  It’s deodorant for crying out loud!  And you’re throwing it away because the bottle held more than 100 ml even though, by this point, the bottle is half-empty? 

I needed a moment after this particular run-in with security.  There were way too many people around me, I was wearing the same clothes as the day before, I was facing yet another long trip across the pond, and I’d had just about enough of planes and airports.  And just think – if I had caught my connection as planned, I may not have had to go through this.

Pissed off and already tired, I wandered Heathrow in a daze.  I still had hours to go before my flight so I began the hunt for food.  And since I was in England, why not have some fish and chips, mushy peas, and my first cosmo in months?

As I mentioned, the airport was insanely crowded and I hate being jostled.  Walking through the Harry Potter store, however, as a big fan of the series, did put a smile on my face.  I didn’t buy any of the overpriced souvenirs, but I liked walking around the heavily themed store.  They had a big assortment of wands that just tickled me.  I liked Belatrix LeStrange’s the best.  It looks like a big twig, suggesting you don’t need a lot of ornamentation to be powerful.  Just put a bunch of crazy behind it and you’re good to go.

The flight went well enough.  No issues reuniting with my bag and I was grateful to be landing in Atlanta before midnight, unlike the last two times.  At least this time, I could pick up my car and not have to get a cab/Uber for this shortened mail stop.  Well, in theory, I could pick up my car.  If the desk were open. 

While it was 10 at night when I arrived at the rental center, the other desks in the area were open.  But not Alamo.  Not even their kiosk could help me.  Sigh (again).  I briefly stood in line at Enterprise, said screw it, and went over to the line-free Budget counter.  “Just give me the cheapest thing you have available for one night”.

That car turned out to be a red Kia Soul, a decent car.  While I’m not a fan of driving at night in an unfamiliar car, the lack of traffic on the road made it easier.  A quick night in Woodstock then off to the usual errands. I was expecting three cards in the mail.  Bank of America, for the second time, refused to send my new debit card, but at least the two credit cards arrived as expected.  I dropped off some summer gear at the storage unit and then it was back to the airport.