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.

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.

Still Treading the Icy Waters of Cascais

 

...  and dreading the day I have to leave.  Although leaving my current apartment … yeah.  I’m ready to do that.  All the free beer and snacks in the world won’t make up for dealing with that smell.  And the bump on my head still hurts.

I arranged for a new place early in the week.  Because I like the area, I looked for a place nearby.  It was so nearby, in fact, that I walked my way-too-much stuff across a few streets and arrived at the new place in about 15 minutes.

This was another nice place.  I love the layout.  A decent sized bedroom for Europe with one of two balconies off it.  The other balcony was off the living room but couldn’t be opened because the handle had broken off. It could use a microwave, some A/C or at least a fan in the bedroom, and a clothesline but otherwise it was a spacious place to squat for a week.  And hey, we’re back to the electric blinds so that’s a plus.

The place was a bit noisy with the screaming kid downstairs and my next-door neighbor who insisted on talking on the phone with her front door open (why?). The decorations in front of her apartment let me know that they do celebrate Halloween in Portugal.  I always thought of it as an American/Irish holiday, but there was a shop selling spooky stuff in Cascais so there you go.

The job search continues and is still pretty demoralizing.  I’m either highly underqualified for everything or the job requires me to live in the states.  It’s getting cooler here in Portugal and I’m starting to consider my next move for the end of November when my Schengen days run out.  Kinda depressing.  I would have loved to be in my new place come winter, but that ain’t happening without a bank account and I can’t get a bank account without having a job.  Sigh.

In slightly better news, I’m also attempting to jump-start my freelance writing career.  I discovered a site called Medium where writers can post anything they like.  After getting 100 followers, writers can put their work behind a paywall and actually get paid.  Not only that, but I can use those articles (along with this blog) as an online portfolio to show potential clients.  I have no idea how this will go, but it’s a start and gives me motivation to write more consistently.

I’ve completed a course on SEO (search engine optimization) on Coursera.  My next course will be the Google Data Analytics Certification.  Data analysis is supposed to be the next big thing so I figured I’d give it a try.  Ideally, I could get an analyst job while still working on the freelancing and try to get those multiple streams of income I’ve been hearing so much about.

And a blast from the past.  I was sitting at my computer and my phone rang.  Scared the crap out of me.  I picked it up thinking it was my stepmom, but … no.  It was Zaza.  I gaped at the phone.  It had been a month since our last text and I could not believe he was calling me.  I declined the call while laughing maniacally.  I just … I don’t even know anymore.

Turns out there’s a name for this behavior too.  In talking about narcissists, this out-of-the blue contact is called hoovering.  The narc has been discarded and is trying to suck the victim back in.  Yeah.  Really not interested.  I wish him no ill will but have no desire to get involved with his problems again.

There’s always something going on in Cascais; weekdays, weekends, doesn’t matter. Mostly, there are pop-up markets selling souvenirs and handy crafts.  There’s also the occasional food truck with tables set out in a parking lot.  On Saturday, while taking my daily walk by the shore, I stumbled across a car show.  Porches as far as the eye could see along with crowds waiting to take pictures of people zooming off for a test drive (I assume they were test drives and not purchases, but it was hard to tell).

I had lunch one day in a café by the sea that I had visited during my last trip to Cascais.  One of the waitresses actually remembered my visit.  Her name was Angelina, and she sparked a conversation about my t-shirt.  I was wearing the one I got from the Hard Rock in Phuket and she mentioned how she’d also been to the island.  I told her how I was scoping Thailand out as a new home and she mirrored my thoughts that it was a nice place to visit but not to live.  I told her about my travels and how, of all the countries I’ve been to, Portugal is where I feel most at home.  She agreed and noted the chill atmosphere of the people.  This woman had never been to the states, yet she still knew what a ‘Karen’ was, saying they don’t get many of those women in Portugal.  It reminded me of Lamin, the Gambian native I met who had also never been to the states yet still knew about the gun violence.

And this is the view other countries have of the U.S.  It’s a wonder the country has any international visitors at all at this point.  With its reputation, visitors traveling to the states must feel like they're dropping into a Mad Max movie.

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.