Here is a brief synopsis of exactly what I mean.
2007 -
In Peru, my note worthy experience was a 5+ hour day at the spa where I
was exfoliated with an actual peach pit, had wax liberally applied most
everywhere and removed with magazine pages then plucked (where waxing had
failed), followed by a dinner
of cow heart. Thanks, Leigh!
2008
- In Columbia, where I was a known “wedding crasher” and then caught the
bouquet. Not a big hit amongst the
other younger women who had wedding fever.
2010
- Again, a known “wedding crasher”, I head to Kenya for a wedding and then
safari. All seems to go well until I,
solely, receive a text message that my layover light from Heathrow, UK is
cancelled as it’s “snowmageddon”. All
but one runway is shut down as the UK tries to manage the situation; most people at this point were stranded for over 5 days waiting for flights out. Trains and cars are all booked. I somehow manage to get out in just over 36
hours, just in time for Christmas Eve with my family. 
2011
- Irish Pub tour! Did not get memo that it was the AARP Pub
Tour where some participants were barely living (one was not) and that as a bonus,
your tour guide would be conducting recon on best opportunity to try and make
out with you (you being me… I never did follow up on if others had the same
(mis)fortune]. Thank heaven for Jack and
Sheri; they saved my vacation!
This should be sufficient enough evidence to make my point; I have stories. Portugal 2012 is no different.
As I described earlier, the Barcelona train station is
amazing and the train to Madrid was better than any flight in recent memory. Then there's the experience of having to switch train
stations in Madrid and the subsequent train ride; all which have burst my rose colored visions of traveling Europe via train.
To be honest I’m still baffled by where there are two major
train stations in Madrid but there are and I arrived from Barcelona in one,
departed to Portugal from another. This
requires a subway ride, which for the most part seems like it’d be a manageable
experience. So I, with my bag strapped to my back make my way to the metro station and head straight to the
information desk. I ask if I need a
ticket; this seems silly but on the train from Barcelona there was some
announcement that if you were traveling long distance within the next 3 hours,
you didn’t have to pay for a transfer.
My asking obviously starts up some discussion between the folks at the
desk for which I have no idea what decision they’ve reached. In short, I ask simply “do I need a ticket”
and with a headshake yes, I go to the ticket kiosk. Despite my selecting English, after the first
screen everything is in Spanish, I’m rushing because I notice I have no idea
what the hell I’m doing and am rapidly dwindling the 1.5 hours layover between trains.
I therefore purchase a ticket with Chamartin in the name and
head to the metro. Ok, there are subway
lines everywhere, the map is of no help, and I’m not sure what line I’m on or
what direction it's heading. F@$%! Ok, try not to look like a freaked out
tourist with no clue. Use what you have
acquired from your three yoga classes in Spanish; “inhala”…. “exhala”. I walk up to a security guard who has blood
shot eyes (maybe a little too much fun during siesta?) who then becomes apparently concerned for my safety as all he keeps giving me are tips for traveling safely in a city.
I get that this is what he’s trying to do as I’m trying to say I have a
ticket for another train at the other station (shocker I bought a subway ticket
to the WRONG station but it’ll work) and he, in charades fashion, is instructing
me to watch my bag, to keep an eye out for pick pocketers, and to keep alert
for my stop. He then proceeds to tell me
not to say anything to anyone and to immediately look for security on the other
side so that they can help me find my next train. What the hell did I look like?
Alas, a 20 minute subway ride and a long journey (following
other back packers through the maze of the metro station to Renfe station), I make it with
30 minutes left before my train to Portugal.
This station, unlike Barcelona reminds me of a very old Penn Station
(NYC) with platforms lined up with electronic boards that indicate from which
platform you will depart. Of course they give just enough notice to create a mini stampede. Finally,
we have a platform number and people start running.
I however am in no rush; I previously decided to expand my travel
repertoire by booking a tourista sleeping car.
Thus, in advance I know that I’ll be in a room with 3 other women but at
least I have an assigned bed, so why worry?
I walk toward the car, find the room and look in. I can’t help but laugh when I see what I’ve
gotten myself into. All I can do is pray
I have the top bunk!
This picture is to scale; the room really is this small. If one person is standing, the other three must sit on a bed or outside the car. Below is a close up of the sink in the room; public WC is down the hall.
Below: public WC. Bet you're REALLY jealous now! Yikes......
Exhale – I do have the top bunk and while it’s cramped, it’s
an experience so I just laugh once more and climb up to my bed. A nice woman from Portugal then comes in,
sees me sitting on the bed and then states “its ok, I have that bed
actually, you must have this other one but that’s ok. Don’t move, I’ll just sleep on this
one”. So I look and then I look
again. No I say, this is actually my
bed. Long story short, 1 bed, two bookings. Now I really laugh because as I’ve
chronologically laid out for you in the beginning, this is my travel luck.
Clearly not a bed big enough for two; strangers or not.
After total and utter confusion on behalf of the crew,
despite indications that this happens more often then they’d like to admit,
we’re finally sorted out and neither of us have to sleep in a seat, or what I’d
like to refer to as the likes of any cheap beach accommodation where fifty plus 20 year olds are
sitting. I.E. there was no sleep to be
had there.
So I make my way back to my assigned car to find that my
bunkmates (an older Indian woman, a young Spanish girl and mid to late 20’s
eastern European girl) are already tucked into bed and trying to sleep. Let me share it was the eastern European
girl who was lowering the boom on car rules (lights, sleep/rise times,
etc). I crawl into my bed were for the
first 2 hours I wonder why the hell they would provide wool blankets for
sleeping. It was hotter than hell in there and if I wasn’t so skeeved out
about any part of my skin touching the blanket/sheets, I would have stripped down to the bare minimum clothing needed to not completely disrespect
my bunkmates. But then comes the
AC. We went from hell to the artic
faster than a sports car can hit 60mph and I found myself shivering for the
remainder of the trip.
Sleep was mostly tossing and turning till finally we arrived in Portugal.
I have to say one thing though that’s got me completely
confused and I don’t want this to be lost
on anyone. NO ONE asked for my
passport. At immigration in Barcelona
when I arrived they NEVER asked why I was here, where I’d be staying, for how
long I’d be there… NOTHING. How the HELL
does anyone know where I am? Besides
being baffled by that, I’m just bitter I have no stamp from Portugal in my
passport.
Moving on. I walk off
the train and find the tourist information office to pick up as much literature available on what there is to do in Portugal and then wander around looking for the metro. My tour book from AAA (a brief guide to
various cities in Europe but it was free so I can’t complain too much) says
that there’s a metro but where the hell is it?
I walk back to the tourist office, find out I have to walk outside and
wahla! There it is. I walk up to the ticket kiosk and then try
and figure out which direction I need to go to make it to where I believe
my hotel is located. Having no instant
access to Internet though (no internet service means no google maps) I am relying on a tourist
map to get me there. Thankfully the
metro ride is successful and I’m headed in the right direction. Awesome, because by this point, I needed a
confidence boost.
I then climb back out of the metro and determine that the hotel is straight ahead (up a hill).
I walk about a block and then decide to confirm with a bellhop at a
nearby hotel. He confirms that I am
indeed headed in the right direction: keep walking up the hill and once I get
to the large traffic circle, the hotel will be there. Can this really be? I’m 2 for 2 on directions today? If I wasn’t experiencing spinal compression
from all the shit I’m lugging on my back, I’d jump up and click my heals together.
Walking……. Walking…….. walking…… I still don’t see my
hotel. Mind you there a ton of hotels
I’m passing, just not mine. So as I’m
now profusely sweating through all my clothes and I’m at the circle with no
sight of my hotel, I stop in another hotel to ask for help. The slightly annoyed gentleman then tells me
that I’ve walked the complete wrong direction and that I need to walk about 10
minutes back and it’ll be there. Oh you
mean right across from the metro I got off at and not up this damn hill? Thanks a heap!
I pass the original bellhop that I stopped and asked for
help muttering silently how much of an idiot he is while imagining strangling
him.
Thankfully I arrive at my hotel, they allow me to check
in early AND inform me that breakfast is still being served!
Above: Entrance to Hotel Lisboa Plaza. I HIGHLY recommend this place. Accommodations were amazing and only 99 euros (including breakfast) per night during the peak season.
Above: Room was very spacious, clean and jammed pack full of sunlight. Only downside - if you do not enjoy loud/noisy sleeping quarters as I do, the lower floors can be a bit loud despite this being located on a side street.
Above: Stairwell leading up to rooms.
Above: Breakfast buffet.
Above: A hearty breakfast of bread, tomato and cheese, and a hard boiled egg.
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