Lisboa Part 1

The airline I took over to Lisbon from New York was called Jet Airways. It is a relatively new Indian airline. Everything was in Hindi. The old Indian lady next to me said absolutely no words. She couldn't figure out how to lock her tray table, so I did every time she needed it done. She didn't thank me. I was too busy reading Just Kids to care. I read half of it. I had never heard Patti Smith's music before, but I was completely in love with her. I don't remember ever having that experience before of falling in love with someone I've never met. I tried to watch Food, Inc but it made me waaaaay too sad. We arrived in Brussels, Belgium at the equivalent of 3 AM in New York time - just about my bed time. I slept on a bench thing in the airport for a couple hours waiting for my connection flight to Lisbon. No one at the airport could tell me where the flight was leaving from until 30 minutes before it's scheduled departure when an old lady came stumbling down the terminal station yelling "Lisboa! Gate 50! Lisboa! I figured it out!" I thought that was a silly way to catch a flight. I was going to learn very quickly that in Europe you are expected to know where to be and when to be there. Always. No babies.

On the plane to Lisbon I tried to sleep but couldn't manage. I was quite anxious, about to disembark in this new country where I didn't know the language or any friends. I was sitting next to a very cute girl who looked equally as tired as I but also very excited. She only spoke Portuguese so we talked in body language - a sigh when our airplane left late, a smile when we realized the food we were served was kind of good. When we flew over Lisbon she nearly lost her shit, smiling and laughing with her face glued to the window. I liked to think she was from Lisbon and she was returning from a trip of similar nature and magnitude as mine. I loved seeing someone so excited to return to Lisbon, as I will be when I see San Francisco out of an airplane window in June. Her excitement became my excitement and I left the plane eager to explore.

I had booked 3 nights in a hostel in downtown Lisbon called the Traveller's House. Hostelworld.com has it listed as the best hostel in the world. It cost 15 euro a night. I was intrigued to see what the best hostel in the world would be like. On the way to the Traveller's House I watched a group of rambunctious young dudes raise some Kain all over the back of the bus. They were talking in a language I couldn't recognize. They were whistling at all the fine ladies, not letting old people sit down, blocking the way so people missed their stop, ect. I was scared they were Portuguese. I soon found out they were Polish and that a big Polish football team was playing a high profile game against Lisbon's team that night. The Poles got creamed. They were total motherfucking crybaby vermin smeared all over Lisbon for the next week, singing stupid national songs drunk off their dicks, peeing on historic monuments in broad daylight and roaming around without their shirts on and their big white bellies flapping in the wind. When not distracted by the silly Poles, I noticed loads of street art all over the abandoned buildings in the area outside of historic Lisbon. One piece spanned three different 5 story buildings and looked like a bunch of cartoony super heroes fighting it out. I was stoked.

I arrived at the main drag in historic downtown Lisbon, Rua Augusta. A huge archway-clock tower is the gateway towards the river port at the end of Augusta. The streets are made of little square-ish stones. Time has made the stone laying wavy and sort of dreamy. I found this incredibly elegant and it would be my main source of inspiration in Lisbon. I walked up and down the main street, bewildered by the antique architecture. The colors of everything were otherworldly, lots of beige and brown and faded yellow. I couldn't find the Traveller's House, so I asked a man at an information stand where it was as he was closing up. He laughed and pointed towards a little door with no sign on it across the way. He told me to ring the doorbell and they'd beep me in.

Up the stairs and into the hostel, I was greeted by an incredibly dope guy named G who grew up in Lisbon and now worked at the Traveller's House, the classiest hostel I've ever seen. He was a DJ and spun old jazz records at a club in the bar district on weekends. He took my luggage from me and showed me to my room, introducing me to the awesomeness of the Traveller's House. They have a couple dozen beanbag chairs, 1 euro beers you can have on an honors system, the fastest wi-fi I've ever experienced and delicious free coffee and tea all day long. I realized how exhausted I was, having slept so little and been on a plane so long. He gave me an awesome itinerary for "my sleepy face." Traditionally, restaurants in Portugal shut down between 3 and 7:30 PM and re-open for dinner. It was 4. He outlined the way to a cafe run by a bunch of young people called Cruz that don't give a fuck and are open all day long. I walked in and they were spinning a really epic remix of the Radiohead song Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Can on an old record player. I said "hola" to the guy working there and he noticed my accent and replied "hola, or hey, or whatever." I went there every day for a glass of wine and a place to write.

I watched the sunset from the top of this old church overlooking the river that runs by Lisbon and runs in the Atlantic ocean just north of the Mediterranean. It was absolutely beautiful. I people watched an incredibly malformed young guy who looked sort of like the hunchback of Notre-Dame buy a beer for a pretty girl sitting across from me and their adorably sweet interaction. I ran back to the hostel. It was a total fucking party. There was 30 or so people hanging out in the common area, drinking and socializing. I felt like a lame-o going to bed so early. I kicked it with G for a second then crashed like a fucking cruise liner at 8 PM, stoked as all hell on Lisbon.