I had prepared carefully. I had my DK Lisbon guide, my lists and agenda, and my My Maps print-outs of where I thought I might go. I packed thoughtfully and even included an F adapter for my electronics. Two, in fact, to be on the safe side. And so many cords. The Uber was prompt. Logan Airport in Boston turned out not to be the epicenter of chaos.
Humberto Delgado Airport
A little over six hours after take-off we disembarked and started the trek to passport control; the officers there didn’t seem much pleased to see us. Another hike and we arrived at the baggage area, where Carousel 13 was the most distant. Boston luggage was slow arriving and I worried that I was running late. Douglas, my driver, might be gone. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Anxiety is distracting. Traveling solo means there’s no designated supervisor of possessions. When my suitcase was disgorged onto the conveyor belt, I leapt to grab it and was off through Customs to Arrivals.
Found Douglas—he totally looks like a Douglas, young and handsome—and panic! I had left my computer case with the brand-spanking-new tablet and all my carefully organized notes, my cords and plugs, books and Kindle, on the bench where I had been sitting.
Panic
Douglas hung in with me as my agitation spiraled. No one seemed concerned, only adamant that I could not, under any circumstances, go back into the luggage area to search around carousel 13.
“Go to the Polícia,” someone finally said. The Polícia weren’t particularly helpful. A young officer suggested I was being discourteous and demanding in my moment of need. I groveled my apologies, and they agreed—grudgingly—to take a look. I sent Douglas on his way and waited for the longest twenty minutes of my life. They found the bag and dispatched me to Customs to retrieve it.
Back to Customs
But I couldn’t get back to Customs? I went up escalators, down stairs, and all around. But you can’t just walk back up the ramp that arriving passengers use to get out of Customs into Arrivals. If I could have done that, trust me, I already would have.
Finally I waylaid an officer headed that way and he sweetly—if slightly suspiciously—escorted me to the security station. There it was, my black computer bag in all its nondescript glory. I itemized the contents for them and showed my passport. Everything was there. Everything.
Hotel Bound
Travessa da Portuguesa
I was hot, I was sweaty, and I was slightly nauseous. The cab that took me to Palácio das Especiarias at Rua Horta Seca 11, where I was to leave my suitcase until 3:00 pm, cost €34 plus tip.
When I asked where to eat, Ana at Reception suggested Farmacia Felicidade, which turns out to be attached to the Museum of Pharmacy. And it all seemed closed. That after a vertiginous walk up hill, down steps, and up steps. Then my mobile died.
Ordered a bowl of chicken soup and an espresso at Leitaria Pastelaria Orion (“desde 1945”) on the corner. Tried to remember just how I had gotten there and hoped I’d be able to make my way back to Rua Horta Seca.
Seeking Shelter
view from the desk
Thank heavens for printed maps. At the Palácio, dear Willian (William? Will?) ushered me to the well-appointed public areas on the elegant first floor and said to help myself to tea and coffee. Did some writing. Snooped around in the drawer of the desk. Wondered just how expensive such splendor might be. For my next visit, you understand.
Sapateiros 44
My final destination was Sapateiros 44 and getting from Chiodo to Baixa meant dragging a heavy suitcase up hills and down, over damp cobbles, my strength ebbing quickly. I did get there, though. Huzzah!
No. Bummah! I had checked in at Especiarias as required. I had a copy of an email that included the pin number sent. Nothing worked. Doors remained locked. There was no option but to get myself and that deadweight of a bag back to the hotel and solve the problem.
Misdirection
I am directionally challenged at the best of times so of course I got lost, ending up somewhere very far from where I wanted to go. Rain was beginning to fall rather more heavily. Taxi!
Back at Especiarias, they assured me an email (which one?) had included the six-digit code followed by a hash sign. I needed the code for identification; the hash sign actually unlocked the door. Bad words were crowding into my mind.
Another taxi—damn, but I was wasting money on taxis—and I returned to Sapateiros 44. I entered the code and hash sign and was greeted by a welcoming buzzing and click. A housekeeper helped me enter the same code at the door of room 3.
Bem-vindo a Lisboa
my window from Rua de São Nicolau
Made it! I had wasted the first half day, but whatever.
I consulted Google about restaurants in easy walking distance. Imprensa at Rua de São Nicolau 24 offered fresh local oysters and recommended a glass of Golpe, a white from Douro Meda. It was the repast I needed, the perfect libation, all in the bar of my dreams. Dark. A bit dingy. Incredibly friendly.