10 Things You Can Do in Lisbon

And here's list of 10 things you can do in Lisbon.

1. Talk loudly. Everyone else does. So must you.
2. Have a row in public. Everyone pretends not to notice. Honest - I've tried it. It's cool.
3. Drink all day. The whole of Lisbon's doing it. Don't be a party pooper.
4. Make as much noise as you like. Indoors *snickers* and out.
5. If a woman, camel toe is acceptable. If you're a man, even more so. And no - I don't bother with this one. Mentioned in case you arrive here and - you know - you don't pay attention to groin fashion.
6. Hawking and spitting. Another thing I don't participate in. I know - I'm letting the side down. Sorry Lisbon. No can do. I'd be too horrified at myself.
7. Get your baps out and sunbathe in Gulbenkian Park. Unofficially of course. Not that the law say anything on their way past. They just look. Making sure there's nothing suspicious about your prone activities I suspect. It's the old widows you've got to watch out for. And tourists with cameras. But apart from that - you're good to air the girls.
8. Park anywhere. Seriously. Even if your car doesn't fit - knock yourself out.
9. You can be totally, utterly happy. Like - laughing out loud enjoying yourself. People like it. Back home, laugh in the street or walk around grinning and you're likely to given a wide birth. Wassup with that UK?
10. You can sit, anywhere you like (avoid the floor though ... that's beggar territory and requires you look like one. If you do ... ) and do - nothing. Like ... totally zip, nada, zilch. Relax, read a book, watch the world go by. No one bothers you, or stares or assumes there's something inherently wrong with your mental health. I do this a lot, in the summer. Mostly in Gulbenkian Park. Though I don't air the girls.

The owners from my café downstairs. They love it when I do nothing at their café. If anything - they encourage me ...

Lisbon Graveyards

I have a thing about the dead and can be found, on occasion, frequenting Lisbon graveyards.

Now before I go any further ... my 'thing' relates to nothing other than wandering among the graves and musing on who the occupant was, what he or she did, what their life was like. That kind of thing.

I do not perform anything even remotely occult-ish ... no seances, no chanting, no attempts at the raising of the dearly departed. Any/all of that would probably require me to wander around Lisbon in the dead of night, looking for a suitable boneyard - none of which I'm likely to do.

For one thing I'm suspicious of the dark and for another - I'd shit myself.

Lovely. I think so anyway.

That out of the way - I love graveyards. And there's a fabulous one just up the road. So far I've dragged my son around it (twice), MPM and my one of friends. In and among, I've been there quite a few times alone. MYM simply indulged me, my son moaned on occasion (and sounded like a whining ghost) but ended (morbidly) fascinated with all the graves. And my friend simply walked out, declaring me 'creepy and strange'.

Don't worry. I forgave her. She still gets a Christmas card.

Now a curious thing about the Portuguese is this: from dying to being six foot under the time span is a max of three days. Say you kick the bucket on a Wednesday? Pushing up daises by Friday. Cash out on a Sunday? You're enjoying eternal rest by Tuesday.

I'm not sure what the Portuguese funeral directors do in those two days. Obviously whatever it is, it's done with a certain flare and with an eye on the 72 hour clock - but however or whyever they do it, do it they do.

You're declared dead, given an appointed reason for death (to me it should simply read: lack of breath or obvious lack of life), then released to the family, shunted to funeral parlour and henceforth deposited either into the Earth from whence you came (I came from the womb, don't know about you) or placed in a crypt.

I wasn't joking.

And a beautiful example of the Portuguese respect for their departed loved ones.

Some of the ... mausoleums (is that what they're called?) are beautiful. In a creepy, haunting kind of way.

And all this makes me wonder why on Earth we Brits take a week. What are our funeral directors doing in the seven days? What boxes need ticking? For me, the Portuguese way is the best way. No hanging around, no prolonging the final journey. No prolonged suffering for the family. Exactly how it should be.

Get with it UK.

Lisbon Drifters

I think there are some more Lisbon drifters abroad. I took a couple of pictures on Friday. They're of the park at the top of my road. And I apologise for the fencing. I tried to nip inside and take some pictures but the normally benevolent Portuguese workmen weren't having none of it.

No place for old men.

I didn't have a hat or some such - remember I'm not fluent. As they weren't wearing them either, I tried to inform them that they were kettles calling the pot black but instead I think I said something about black dinner plates and hot water.

So I had to take them from beyond the safety fencing *snorts* which was, in my opinion, about as safe as crossing the road with a blindfold on.

Anyway. It was formerly occupied by a horde of old men, rain or shine, playing chess and reminiscing about the good old days. Presumably the ones where Portugal was less a free country and more a regime, run by a guy that thought Hitler was cool. Nice guy.

This was taken mid-afternoon. Look how much work's being done ... come on Lisbon - there's old men a-wandering.

As you can see - it's undergoing an overhaul. Which is fine. But where are the old men? They were always there - every single day. Are they dispersed? Displaced?   

So much so that I've been looking for them. I even checked the cemetary out the other day. It's huge, full of large spaces and there's the odd bench here and there. All I found were several relatives of the dearly departed, thousands of folks enjoying eternal rest and one belligerent graveyard attendant.

But no old men.

I hope they're not wandering the streets of Lisbon, trying to adapt to modern life - playing mobile chess, reminiscing on the hoof and trying not to break a hip or two.

I'm worried about them.

Lisbon parking

Did I ever mention Lisbon parking? No? Well here goes ... Lisbon parking sucks. Big time.

Or rather it's the parkees that suck. Whatever. I doubt I'll ever own a car whilst residing in the city. Because for sure I'd be commando crawling back to it, every time I parked that baby somewhere in the city. In an attempt to catch a Lisboetta attempting to park - or de-park (is that even a word?) - their car.

Where I'm from (the land of perpetual rain, wind and consummate parkees), parking is almost an art form. Unless you're a woman that is. Not that they can't park (I'm one anyway ... ) it's just that most don't seem to want to ...

Anyway, in the UK, ramming your car into a space that is clearly not going to contain the dimensions of an average family vehicle is sooooo not de rigueur. You park your car where it comfortably fits. Period.

A little physics lesson. A quart will not fit into a pint pot. Savvy?

Meaning a Mitsubishi four track will not fit into approximately 6ft of empty space. Neither will a Mini Cooper fit into something you'd struggle to park a shopping cart in. Are you listening Lisbon dwellers?

You cannot park your cars (or at least ... you shouldn't ) in the following places:

• roundabouts (seriously now - this is really wrong)
• junctions
• corners (cars are linear and non-bendy, people)
• pavements
• at the side of a car that is properly parked (that really sucks)
• anywhere that says 'no parking' (there's probably a very good reason you see ... )
• next to me, on the pavement, when I'm trying to enjoy uma bica, se faz favor, at an outdoor café (note I said 'outdoor' and not road eh?)

And no, I don't expect anyone will either read this or even read it and take note but it's the principle. At least I'm trying to create a 'friendly parking' atmosphere in Lisbon.

Yes that's a corner. Note how the car fails to hug bend around it. There's a reason for that ...

In truth, I've developed an unhealthy thing about how people in Lisbon park their cars. Honestly - most need a tin opener to get their cars in and out of some of the non-parking spaces I've seen around the city. Better they use a hiab loader crane than a tin opener too. Or instead, just look for something that simply fits the length and width of their cars.

And I also don't believe there's such a thing as a pristine car anywhere in the city. Or at least - I haven't seen one yet. All are scratched, dented ... abused looking. I watched one women who was, in fact, in a space big enough to park a bus in - smashing her front and back end into the cars flanking hers.

Unbelievably, whilst I stood watching (openly) and slack jawed, she simply battered her way out and drove off. On that occasion I was too dumbstruck to take a photo. And if I'd have been the owner of either of the cars she was bouncing her car off, I'd have lost the will to live.

And probably used my boot on hers.

I think I need to build up a gallery of badly parked cars. I see so many. I simply can't ignore them. I can feel a ... thing coming on ...

10 Things You can't Do in Lisbon

There's a lot of stuff you can't do in Lisbon. I was thinking about this the other day. I thought I'd share.

1. Wear heels. It's the pavements. Some clown in planning thought it a great idea to pave the streets of Lisbon (and the whole damn country) with little squares of rock. Mostly it looks pretty but on the whole - totally useless for stilettos and kitten heels.
2. Speak English. Well ... you can but ain't no one gonna talk back to you. Trust me ... I've tried (in desparation).
3. Avoid beggars. Not that I mind them. I don't, not a bit. Usually I just trip over them. Actually ... they're a bloody nuisance. I might start paying them to stand up, instead of lying around the (break your neck if you wear heels) pavements.
4. Complain. About anything. Not that you don't have nothing to moan about. I can think of ohhhh a dozen things. But no one (here) likes a moaner. That's something you do under your breath and behind closed doors. Just so you know ...
5. Get any sleep if you're a light sleeper. Or a deep one, come to think of it. On account of the 6 nights a week trash collection. Done roughly around the hours of unreasonable and stupid o' clock in the morning.
6. Find pillows that are made for anyone that's taller than 36 inches. Unless you're prepared to pay stupid money for them in El Corte Ingles. Which I'm not.
7. Speak in Portuguese in a shop/bank/anywhere without *whoever* looking fondly on, listening intently and making you feel like a two year old learning to string a sentence together.
8. Join a queue and expect everyone else that's already in it or about to join it to observe queue etiquette. I don't think 'waiting your turn' is a part of the Portuguese culture. Or maybe it is - and they pretend otherwise.
9. Get through a single day without drinking alcohol. Sorry. Tried it. Soooo anti-social. No can do.
10. Buy fish and chips. Not that I want to. I don't even like them. I'm just saying ...

Here's another thing you can't do - avoid cafés full of yummies ...

Learning Portuguese

I keep trying to learn Portuguese. I fear I'm handicapped. It's also the fault of my Portuguese Man.

After 18 months I can make myself understood (when forced to do so) and understand some of what is being said to me. Mostly I just point and engage those that I meet in a game of charades. Something the Portuguese have an innate talent for - I just choose not to enlighten them.

What I can do:

• ask for ... stuff
• decline anything
• affirm most things (I have to be careful here ... I've been known to say 'yes' to 3 kilos of pork before now)
• curse under my breath (and over it too)
• tell people I'm English. Apologetically. Not because I'm not a proud Brit - simply because every time I open my mouth I sound so ... infantile

What I can't do:

• talk in the past or future tense (at all)
• complain (ohhhhhh I how I wish I could utter just a few words beyond 'Não, não gosta ... )
• reply to roughly 50% of what I'm asked by others
• tell our drunken neighbour to "shut the f**k up - no one on God's green earth is gonna give you a f**king beer ... it's stupid 'o clock in the morning you f**k wit"

That kind of thing.

Cascais - the beach down the road. A reason to keep trying to learn ...

Going back to learning Portuguese and my handicap. I'm convinced I have one. I truly want to learn the language but my brain leaks. See? ... I'm handicapped. And as for MPM - he simply rattles on in English and supposes that I'll just pick his lingo up in and among.

My problem is that I don't talk to anyone above and beyond when I'm out and about. I have no real Portuguese friends (accidental but there it is), I'm not the kind to just strike up random chatter with people I don't know and even if I could, I'm handicapped - remember?

So my learning curve is reduced to pinning my ears back, watching ridiculously dramatic Portuguese soap operas (more crying and screaming than script but hey ... whatever it takes), the evening news with MPM and reading Portuguese magazines in the bathroom.

For my part, I want accolades for what I do know, for what I can say. Because I think I deserve it. It's not an easy language to learn and to listen to - well that just makes everything harder. The Portuguese talk at the speed of sound and have this horrible habit of swallowing letters - even whole words from I can (now) tell.

Very single minded of them (in my opinion) and not at all set up for inter-country communication relations. And what's really unhelpful - though I love their efforts to help me - is the fact that my local café, butchers and so on know I'm English and now talk to me in ... English.

My café owner (and yes - it is my café - on account of I go there every day for one thing or another) always greets me with a loud 'Hellooooooo baybeeeeeee ... how are youuuuuuuu???' - which always has me wriggling (we Brits never greet anyone in such a way so I'm not sure where he gets this from or even why he uses it) but there you go - at least he tries.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm to remain forever tongue tied and lost in translation. I think I need to travel around Lisbon via taxi a lot more often. Now ... that's where you really begin to pick up Portuguese.

But that's another story for another day.

The view over downtown (Baixa) from Graça - another reason ...

Lisbon Weather

When it comes to Lisbon weather - my personal jury is out. Most of January was pretty mild ... 16º or so most days. Now it's February, the weather has back pedalled. I spent most of yesterday being rained on or blown from one side of the road to the other.

And complaining voraciously.

This was taken at the Expo '98 site. A cold and dark Lisbon day. 

By nature I don't complain. I just silently steam. A few minutes of silently frothing is worth an hour of rowing with another. Complaining out loud gives those around you some kind of free licence to do one of two things:

• complain louder (which means they win, you lose)
• disgree with you (which means there is no winner. Unless you excercise the right to force them to talk to the hand. But then a whole new ball-game opens up ... the grudge one)

And so I spent much of the day whining like a baby and wearing gloves. Even indoors. When I do decide to give birth to my complaints I like to think I'm nothing if not giving 100%. So loud and whiny is called for, as well as various (appropriate) props.

I was cold so I wore layers - indoors and out. My Portuguese Man (PM) tried ignoring me but I'm too persistent. And let's face it, misery loves company so I doggedly harangued him until he either gave in or was in genuine agreement (not sure which it was).

I moaned about:

• the temperature drop
• the rain
• the fact that January is always colder than February
• the lack of brolly etiquette held by Lisboettas (trust me - they have none whatsoever)
• the lack of indoor heating (and no Portugal ... just because you don't have your own natural gas I'm not interested - it's not an excuse. Swallow your pride and buy it from Spain)
• being tired - which was nothing to do with the weather but I was on a roll

Suffice to say that today is just as cold as yesterday and I remain unimpressed. What I will be impressed with is a rise in the temperature, a distinct lack of the wet stuff and all Lisboettas hitherto banned from ever using an umbrella.

Another cold shot. No umbrellas inculded.

Or at least some kind of training introduced into the National Curriculum (here) that educates the good people of Portugal that:

1. your umbrella does not have to be big enough to cover a family of five
2. you have to give way to people that are walking sem guarda-chuva
3. you simply cannot expect to poke someones eye out and not have to deal with the consequences

The Thing About Portuguese Men

Now, the thing about Portuguese men is ... they're kinda the same as any other men. Little boys in adult bodies. The do all the same stuff as a five year old would:

• don't share their toys (tv remote)
• leave their toys lying (man junk)
• grumble when they're hungry (when's dinner?)
• that kind of thing (no - really)

But with a fine prime piece of Portuguese manliness you also get a few added extras. Such as:

• get thee behind me
• jealousy that's like a creeping fog ... barely tangible but obvious
• but women aren't equal to men querida, também?

A Portuguese man. This one chases balls

So you can imagine what fun it may be if you're married to one. Now, I'm not married to one but I do have one. Unfortunately for him, I'm not a Portuguese woman. Even worse, I'm a British woman.

I think I drive him mad.

My Portuguese man. He thinks he's Clint

Luckily for me, he's not like the rest of his Portuguese bro's. He's ... different. He doesn't quite share his toys (that's asking too much of any man) but he does share everything else. Plus I get to walk alongside him.

He, on the other hand, isn't quite so lucky. In both our opinions. Apparently I'm as stubborn as a ten-pack of mules. And I simply refuse to adapt (or is it adopt?) anything remotely resembling Portuguese womanliness (read: total acquiesence).

You see, the thing is, I was raised in a culture where all things are (supposed to be) equal. And even though in reality they're not, we girls fight for our rights. Our men largely acquiese to us. Otherwise they know they're hitting the office on Monday mornings looking like crisp bags and wearing odd socks.

In the grand scheme of things, both of us are very happy with the other. I believe in best working practice in all things and he is simply lovely.

But for sure, he's definitely more grey since he met me ...

Being Portuguese

I've tried very hard at being Portuguese since I came to Lisbon. Very hard indeed.

I was never one for drinking much of anything, above coffee. Or the type that would drift from café to café like an itinerent hobo hoping to keep warm. These days, I drink far too much wine and spend inordinate amounts of time in cafés, if for nothing other than because everyone else is doing the same.

The only difference between me and the Portuguese though, is the fact that I always feel a little guilty. They quaff alcohol with wild abandon and amble from café to café with well heeled aplomb. I'm a lot less well heeled and a little more towards furtive.

The British culture doesn't factor in all day drinking and aimless non-reasons for idling away quality time in dens of caffeine iniquity. Oh no, we Brits binge drink on weekends or after work and only enter a café to grab a quick cuppa, not as a means of socialising with friends and family.

Yes - we've got such habits prioritised quite nicely, thankyou.

Besides which, I have a confession to make. I was just 40 the first time I tried Sangria. I was in downtown Lisbon, Bairro Alto to be exact. Somehow, between the hours of ohhhhh say 21:00 and f**k if I know, I got seriously leathered.

The Sangria kicked off my evening rather nicely. Having never tried it before, I discovered an instant 'like it? I love it' feeling. From there, it was downhill all the way. Literally. I hit the floor at least once and spent maybe an hour or so back in my hotel room convinced I was going to die.

I woke up the next morning, hanging upside down off my bed. Regaining consiousness and having the hangover from Hades was a positive. I'd survived Sangria, Black Vodka and ... ... ... ... ... ... ...*insert whatever, I have no recollection* alive, intact and sporting a dirty great bruise across my forehead.

From that day to this, I have managed to assimilate the Portuguese way of all day alcohol without actually looking drunk. In fact I'm almost a natural at it. And apart from the picture below, I have only slipped off the British Binge Wagon once of twice.

An example of not being Portuguese

Ahhhhh ... I eat Portuguese (food, not men), I speak Portuguese, I breath Portuguese. I'm being Portuguese. The rest of the time ... I'm a Brit to the marra.

Portuguese Politics

I have a dream. To get into Portuguese politics. Or at least get close enough to central government that I can rub shoulders with Socrates (Prime Minister) and have a word with him.

Socrates - my soon to be new best friend.

First - I want to see a sweeping change to the way the portuguese pronounce words. No more 'shushing' on the esses, no swallowing of random vowels. And absolutley no rolling of the rrrrrr's. I'm sick of needing to hawk and spit in the street everytime I try to say 'rua' or 'rapido'.

Further, something needs to be done about customer services. It is not ok to enter a bank/shop/chemist/anything, patiently wait your turn and then engage the teller/assistant/pharmacist in a conversation about your next door neighbours husband's brother's wife's strange affinity for late night strip poker parties. Whilst the husband's asleep.

Uma Galão - coffee with milk in a glass

And while I'm finding fault, what's with the attitude everytime I ask for a meia de leit? Yes, it contains milk and yes, the English drink it by the gallon. But pardon me for pointing out one little fact - it's exactly the same as the national morning drink of Portugal - uma galão. So get over yourself café owners.

Before I become best friends with Socrates.

Living In Lisbon

The reasons I ended up living in Lisbon are numerous. Most of which are my business. But for sure I started out as an accidental tourist. I never meant to stay or expatriate myself from the UK. Lisbon became my choice between a rock and a hard place.

At one point, I'd decided it was the lesser of two evils. Currently I've ebbed back towards a 50/50 status. Not because Portugal fails to hold my interest - the country itself is like an all day breakfast: hot, enjoyable and easily accessible.

It also has (for me) additional extras - a sweeping history, an appealing culture and most importantly, fabulous cafés.

But ... as time goes by, I find myself pulled more and more to my home country. A land that suffers alarmingly swift changes in the weather, a culture that insists on 'doing the right thing' and that can't exist without mountains of useless paperwork and most of all ... pillows that are filled to capacity and intended to be used by adults, not midgets.

Still, I've so far clocked up 18 months in Lisbon and I suspect I'll last at least the same again. Probably longer. And I recently discovered a supermarket that stocks Heinz Beans. Not that I like them, I don't. It's just that they're so horribly British.

And if me and Heinz Beans have anything in common, it's the fact that we're both horribly British.