Portugal - Dias Um e Dois

It's been a whirlwind (three) day(s?). My flight from NOLA to Newark was delayed so badly that when I finally arrived, I had to literally run and proffer some near-tears to get through the already closed gate of my connection. They only let me on because the plane was still there, but the door to the cabin had to be de-pressurized to open it for me. Finally on-board, I plopped down into my seat. My neighbor? A burly-looking white man with a fauxhawk and more tattoos than I have hair. Nervously, I asked, "Where are you heading?" "Madrid," he quietly answered, in a not-too-friendly fashion. Turns out Butch was terrified of airplanes. Every time the engines revved to taxi us to the runway, he crossed himself. He mouthed a prayer during takeoff, knuckles gripping so tight to the armrests I thought his metacarpals might rip through.

Flight uneventful. Butch took three cups of coffee with skim milk and Sweet &Low, and gave me all of his bread and sweets (SWEET!). Watched an episode of Everyone Hates Chris from the back of someone's headrest, and wondered if I was on drugs. What a weird show!

For all the running I did to make Flight 64, my bag and bedroll did not. As I write, I sit waiting for my luggage to arrive where I'm staying. I'm in the same clothes (and underwear) I've worn since Monday morning. Thankfully, this is the only time I've ever flown that elected NOT to wear sweats.

Rich met me at the airport. It was good to see him; I missed his goodbye part in DC. Of course, I am here for his wedding, but you know what mean. It's been a while (since my grad grad party in July 2007, actually).

Lisbon is pretty. If London and New Orleans's French Quarter had a cleaner love child, this would be it. Rich and Joana live on Avenida Elias Garcia, which is right near a still-operating bullfighting arena slash concert venue, Campo Pequeno. We went to the mall underneath it to get me a much-needed toothbrush and some hair gel labeled in Not English (Rizos! I know the word rizos!)

A lot of people here speak English, and relatively unaccented English to boot. Our waiter at Nova Goa, the Goan restaurant where we ate lunch, quickly realized that two-thirds of our party spoke almost no Portuguese and switched accordingly (Goa is a province in India once colonized by Portugal).

I took naps both before and after lunch. Jet lag is a bitch, especially when combined with the sleeping and drinking patterns (and their effects - have you ever seen hangovers on a plane?) of Mardi Gras weekend. Plus a beer-induced sinus headache? Ugh.

Dinner was Cervejeria Trindade, the nation's oldest brewery. The beer was good - dark and velvety but not too heavy or metallic, slightly fizzy and easily gulped. The sirloin steak was monumental - cooked medium, then doused in a sauce made of Jesus and cream.

I came back home to Rich's, to a night spent on the floor (bedroll was still mid-Atlantic, remember?), but oh! what a glorious night it was! I fell asleep quickly, as though I'd been beaten, and dreamed of Mardi Gras costumes and spooning with Noodle in crisp white linen sheets.

So here I sit, Wednesday morning, in a living room in Lisbon - 4500 miles, six time zones, and one ocean away from where I belong. And I'm OK. I smell of airplane and dog, and I desperately need a change of clothed to show up (now), but I'm eager to explore the city.