20 years ago today – Day 2

March 5, arriving in Lisbon, 11 km

I’m here. That was relatively easy.

My duffel bag appears on the baggage carousel unharmed and unopened. I drag it to the special baggage area where I waited for my bike to appear. And it does appear, to my relief. It seems to be unscathed.

Lisbon airport is all on one level and in a single terminal, so homey after the hustle and confusion of Heathrow. It is easy to find a space off to the side to set up my bike. I tear off the tape and foam packaging and used my precious Allen key to reset the handlebars and reattach the pedals. I pump up the tires, load on the panniers and handlebar bag and bungee the sleeping roll and pad to the top of the rear rack. I stuff the packing debris into the duffel bag and drop it into the nearest garbage receptacle. Then I take out my Michelin Guide of Portugal to find the map of Lisbon.

Lisbon airport must have been built long ago because it is located only 8 km from the core. I walk out the front entrance like it is a hotel and there is the city of Lisbon stretched out in front of me. This is nothing like Toronto International. So this is how the magic begins…. I swing my right leg over my bike and push off into the traffic. Yes, they drive on the right side.

I follow the Av. Gago Coutinho, which maintains a fairly direct route right into the heart of downtown. On either side there are rocky outcroppings and bluffs with stately buildings here and there but the road itself stays quite flat. I want to look at everything around me but I have to keep an eye on the traffic. I am aiming for the tourist information office on Av. da Liberdade, where I will meet Mike at 9am Wednesday morning.

Av. da Liberdade is beautiful and is lined with tall palms – right on! The tourist office there has maps and I help myself to one. I find a nearby sidewalk café where I can watch my bike and I order a cappuccino. I am feeling so alive at the moment. It is so exciting to just sit back and soak in the street life and the blue sky and sunshine that has started to break through. The men here are generally handsome and well dressed.

I dig out my gay accommodation notes that I photocopied from the Spartacus Guide. There is apparently a gay B&B in the Bairro Alto, a district not far from here. When I finish my drink I head off in that direction as the daylight is starting to dim.

The streets on the map end before entering the Bairro Alto. I soon see why. It is on top of a steep bluff. Ah right, “alto” means “high”. I walk further south where the bluff is lower to find a street that climbs up the hill. It is too steep to ride up the uneven cobblestones so I walk, pushing my heavy bike and resting every few metres. A streetcar clamours up the narrow street so close to the building I am walking beside that it almost it almost rubs me out. My heart is pounding from exertion and the fright.

I am in the Bairro Alto now, but I am totally lost. The streets are narrow and close together, and there are no street signs on the corners. Apparently, they are only posted at either end of each street, several blocks apart. I try to ask directions from other pedestrians that I occasionally see but they don’t speak English. I go back and forth along the streets where I think the B&B should be, but there are no commercial signs anywhere.

It is dark now. It starts to spit rain, and then to rain harder. The houses which are built right next to the sidewalks have no eaves troughs and I cannot find any shelter. My map is soon soaked through and falling to pieces as I try to read it. I am frustrated and discouraged. I am willing to take any place now but I have no idea where to turn. By now I am soaked too. The rain has driven other pedestrians inside. It seems everyone has a place to go except me. I curse myself for having waited too close to dark to find a place for the night.

Suddenly out of nowhere there is an explosive crash, a sound so sharp and powerful that it leaves my ears ringing. My whole body is shaking. It takes me a few seconds to figure out that lightning has struck the roof of a three storey building across the street. That was the last straw. I want to get out of here.

I am rolling my bike down a street, hopefully leading out of the Bairro Alto. The rain has eased and I cross paths with a few more pedestrians, but again none of them are able to speak English or willing to hesitate in the rain long enough to help me. Finally I meet two young men in their early-to-mid 20s who seem concerned. They don’t speak English but one, a distractingly cute 23 year old named Stevres (SHTEV-rez), speaks French as pathetically as I do. I learn that they are police cadets, as fresh and eager as boy scouts. I tell them I need to find a cheap hotel and they lead me in a new direction to where I might find one.

They find one a couple blocks further along. Stevres stays with me as his partner runs upstairs. No luck. We try another one, and then another. My lack of sleep has caught up with me and I am ready to collapse. Finally they find a cheap, run-down eight floor hotel that has a room. I thank Stevres and his partner for their much appreciated help. I only wish I could keep Stevres with me instead of saying goodbye. They too are pleased that they have been able to help me and wish me well as they disappear into the night.

I have lost my sense of direction and have no idea where I am, but I don’t really care at this point. I lock my bike in the lobby and I follow the night clerk, struggling with my seven pieces of baggage, up three flights of stairs. The carpet is worn and I smell mold and cigarette smoke in the hallways. I am given a windowless internal room on the fourth floor, the only room available.

At the end of the hall I see a small group of middle aged men laughing noisily and playing cards. They are distracted from their game by my appearance briefly. They make a signal for me to come join them. I consider saying hello now that I am safe and indoors, but I am exhausted. There’s a small pool of rain water on the carpet where I have been standing, waiting while the clerk tries several keys. He finally opens the door and reaches for the light. It doesn’t work. He shrugs apologetically and hands me the key.

I peer inside and try the light switch again without success. There is a small table and a bed in the far corner, but no lamp. I leave the door open long enough to scatter my wet clothes and bags around the room in the hopes they might dry somewhat by morning. I close the door, feel my way over to the bed. I collapse gratefully, strip off the last of my wet clothes and work my way under the covers.


PHOTO 1: Av. da Liberdade
PHOTO 2: deserted street in the Bairro Alto at night