A Port Story

This is one of the grandmas that yelled at me. It's a great neighbourhood!


It's been awhile since I have written anything. I've been traveling. But this isn't a story about this trip; it's a story about a trip to Portugal and what happened in Lisbon. Or what I did in Lisbon. Or how the Portuguese took pity on me.

We were in Lisbon and decided not to do the typical tourist thing or at least not do it completely. Instead of taking the tour bus through the city and up the mountain to the castle, we would walk and enjoy the city and all it's charms. If you know me then you know just how silly this thought was. I am a big woman. Mountains - ok, a big steep hill - and sweating up them isn't my style. It was good idea at the time. Off we (my guy and I) go. Up. Through neighbourhoods not normally part of the tourist track. Up. Way up. Steep and up. About halfway up I am sweaty. Thirsty. Tired. Cranky. And I am tired of the grandmas coming out onto the gorgeous, picturesque balconies and yelling at me. We understand enough to know that tourists aren’t welcome, thank you and go away. Now, just where are we going to go? It's hot. We can't figure out which one of the 80 gajillion little trolley thingies to take to get out of here. This isn't as much fun as we thought it would be. Then...... a door opens and a woman steps out. Now, I know she is going to yell. She has that look. She opens her mouth.............. and speaks in English. Nicely. I almost passed out from relief. She heard the fussing as we trudged our way up the street. She heard us as we leaned against her building. She wants to practice her English and will explain the trolley thingy system. Hooray! We're saved! It gets better. I look in the doorway behind her. It's a shop. Not just any shop. A wine shop. If you know me then you understand this. I'm hot, I'm sweaty, I'm cranky and I'm thirsty. It's a wine shop. In Lisbon, Portugal. Happy? Hell, yes. So in we go. 90 minutes later, out we come. Map in hand, trolley thingy conquered, ride to the castle taken care of. Did I mention the 4 bags of bottles? Which we cannot, of course, carry. No problem. We can come back when we are done at the castle and pick them up during the pre-arranged ride back down the mountain (ok, ok, big steep hill). I glance one more time over my shoulder through the open door and make a slight face. As we walk up towards the trolley my guy asks me about the look. I say, "Did you see all those dirty wine glasses in the store? That's disgusting. I can't believe I didn't see them as we went in." He dissolves into gales of laughter, leaving me deeply puzzled but suddenly wondering why, when I turned my head quickly to look at him, things aren't holding quite still. It turns out that I was the cause of the dirty wine glasses and the 4 bags of bottles. I had mentioned - while looking for a bottle or two of wine - that I wasn't much of a port drinker. Don't ever say that in Portugal. Unless you are prepared to try 50 types of port, one more delicious than the next. It turns out that I am a port drinker after all. And the port we bought was good even after I sobered up and drank them later (we bought a lot - I am still enjoying the some of the bottles of port). This is where it gets really good. Remember the part about me being hot, sweaty, tired, thirsty and cranky? Well, I wasn't - for about the 2 hours we took touring the casstle and its grounds. Then the port began to wear off. Now I am hot, sweaty, tired, thirsty, cranky, on top of a mountain (yea, yea, big steep hill) and am developing a hangover. Yay for me! Luckily, our ride arrives at this moment. We get in and the driver reaches back and hands me a glass. Of port. With the store owner’s compliments. It seems she figured I might need another glass to get me safely back to where we were staying. She was right. Bless that woman. The grandmas may yell at me for being in the neighbourhood but I'd go back willingly! But I wouldn't walk up there. I know the trolley thingy system now.