Portugal 5 - The Last Night in Lisbon

Roof garden in the New Hostel overlooks the city

For my last few nights in Portugal I was in a different hostel since my original one in the nunnery was now booked out. This was just as well, as my last bed up on the Third floor was more like a coffin in that it was enclosed on all sides and far from a window. Until now there hadn't been much point in booking ahead, because I really didn't know what I was doing other than flying back to Germany on the 14th and so far it hadn't mattered either, because I could just book another night, but not this time.

The new hostel was at the Louis Vuitton end of town where the theatre and the plastic surgeons were, and much newer. All the bathrooms worked. There were lifts to every floor and there was roof garden with a bar on the 7^th floor.  The bed and the room were nicer too – little curtains instead of plywood panels and a table and a couple of chairs – all minimalistic, modern and in shades of white and grey and much less claustrophobic.      

My new bed in the new hostel wasn't as claustrophobic as the last one

I did miss the the communal kitchen in my old hostel though– there were no cooking utensils or facilities other than a microwave and a kettle here. You had to buy breakfast at 10 euros a pop. Although there was cake and a lot of sugared cereal – there’s a popular chocolate one in Portugal, I rather missed my muesli, yoghurt and fruit. Luckily there was an Aldi just down the road and once I’d found that I could fill up on things which I could microwave or eat with a plastic spoon. They also had an amazing machine into which you threw fresh oranges to make freshly pressed oranges before your eyes.

There's still cake for breakfast but breakfast costs €10 here

The staff did secretly hide my coffee milk in their fridge so I could at least get hot water and make myself a coffee now and then. Though the staff were friendly, the place lacked the atmosphere and the slight craziness that the old hostel had. 

The new hostellers

Then again, the hostellers were different too, they dressed better and were for the most part much more aloof, but I did meet a music teacher from Canada who was of a similar mind to me - there for the adventure, whatever it took, except much braver than I was. She fronted up to the breakfast bar for four days in a row thinking it was free like in other hostels, before someone finally asked if she'd paid.

One of our favourite hangouts - a little coffee and chocolate shop nearby that made full size coffees with milk - a rarity in Portugal

Bev as she was called, also walked right in to one of the more elegant shops among the Pradas, Dior's and Gucci's and tried on a €77 K watch, whereas I felt brave just going into one of the restaurants and it made me realise how timid I'd become. 

We enjoyed long coffees, long walks searching for the mussels which she craved and above all, long talks about some of our more insane adventures. We never did find any mussels, but because the little place where we finally ended up had run out of guacamole for the chips, they gave us glasses of wine to go with them instead. Too bad we had to go our separate ways the next day, but I feel sure that somewhere, sometime we’ll meet up again. Hi Bev! If you should happen to be reading this, how’s life back in Canada? Freezing, I’ll bet.

The way back from Portugal was even more torturous than the way there. At this stage, I want to point out that the actual time in the air between Stuttgart and Lisbon is about 3 hours. This time the plane stopped in Barcelona, another place I’d wanted to visit, but when I got there, it was midnight and most of the things I’d wanted to do there, were unlikely to be open at that hour and you also had to unload your luggage and be there at around 4 am to recheck it in, so there wasn’t even any point in leaving the airport and trying to get three hours sleep. 

While this scene has become all too familiar for anyone travelling less than business class, in Barcelona it was 10 times worse

Standing Room Only

In its defence, The Barcelona Airport is clean, spacious and new – no doubt a legacy of its hosting of the Olympic Games in 1992, but there was nowhere near enough seating for all those people waiting to board and who had gathered in droves as I waited and waited. Several poor souls were just sleeping on the admittedly very clean, terrazzo floors and those who were lucky enough to have a seat, slept slumped over their luggage.

The self – check -in kiosks opened at about 4.30 a.m. When I tried to do that, I got a message saying "There’s something wrong with your passport, you must see a customer assistance officer.” I tried. I stood in line for over an hour staring at a row of empty counters. Others were doing the same. At around 5.30, I noticed that another row of counters for the same airline, had opened on the opposite side. It also had very long queues and huge crowds milling around, so, collaring a wandering airline employee, I showed him the message on my phone and he understood the bit that said "Assistance" and sent me to a slightly shorter queue at the far end that said “Special Assistance.”

When it was my turn at last, the lady behind the counter very rudely called me "Mother" and ordered me back to one of the other queues. “This one is for poor people like these!” she scowled pointing to an assemblage behind me, where there were people in wheelchairs, frail little old ladies and people stooped over walking sticks. I hope she was a lot kinder to them than she was to me.

By now I had been on my feet for the best part of 14 hours and awake a lot longer and there were still two hours to go before the actual flight. After standing in line for another hour or so, it was time to go through security again. I swear that all the security staff here have been recruited from the former KGB.

One ordered me to empty my pockets. I only had a tissue. I forgot it on the way out and she called me back over the loud speakers to come and get it. Never once, a please or thank you. I also had to go through the x-ray machine at least twice and of course, take my shoes off and so on.  I should be used to it. Having olive skin and dark curly hair, it happens to me in Australia too. It’s rare that I pass through an airport - domestic or otherwise, without being checked for gunpowder residue.

Yes, security is important, but do they have to be so rude? I also think it’s very simplistic. If I really was up to no good – say, running drugs, or moving my country’s wealth to an offshore tax haven, I’d dye my hair blonde and wear a business suit, and very probably go business class, then you’d be waved through without a word or at least treated more respectfully. One day…..  

Meanwhile, there were now queues for the buses to take us to the outer reaches of the airport. You stand on those too. Then you get to sit down for 1hour and 50 minutes. I will say one thing though.  The airline might treat its passengers like garbage, but they do care about dogs. There is a special menu for your pet!

Pets get more consideration than passengers - see bottom section

 Having hauled my luggage all over Stuttgart station again, I almost cried with relief when my cousin came to collect me at the local one, despite my earlier protests. Although my walking had greatly improved in Portugal from barely being able to manage one kilometre to six, any health benefits I gained while away were quickly undone on the way back. Afterwards, I was as exhausted as when I left.  

In consequence, I made another valiant attempt to get back to Australia sooner, but the earliest flight wasn't until November 1, four days earlier than my original flight and it was going cost an additional $1400 to make the change, so my cousin and I agreed to put up with one another for another couple of weeks. 

I think back fondly to the days - yes I am that old, when flying itself was an adventure and you couldn't wait to be on board because once there, you were treated - if not like royalty, at least as a valued customer.  Now it just seems like an enormous hurdle I have to go through if I want to move between the several worlds I inhabit. 

My Mum used tell a folktale about "Schlaraffenland" a magical place where cake and lemonade flowed and roast chickens simply flew into your mouth - think Big Rock Candy Mountain, except for kids. In the case of ours, you had to eat your way through a mountain of cold semolina porridge to get in - maybe Mum had trouble getting me to eat mine. Well, as far as flying goes, that mountain is getting bigger every year. Is it possible that cost -cutting by airlines may achieve what years of environmental nagging has failed to do - that is, put people off flying?