Yesterday, after checking in I walked around the city for a bit. There was a modern art museum that was free on Sundays so I went to check that out, but was not completely impressed. It was one of those things where they have a bunch of dark rooms and the artist is projecting some random moving image onto a screen that totally makes no sense. I was walking in the big square in the middle of the city (I can’t for the life of me remember the name right now) and there’s a big fountain and a statue and lots of little restaurants around that have patios that face onto the square and it’s all quite pretty. A lot of people on the patios were laughin really loudly at something and I turned around to look and there was a man um, doing his ahem, “business” in a bucket in the middle of the square. And what’s worse was that he kept getting up and moving the bucket to different spots, sometimes pulling his pants up, sometimes not. So gross.

So after that I went back to the hostel and took a little bit of a nap, then went grocery shopping and cooked lunch. I met lots of cool people and we hung out on the patio for a while drinking wine. Then we went out for dinner and I had the BEST fish I have ever had in my LIFE. They must have just pulled it out of the ocean and put it on my plate.

We went back to the hostel after dinner, had more drinks on the patio and someone suggested going out to a bar at around 12am and everyone else said that it was way too early. So around 1:30am we went out in the bairro alto district and just as we sat down at a table in the bar the fact that I was extremely tired just caught up to me. I was struggling to keep my eyes open, so we left shortly after that.

I slept in until noon today and I still feel a bit tired. I’m going to go check out some other sights in Lisbon today, I just hope they’re open because apparently a lot of stuff is closed on Mondays.


10 Responses to “Lisbon”

  1. Alyssa Lerner Says:

    I just got back from a semester abroad in Europe, and let me tell you, it truly was the most magical, amazing experience of my entire life. The French countryside was like something out of a storybook, the Roman ruins were magnificent, and the men, well, European men are by far the most romantic in the world.

    You American men all think you’re so suave and sophisticated. Well, think again! European men make you look like the immature, inexperienced little children you are. They really know how to make a woman feel special over there. Unlike the so-called men here in the States, European men know how to treat a woman right.

    For one thing, European men aren’t afraid to come up and talk to you. And they know how to start slow, with a nice cup of Italian espresso or a long walk on some historic street. They know the places you can’t find in any tourist guide. They know the whole history of the cities in which they live—who the fountains are named after, who the statues are.

    I remember one unforgettable night in Athens, I sat and listened to a Greek sailor for hours as he told me about the countless men who fought over Helen back in ancient times. Afterward, he told me he loved his homeland even more now that he’d seen it through my eyes. I ask you, would an American man ever say something as deep and beautiful as that?

    European men know the most romantic little cafés and bistros and trattorias, candlelit places where you can be alone and drink the most fantastic wine. They tell you what’s on the menu and what you should try. (If it wasn’t for a certain young man in Milan, I never would have discovered fusilli a spinaci et scampi.) And the whole time, they’re looking deep into your eyes, like you’re the only woman on the entire planet. What woman could resist a man like that? Then, after a moonlit stroll along the waterfront and a kiss in the doorway of their artist’s loft, you find yourself unable to—well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

    I’ll never forget my magical semester abroad. One thing’s for sure—I’m ruined for American men forever!

  2. Giovanni Di Salvi Says:

    Ha! I believe you’ve been had, Miss Lerner.

    I’m a 25-year-old carpenter living in Rome, and I don’t mind telling you that I get all the action I can handle. I’m not all that handsome or well-dressed, and I’m certainly not rich. In fact, my Italian countrywomen could take me or leave me. But that’s just fine, because Rome gets loads of tourist traffic, and American co-eds traveling through Europe are without a doubt the easiest lays in the world.

    Being European gives me a hell of an advantage. I’m not sure why, but there’s something about the accent that opens a lot of doors. All you have to do is go up to them, act a little shy and say, “Whould hyou like to go with me, Signorina, for a café?” I actually have to thicken up my accent a little, but they never, ever catch on.

    After a cheap coffee, which to them always tastes better than anything they’ve ever had, because they’re in Europe, it’s time to walk them. Now, all they know about Rome is what they’ve read in Let’s Go, so you can pretty much just make up a whole bunch of shit. It’s fun to see how much they’ll swallow: As long as I refer to Italy as “my homeland” and other Italians as “my people,” they’ll believe pretty much anything. I don’t know who most of the local statues are, so I tell the muffins they’re all great artists and poets and lovers. Once, just for the hell of it, I told a psychology major from the University of Maryland that a public staircase was part of the Spanish Steps, which she’d never even heard of. Another time, I told this blonde from Michigan State that the public library was the Parthenon, and she cooed like I’d just given her a diamond.

    For dinner, I usually take them to some cheap little hole in the wall, someplace deserted where not even the cops eat. American girls think candlelight means “romance,” not “deteriorating public utilities,” so they just poke their nipples through their J. Crew sweaters and never notice that there’s no electricity. Just as well, because Roman restaurants aren’t exactly the cleanest. After a bunch of fast-talk about the menu, I get them the special, which is usually some anonymous pasta with spinach and day-old shrimp, and whatever cheap, generic, Pope’s-blood chianti’s at the bottom of the list.

    By this time, they’re usually standing in a slippery little puddle. Going in for the kill, I walk them past one of Rome’s famous 2,000-year-old open cesspools. Then, as we open the door to my shitty efficiency, I kiss them on the eyelids so they don’t see the roaches, making sure the first thing they see is the strategically positioned artist’s easel I bought at some church sale. That’s usually all they need to see and, like clockwork, they fall backwards on my bed with their Birkenstocks in the air.

    I mean, they’re hardly Italian women, but we have a saying here in Europe: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?

  3. borotobo Says:

    Bon voyage en Europe, n’oubliez pas de passer en France ;.)
    (good travel in Europe, do not forget France;.)

  4. Slava Says:

    Hehe.. Birkenstocks…

  5. Jenny Says:

    K, those are just really bizarre comments to leave. Who are these people?

  6. Estrogen Overdosed Says:

    I thought they were friends of yours…very weird friends…

    But since you don’t know them, I am with Slava…Birkenstocks…LMAO…

  7. Giovanni Di Salvi Says:

    What does LMAO stand for?

  8. Estrogen Overdosed Says:

    It’s Italian…thought you would know…:-)

  9. giovanni di salvi Says:

    Please to explain why you are mocking my Italian language. The word “LMAO” does not exist in my country. Further explanation is required.

  10. Anonymous Says:

    Now the english gets fractured…:-)

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