A Portuguesa. Welcome!

After arrival in Lisbon we called Bolt. As pick up place we could choose T1 Departures or T2. All whilst standing in T1 Arrivals, because, well, we arrived, right? We hoped that Bolt driver is a reasonable person and would understand, where to come. Especially since we did send him a text. Seems that he wasn’t, because after driving around for 10 minutes he just left. We called another one. He was at least ready to talk to us over the phone. In Portuguese. Luckily there was a policeman standing and we just pushed Polina’s phone in his hand and asked him to talk to the Bolt driver and figure the location out. Turned out, we had to go back in, then to the second floor, from there out again and already we are in the departures parking lot, which apparently is the most obvious place to pick up arriving travellers.

We had booked an apartment in Alfama. True to the non-efficiency of Southern Europe the apartment didn’t have lockbox nor self-check-in and we had to go and get the key from the Welcome center 25 minutes away. Yes, key, not keys, although we were two people. The girl in the reception explained that although two people, we should have ordered the second key prior. But we had the opportunity to back there next day no pay 30 euros deposit in cash (because credit cards are for pussies!) and get the second key. To get the cash deposit back later, we would need to return the key to the Welcome Center before leaving Lisbon. So we took our one key and cab and drove to the apartment.

Additional conveniences offered by the landlord were a “Welcome package”, toilet paper for the first night, breathtaking views of abandoned buildings in our court yard and lots of fines that will be implemented, should we for example lose the keys. With great excitement we opened the welcome package at least and found a dish washing sponge, a rug, dish washing soap and two tablespoons of olive oil (in a bottle as big as perfume testers) - we felt so welcome!

We divided the bedrooms and went out to stretch our legs and have some dinner. Barely few hundred meters from our flat we found the A Baiuca, that genuine fado place, where people, also me and Scott few years ago, leave with tears in eyes and which food, accompanied by that horrible egg porridge from kinder garden still pops up in my nightmares. The streets were aligned with “home made Portuguese food” restaurants, all using the same, not true photos of the food. We finally stepped into one and ordered some Portuguese fried octopus with potatoes. What landed in front of me was a plate full of oil, few octopus legs swimming in it and four watery potatoes.