Thursday 5 a.m. The Winter Solstice.

I’ve been in bed 11 hours. I got home and just didn’t feel good. I burrowed under the pile of bedclothes and slept (and coughed occasionally.) Everything aches. Joints. Muscles.

I went down the mountain in the dark and went to the warehouse to get Merry and Pippin. I left them in the indoor pen yesterday afternoon, not knowing I wouldn’t be working today.

Strange being on the road then. The early commuters are driving down to work in the closer suburbs. D.C. is apparently still a ghost town for many office workers who never came back to work after COVID remote work.

But imagine spending that much of your life in a car, in traffic.

While I was in bed, I only got up a couple of times—out of necessity and to put more fuel in the woodstove.

My friend and warm winter companion. The forest gives me dead wood. I cut and haul it and burn it. My electric bills are very small. The ashes I spread on the gardens.

My dinner last night was chicken bouillon. It is my breakfast as well. A steaming mug is just within arm’s reach. Whatever the reason, the hot brew flows through me and brings some comfort.

It also triggers a painful coughing fit.

Otherwise, I was just gone all night—except for occasional coughing fits. I was just SO tired.

Unbeknownst to me, my lost luggage was dropped at the warehouse last night. A picture of it was texted to me, but I didn’t check my phone this morning.

When I got to Dulles on Monday night—about 2 hours late and after a marathon travel day that began at 8 p.m. (U S time) and landed at Dulles about 4 p.m. the next day. I breezed through customs and went to the carousel to get my bag. I waited and waited and… Some staff began removing the remaining bags of the conveyor.

“Is that all there is from Frankfort?”

“Yes.”

“What do I do?”

“Go to the lost bag counter…”

It was literally all the way across Dulles and on another level. (I was in International Arrivals. The lost luggage counter was at the far end of Domestic Arrivals.)

I was given a form and told to check the app to track my bag.

There wasn’t anything of great value in it. But I had gotten some gifts. My brother Jimmie’s Orvis blue blazer. Other clothes and things I like.

So I got my car and headed home. I got to the mountain about 8 p.m.—24 hours from when I started.

I turned on the water pump and water heater and started a fire. Then I fell into bed. I had an occasional little dry cough. But it came and went.

I could hardly move from aches and exhaustion and weakness.

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Hotel on Sunday, December 17th.

Listening to NFL football while waiting for a hotel dinner.

You can’t watch it in Europe.

I’m listening to Cleveland vs. Chicago.

Cleveland, out of desperation, hired semi-retired Joe Flacco after numerous other quarterbacks went out injured.

Flacco had a glorious 5-game run for about a dozen years and won the Super Bowl for the Baltimore Ravens. He was then given a huge “World Class Quarterback” contract. Then? Nothing.

Everyone expected great things.

I would go to Raven’s games with my son, and Flacco was dreadful.

“FLACCO!” I would shout derisively.

Now he has a second chance at glory at the end of his career.

Comedy of errors so far.

Strange to be listening to Cleveland radio announcers on the laptop in Lisbon.

On the hotel restaurant’s TV is soccer.

I’m eating here because I ran out of time. And my phone died. I have to get up at 1 a.m. to meet my transfer to get to the airport.

English soccer just ended. And for the last half hour the TV has trailed to Lisbon team’s bus to their game.

Football is a religion here. I’ve been watching the team bus travel to a stadium for thirty minutes with commentary in Portuguese.

Interesting juxtapositions for me. Likely tedious for you.

I need to go up and get some sleep somehow.

It will be good to get home. But the process will be daunting.

My phone is charging up in my room.

I had planned for a fancy dinner, but nowadays you need a phone to summon rides, etc.

Time to buy a new iPhone. Of course, it was with me the 24,784 steps I took around Lisbon today. I was worn out too. (That doesn’t include the dead phone time—walking from the department store to the hotel.)

I think I’m the only one in the hotel restaurant. It is about 7 p.m.—2 p.m. US time.

The TV is now showing an aerial view of the Benfica team bus driving to the stadium.

The bus got to the stadium. The players and coaches got off.

The NFL game is tied.

I had an “ok” veal steak sandwich on Lisbon bread.

I’m tired.

I hope the adventure to come isn’t too painful.

Crazy.

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Saturday

The tour is ending.

The bus is leaving the UNESCO Heritage Site town of Evora.

We arrived last evening and had to schlepp our carry-ons into the walled city. Buses are not permitted inside the high dun-colored stone walls. They ferried the big bags in on some kind of shuttle.

It was an oldish family hotel. The decor could be from the 1970s. We stayed at several hotels like this. But they were clean and a bit campy. I prefer that to a cookie-cutter Motel 6. (I’ve never been.)

It is Saturday about noon. We are headed back to Lisbon. I’m not sure if there are afternoon plans. There will be a farewell dinner tonight. I hope it won’t be some dreary buffet in the hotel. Last night, there was a buffet in the hotel. It was dreary. They served roast pork. I couldn’t cut through the chunks I picked out of the stainless steel heating tray.

There have been some wonderful meals too.

Food is a major part of the Portuguese culture. It seemed as though there were 2 or 3 pastry shops or bakeries on every block. Shop owners have food in baskets outside their thresholds. It may just be the season, but every few blocks there were vendors roasting chestnuts. You could sense their presence in advance by the scent of charcoal. Up close, smoke rises like a chimney.

In other words, there is fine gustatorial temptation everywhere.

Soup. Soup is a cultural tradition. Rita said people often have soup twice a day. The demand is so high that McDonald’s offers soup.

That morning, we met a local guide. She was a bit professorial. I liked it.

The first site was a Roman temple. It still had many columns standing. The guide told us this was because the building had been repurposed over the last 2000 years.

Then the cathedral. ABC—Another Beautiful Church. I have seen so much religious art here that it is all beginning to run together.

We meandered through the ancient streets and alleys. So many little shops. Some are touristy, but many are craft oriented.

And Christmas was joyfully everywhere.

The tour finished with the Church of St Francis. (ABC.) Part of its complex includes the Chapel of the Bones.

We were told it contains 5000 skeletal remains removed there from common graveyards that were dug up to be repurposed. The Franciscan monks created it as a quiet spot for meditation. Meditation on, well, you know, mortality.

By Saturday afternoon, we were dropped in downtown Lisbon for several hours of free time.

I didn’t have a map or guide with me, so I let my feet lead me where they would. The commercial streets were packed with shoppers. One long one is pedestrianized. The city is paved with cobbles.

Many use black and white stones (obsidian and limestone) to create designs or mosaics.

This one with two bronze statues illustrates how these were done by hand.

Millions of stones all over this country.

It is only natural to go downhill. So I ended up in a large square on the River Tagus. I was solicited to buy sunglasses and… often it didn’t get that far. I’d avert my eyes and head in a different direction.

I sat on the seawall and watched the river flow by. There’s a timelessness in Europe. I was just another human sitting by the river where others have sat for thousands of years.

I looked back and around at the city rising on all sides around me.

The cathedral. We hadn’t gone there.

Up, up, up I walked.

Is it easier to zigzag back and forth or bite the bullet and take steps?

I did both. The treasury had some beautiful books. Vestments. Silver…

Then it was downhill again. Narrow cobbled streets wound their way down.

Then I spotted a french fry shop. I don’t usually snack or eat lunch. But I found this place irresistible.

People were leaving there with holsters of fries. I went in and ordered a small with mayonnaise and truffle.

I continued downhill, poking into the sleeves with a tiny wooden fork.

It was wonderful.

I started heading for the rendezvous with the bus to take us to the new hotel.

There was a Hard Rock Cafe in that square. I had time for a beer but just continued walking—looking for something better. A lot of my bus mates went there though.

This hotel was really far out. It was half-a-mile north of El Corte Inglés. I’m no longer a big shopper. I’m trying to downsize. But these stores—the full size ones—are very reminiscent of Harrods. It is designed to get you lost.

“Where is the exit?”

“Which level?”

I had a few hours to kill before the farewell dinner. So I walked there. There were streams of Christmas shoppers inside and out. I rode the escalators up to the 7th floor—the gourmet food floor.

I went to the Moet et Chandon bar and reprised my first treat in Lisbon. Moet Rose and a little slab of foie gras.

Saturday finished up with 20,481 steps. Many were uphill.

The farewell buffet was uninspired.

(Memo to self. Skip the free hotel food and go somewhere nice.)

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Sunday

Most of the group was departing—almost all back to the US.

What to do with another day in Lisbon?

I decided to go back to the Gulbenkian Museum. I was semi-comatose on the first day when it was my last stop.

The founder was a wealthy merchant. (Thank goodness for moguls who cash out by creating wondrous museums.)

His tastes were all over.

From ancient Egypt.

To Pre-Raphaelites.

This time, I sprang for the special exhibition.

You guessed it. Almost all ecclesiastical art.

What next? I stopped out into the gardens.

The castle dominates the city. I hadn’t been there.

But it is miles south. And way up on a hill.

I surrendered and summoned an Uber. It was a Tesla. Beautiful car.

“Where are the door handles—inside and out?”

His navigation screen displayed shadowy pedestrians on the sidewalk. If they get too close, they turn red. Trash cans. Curbs…

He took me most of the way up.

From there, it was all still uphill.

It is a gorgeous castle. The view takes in the river all the way to the Atlantic. I scrambled up to battlements and turrets.

To the north, the more modern city spreads. I was able to pick out my hotel in the distance.

Then down. Down. Down…

I passed the french fry shop again. This time I opted for Dutch Catsup. I couldn’t distinguish it from Pittsburgh ketchup. But they were good! And only 3 Euros.

Down. Down. Down…

Everything was familiar.

I didn’t want to eat or shop. So I picked a likely corner and summoned an Uber to the ancient art museum. I’d gone there my first day but didn’t opt for the special exhibition.

You guessed it. Mostly ecclesiastical art. But I enjoyed being bathed in the medieval and renaissance colors.

What could I be doing that would be better?

From there, I headed up to the English Graveyard across Espera Park and the beautiful Basilica.

It was, of course, mostly up hill.

It had been closed the first time I passed by. It had closed at 1 p.m. today. So I missed looking for Henry Fielding’s tomb.

The day was aging. My phone was dying. I headed back to the commercial center.

I actually went into the Hard Rock Cafe. I hadn’t been in one since the 90s. Maybe the 80s.

It was interesting and colorful. Lots of music—very loud.

I had a couple of beers and summoned an Uber before my phone died. To the El Corte Inglés.

I shopped for tinned fish and canned pates. I bought a bottle of ginja that came with little chocolate cups.

My phone died in the store. I walked back to the hotel and got no credit for that half mile of steps.

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Monday 6:30 a.m.

We left Lisbon an hour and fifteen minutes late. Why a 5 a.m. flight would be delayed, I don’t know. I hope it doesn’t screw up my connection in Frankfort.

Why am I flying to Frankfort? United wanted me to leave at 5 a.m.

Penny wise. Pound foolish.

Never again.

I paid for an extra day in Lisbon. I could decompress from the tour and wander the city at leisure, catching up on things I may have missed.

As it was, my “free day” was dominated by thoughts of waking at 1 a.m. for a 2-a.m. transfer to the airport.

Not fun.

I got to the airport at 2:30. Check-in didn’t open til 3. I was the second one to check-in. The departure gate wouldn’t be posted til 4 a.m. So I had no idea where I could go a sit and rest.

Now we are in the air. Off to the right is a red-orange band of dawn with blue above. It looks a lot like what I see from my bed most mornings.

Two attendants just rolled a cart past, asking if I had bought food or drink. It is a 3.5-hour flight plus the 1.5-hour delay trapped on the ground. I’m not sure if we will be given coffee or pretzels.

I will avoid this airline from now on. I recall the dreadful experience I had with Lufthansa leaving Berlin just over a year ago. Their gate system was dreadful and confusing. The seat I was given was extremely cramped.

I just want to be home.

They never brought free water or coffee.

I want to be at the warehouse and the books. The dogs. Will I get all three back today? (Will I get home today?) Then home. Get a fire started in the woodstove. Turn the well pump and water heater on. If I get home in a timely manner, I will have dinner there.

I packed in a hurry this morning. I bought some tinned pates and fish. I bought a bottle of ginja. It is a popular Portuguese drink. Morelo cherry liqueur. The bottle came with a dozen little chocolate cups. After you finish your drink, you eat your cup. They sell it on the street everywhere in Portugal. It usually costs 1 Euro or 1 Euro 50. I also bought a pack of fancy Christmas poppers. They are paper and cardboard tubes with a little gift inside. You pull on both ends, and there’s a little “SNAP”—like a cap gun.

Something clicked this morning. I wonder if they are legal to bring home? I looked it up online. Apparently not. It could be considered a firework. I unpacked and left it for the housekeeper. It wasn’t worth the risk. At best, they’d get confiscated. At worst, I’d be taken aside, interviewed and maybe fined.

Well, Merry Christmas to the housekeeper and her family. Feliz Natal?

I hope my tinned foods are legal to bring into the states.

AND another thing—this airplane has no TV screens. Not that I want to watch a movie this early, but I enjoy tracking the flight. I’d like to know what countries and cities we are flying over.

AND another thing—I wonder what the flight attendants do if there’s no service? Were there four of them? Well, I guess there are six rows or so of first class. They must be getting something.

German efficiency? Or penny wise, pound foolish? The plane is only about one quarter full. Maybe that’s why I was put on this flight. They needed more butts in the seats.

I’m grumpy.

I just wanna get home.

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Friday morning, December 22nd.

I certainly had different plans for Christmas this year. Family get-togethers. A 3-month-old grandchild.

Instead, I was gifted the flu for Christmas.

The three dogs have been sleeping on the bed with me. They are in bliss. (Unless they have flu and can’t move either.)

I left out much of the middle of the Portugal trip.

I had 113 steps Thursday. A far cry from 25,000 four days earlier.

The cork factory!

Portugal is the world’s leading producer of cork. (Earlier this year I was told Morocco was.)

The cork oak can have its bark stripped every 10 or 15 years.

They can only go about 10 feet high.

They use the material not only for corks but for purses, sneakers, furniture…

I got a comment on the bats as pest control in the rare book library in Coimbra. Two links were included.

• https://www.pest-news.com/bats-in-portuguese-libraries/
• https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/bats-act-as-pest-control-at-two-old-portuguese-libraries-9950711/

I’ve got to send this off.

My arms are so tired…

I finished Something Wicked This Way Comes. It is Bradbury at his most poetic.

More an epic poem than a novel. Sometimes impenetrable.

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Poem:

Coimbra

The last leaves flit from the saplings
They scrabble across the ancient courtyard
The long-dead king stares sternly
surveying the scene from atop his pedestal
Pigeons scrabble amongst the tiniest branches
to peck at black red fruit
A scene replayed for centuries
atop the hill in Coimbra
Raindrops quicken to shower
forcing me inside
I enter the Baroque chapel
The altar offers a stairway to heaven
Then to the library next door
Sumptuous leather and vellum spines
The place is cold, but these add warmth.
The books are protected by bats
given entry by open doors at night
They eat the pests that eat the words