Portugal Part 4: The Truth Hurts

What better way to spend your last day in the shimmering city of Lisbon than wandering the ghetto looking for a contemporary art museum.

We passed an art museum--which seemed in close proximity to our metro stop--riding the train home from the beach the previous day:
"Why don't we walk? It's such a beautiful day," I suggest.
"You know where it is?"
"Uh yeah, dude we like totally passed it on the train ride yesterday, remember?"
"Okay, lead the way!"

So we set out for another traveling excursion...

We navigate along (what we assume is) the train route. We walk. And walk. And walk some more. "Shouldn't we have reached it by now?" says Yessica. "I think it's just a bit further up here on the right," I reply, not having the vaguest notion of our actual location. With each stride the elaborate intricacy of the picturesque graffiti fades to a grungy chicken scratch. Suddenly, Lisbon had lost it's luster. I scan our desolate industrial surroundings and feel my palms dampen. Yep, we're in the ghetto. Two young female travelers, who can't speak the language, with no operating cell phones, and minimal cash. Rick DiBucci is somewhere having a conniption right now.

Fuck my life.

Frantic, we attempt to hunt down an English speaker, dodging threatening glares and gawking old Portuguese men with about four rotting yellow teeth (in total). Of all days to forget my samurai sword...

We finally spot two men in uniforms--for what, I'm not sure, but the name tags seemed reassuring nonetheless:
"Hello, do you speak English?" asked Yessica.
Blank stare.
"Spanish?"
"Si."  
Sigh of relief.

Me after I'm through with the bastard.

Yessica proceeds to ask him where the museum is. "He said it's a 30-minute walk from here." Fan-fucking-tacstic. The attendant then proceeds to pull out his phone and blurts out a hasty question to Yessica. "He says he wants our numbers..." Are ya kiddin' me? We shake our heads and, just like that, he turns around and disappears into the building, leaving us stranded once again. If I had my sword I would have stabbed this asshole right in the heart.

After an hour of dire panic, we catch a bus back to our metro stop and head for the beach. We sleep for hours, trying to cleanse ourselves of our morning debauchery.

After assuaging our nerves and returning to The Independente, we shower and beautify ourselves for our last night in Portugal. Considering our 9:00am flight, we agreed to return to the hostel early after only a few drinks. But, like all our traveling itineraries, the night didn't quite unravel as planned.

We set out for the bar that Peter tried touching Yessica's boobies in the night before. We plop down on the bar stools to be greeted by a very attractive older female bartender--rough around the edges, but stunning nonetheless. "Let's get tequila shots!" cried Yessica.

Let me provide a brief overview of my alcohol tolerance. I absolutely loathe shots. They suck. The smell of naked hard alcohol is enough to singe my nose hairs and cause me to pass out. I'd rather bong gasoline.

So, naturally, I took a shot. Forcing down vomit, Yessica demands another. "Yessi, PLEASE. I can't take another shot. I'll vom all over you." Yessica's posture straightens as she proudly boasts, "Girl, I'm MEX-I-CAN! Tequila runs through my blood. You can't take shots cause you're white as hell..." What did I tell you? Racist.

I sit back and watch Yessica rip four more tequila shots (one was a combination of tequila, vodka, and gin--one ingredient short of arsenic), and we order two more mixed drinks to carry with us around the congested Lisbon alleyways. Lit up and rosy-cheeked, we sway back and forth arm-in-arm through the cobblestone streets, laughing and slurping our beverages like toddlers drinking from sippy cups.

Polishing off our big-girl drinks, we sluggishly head in the direction of our hostel, droopy-eyed and up to our necks in gratification. Until something catches Yessica's eye... or ear, rather--an after-hours dance bar. "Oh my gawwwddd! Can we please go dance?!" begs Yessica. "Hell yes."

God really cheated me with with the dancing gene. My excitement and infatuation for dancing never translate to my actual body language. The disconnect between my brain and body limbs have resulted in a general flailing motion, having striking resemblance to one of those huge inflatable air dancing figures posted in front of car dealerships. Now I know why I was placed towards the back in the choreography of my grade school dance recital. And Yessica's not much different. Except she's cute and Mexican so she can get away with it. I'm just another sorry-ass white chick who sucks at dancing.

Bursting with excitement, Yessica and I barge through the doors of the bar straight past the security guard. If he had tried to restrain us, I probably would have picked his Frankenstein-looking ass up by the neck and tossed him like a rag doll. We wanted to dance, God damn it

The bar was dark and musky with three steps descending to the 30' x 30' dance floor. Danza Kuduro blared as we pushed, kicked, and scratched our way to center stage. We danced our little hearts out, attracting "what-the-fuck?" glances and a small army of sexy black Portuguese men (Yessican's boobs=tractor beams). From a bird's-eye view we looked like two marshmallows floating in a venti hot chocolate--one a little toasty brown and the other white and fluffy.

After about thirty minutes of getting yelled at by the band for repeatedly knocking into the lead singer's microphone, Yessica and I bid fare well to our new friends and stumble around the corner to our hostel. We tiptoe into the sleeping quarters around 4:00am, trying (unsuccessfully) not to wake the other travelers. We hoist ourselves into our bunks--Yessica on the second and me on the third--and I let out a deep sigh as my head hits the pillow. I began to drift until Yessica half-whispers:
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't feel so good..."
Ruh roh.

I help Yessica out of bed and guide her to the bathroom. "I just want to sit in the bathroom for a while (hiccup). You know (hiccup), just in case." We plop down on the bathroom floor--me against the wall, Yessica lying down with her head in my lap. I clothes my eyes as Yessica calls literally every freaking person in her phone book. Finally, I'm forced to wrestle the phone away from her when she begins dialing her mother: "But, Alex (hiccup)! I'm (hiccup) totally fiiieeennnn-ah!" Nice try.

Defeated, Yessica quits struggling and stares blankly at the ceiling:
"Alex?"
"What's up, Yessica?"
"I just realized something."
"What's that?"
"I'm not Mexican," she sniffles. "I'm... I'm Mexican-American!"

You can't make this shit up. I've re-told this story at least 435 already.

Hungover and reeking of rancid alcohol (Yessica, baring a scent strikingly close to Jose Cuervo), we board our plane, breathless and dehydrated from hustling to make it to our gate in time for departure. We sink into our seats, adjusting ourselves for an hour and ten minutes of deep, REM-cycle sleep when--of course--a screaming child starts to wail.

I've never had such an overwhelming desire to punch an infant. The piercing sound emanating from this miniature terror sounded like something between a pterodactyl in heat and a cat being strangled. I thoroughly hated this child.

So as I sit awake, cursing myself for forgetting my iPod, I reflect fondly over my weekend rendezvous. My love for Lisbon, Portugal runs strong and deep. Even since then, I've traveled to several of Europe's staple historic cities and have yet to find an experience that's come close Lisbon. I hope to one day return with ample time and money to further explore and dissect the small exotic country. Until then, I will think of her fondly, being forever grateful for my weekend of passion and beauty, letting the anticipation build until I'm cradled in arms once again.