Getting here is an epic, a good reminder that the world is a mighty big place. First leg featured an infant who did not enjoy flying and who protested loudly for an extraordinarily long time about it. Second leg got some sleep, enjoyed some great Spanish coffee and boccadillos at Madrid, before climbing into the last plane which creaked, clattered and wheezed it's way to Lisbon. A very dignified older gentleman - who had retired from working on cruise ships and who knew Melbourne well - drove us in his lovingly cared for taxi driver to the bottom of the narrow street in which our accommodation is located, and we schleped the last bit past little bars and peeling buildings with balconies festooned with washing and rugs.
While we waited for our place to be ready, we had lunch out one of the outdoor restaurants strategically located on the steep steps leading up to the Bairro Alto, and while we ate off a table sloping down hill at about 10 degrees (which works sort of like a George Foreman grill as all oil runs to one side of the plate) we watched tourists puffing up or creaking down the incline. A lot of arthritic knees in the touring population based on our observations.
Feeling a bit stunned we didn't do much exploring. A swim in the pool, a shuffle down the hill to find a supermarket (don't go near dinner time as it gets really busy in there), a quiet supper of cheese and bread and a nice little bottle of red watching the swallows swooping across the evening sky, before crashing just as it was getting dark.
Picture shows Anne caught in the act leaving a Pasteleria in a street in Rossio clutching two of the little custard tarts which the Portuguese seem to eat a lot of. The beginning of the stairs back up the hill are visible at the end of the street. I predict we might be eating a few of those tarts to fuel our hill climbing in the days to come.
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