En Francais on dit "il papa."
The Italians say "il papa."
The English say something not so nice about the Pope.
In any event, we could've used a little Divine Intervention.
Jude and I were up and out early (by our standards) to catch the train from Rossio out to Sintra. The Pena Palace was our destination. This is supposed to be an incredible hilltop castle built by an eccentric German royal expatriot. The exterior details are jumbled, colorful, and Crazy Good to look at.
Upon arrival in Sintra we needed to find a WC. Jude and I spied one right there on the train platform, but balked at the rather steep 1.20Euro demanded to open the door. Just behind us a more desperate family put their 1.20Euro into the slot and the door wouldn't open. A rail employee worked (unsuccessfully) to free their money and (unsuccessfully) liberate the door from it's lock.
So much for efficiency.
Meanwhile, passengers were funneling through one and only one exit turnstile. After a several minutes of standing in a very long queue, and absolutely no thanks to the rail station employee, we saw people suddenly move to the other side of the exit gate where we found four working turnstiles.
So much for efficiency.
We crossed the street and dove into a cafe, ordered two bicas, grabbed the key and headed to the WC. The coffee was good and the two only set us back 1.30Euro. For 0.10Euro more than the unusable/unavailable/money-eating WC at the train station we got a quick Pick Me Up and Welcome Relief at the same time.
Very efficient, this.
Another long line across the street to await the bus that would take us up the hill wasn't as terrible as we first feared. One bus loaded and left with the first quarter of the queue and our second quarter of the queue boarded a bus 5 minutes later.
While in line we met a couple vacationing from Nantes/Saint Rochelle. We exercised our under-used French. Upon entry into the bus, and as we whipped from side to side up the switchbacks up the steep steep hill that leads to the Moorish castle and the Pena Palace we continued to exercise our under-used French. We finished our under-used French conversation by complaining that the very very long queue to purchase tickets wasn't moving. "Quelle horreure. C'est insupportable!"
So much for efficiency.
Jude and I were tired, hungry, dejected, and for the first time on this trip defeated.
Since it looked like it could take upwards to an hour to buy entry to the park, we bid our French friends bon courage and we made an un-characteristic and very un-American retreat. The vast crowds, the steeply sloped hillside, the unmoving lines, and the prospect of having to further wait just to have lunch once inside the palace caused us to send the White Flag racing up the pole. So down the hill we retreated with the next bus.
So much for efficiency. The French can move people in and out of it's major sites much better than the Sintrians.
Very sad at the unexpected turn of events since we were "this close" to the entrance to the Palace, we found a restaurant, ordered lunch, and drowned our sorrows in a shared 50cl bottle of tinto. After an excellent and large repas we were pleasantly surprised to pay less than 30Euro.
Very efficient, this.
Our return to Lisboa/Lisbonne/Lisbon was made, at first, in a nearly empty railcar/voiture/coach. There were only four of us quitting Sintra.
Back in Lisboa/Lisbonne/Lisbon, up the Baixa we walked (only two blocks from Rossio) to find Yet Another Long Line. This time we queued for the utterly charming elevator trolley that would take us up the hill to the Principe Real. First one train arrived and took a bunch of people. Good. Then it returned and... wot's all this? Gods! Not again!! The driver/conductor/conducteur closed the grill to the trolley and said he'd be back in 5 minutes. It was Official Break Time.
So much for efficiency.
Ahead of us in the queue was a tour group that sounded very much Italian. Sure enough, our suspicion concerning their country of origin was confirmed when they broke out in song. Yes. That's right. They started singing. In the face of inefficiency, they sang. There was a bit of laughter, too. There was a lot of shared warmth and happiness. The singing continued until the by now Well Rested and Very Refreshed driver/conductor/conducteur returned.
Jude found us a place on a box in the driver/conductor/conducteur quarters at the other end of the trolley. Seated in the driver/conductor/conducteur's seat was one of the Singing Italians of the tour group.
We instantly struck up a conversation. "Where are you from?" "Paris. But we're Americans. Where are you from?" "Rome." "Ah, il Papa!" "Si. Si. Il Papa!!" "What are you doing here? Rome is soooooo beautiful." "Ah, thank you, thank you. We're here because Lisbon is nice, too. Not as beautiful as Paris, which is second only to Rome in beauty, by the way. Lisbon is nice this time of year." [smiles all around]
"Can I have your photo?" as he points his tablet lens in my direction. "You look just like [some character from a famous Italian opera who's name I can't recall]." It was a Good Thing that I was having a Good Hair Day. The waxed 'stach was behaving itself. "OK. Take a second, please." "Oh, with pleasure. This time with your wife, too" as we lean together to have our portrait taken.
"By the way, my name is Arcangelo. Just with the angels. Il Papa and I are like brothers. We are all close, we Romans."
There are times when I feel too d*mned much like a German-American. Time-tables. Economies. Money. Solutions. Efficiencies. Exactitude. I still carry all these things with me, even after our move to Europe. How well do these attitudes toward life serve me? I'm no longer sure.
Perhaps that's the secret, isn't it? Song. While not exactly curing/correcting/solving in the American view of things, song might be a good way to respond to the inefficiencies of life.
The Italians say "il papa."
The English say something not so nice about the Pope.
In any event, we could've used a little Divine Intervention.
Jude and I were up and out early (by our standards) to catch the train from Rossio out to Sintra. The Pena Palace was our destination. This is supposed to be an incredible hilltop castle built by an eccentric German royal expatriot. The exterior details are jumbled, colorful, and Crazy Good to look at.
Upon arrival in Sintra we needed to find a WC. Jude and I spied one right there on the train platform, but balked at the rather steep 1.20Euro demanded to open the door. Just behind us a more desperate family put their 1.20Euro into the slot and the door wouldn't open. A rail employee worked (unsuccessfully) to free their money and (unsuccessfully) liberate the door from it's lock.
So much for efficiency.
Meanwhile, passengers were funneling through one and only one exit turnstile. After a several minutes of standing in a very long queue, and absolutely no thanks to the rail station employee, we saw people suddenly move to the other side of the exit gate where we found four working turnstiles.
So much for efficiency.
We crossed the street and dove into a cafe, ordered two bicas, grabbed the key and headed to the WC. The coffee was good and the two only set us back 1.30Euro. For 0.10Euro more than the unusable/unavailable/money-eating WC at the train station we got a quick Pick Me Up and Welcome Relief at the same time.
Very efficient, this.
Another long line across the street to await the bus that would take us up the hill wasn't as terrible as we first feared. One bus loaded and left with the first quarter of the queue and our second quarter of the queue boarded a bus 5 minutes later.
While in line we met a couple vacationing from Nantes/Saint Rochelle. We exercised our under-used French. Upon entry into the bus, and as we whipped from side to side up the switchbacks up the steep steep hill that leads to the Moorish castle and the Pena Palace we continued to exercise our under-used French. We finished our under-used French conversation by complaining that the very very long queue to purchase tickets wasn't moving. "Quelle horreure. C'est insupportable!"
So much for efficiency.
Jude and I were tired, hungry, dejected, and for the first time on this trip defeated.
Since it looked like it could take upwards to an hour to buy entry to the park, we bid our French friends bon courage and we made an un-characteristic and very un-American retreat. The vast crowds, the steeply sloped hillside, the unmoving lines, and the prospect of having to further wait just to have lunch once inside the palace caused us to send the White Flag racing up the pole. So down the hill we retreated with the next bus.
So much for efficiency. The French can move people in and out of it's major sites much better than the Sintrians.
Very sad at the unexpected turn of events since we were "this close" to the entrance to the Palace, we found a restaurant, ordered lunch, and drowned our sorrows in a shared 50cl bottle of tinto. After an excellent and large repas we were pleasantly surprised to pay less than 30Euro.
Very efficient, this.
Our return to Lisboa/Lisbonne/Lisbon was made, at first, in a nearly empty railcar/voiture/coach. There were only four of us quitting Sintra.
Back in Lisboa/Lisbonne/Lisbon, up the Baixa we walked (only two blocks from Rossio) to find Yet Another Long Line. This time we queued for the utterly charming elevator trolley that would take us up the hill to the Principe Real. First one train arrived and took a bunch of people. Good. Then it returned and... wot's all this? Gods! Not again!! The driver/conductor/conducteur closed the grill to the trolley and said he'd be back in 5 minutes. It was Official Break Time.
So much for efficiency.
Ahead of us in the queue was a tour group that sounded very much Italian. Sure enough, our suspicion concerning their country of origin was confirmed when they broke out in song. Yes. That's right. They started singing. In the face of inefficiency, they sang. There was a bit of laughter, too. There was a lot of shared warmth and happiness. The singing continued until the by now Well Rested and Very Refreshed driver/conductor/conducteur returned.
Jude found us a place on a box in the driver/conductor/conducteur quarters at the other end of the trolley. Seated in the driver/conductor/conducteur's seat was one of the Singing Italians of the tour group.
We instantly struck up a conversation. "Where are you from?" "Paris. But we're Americans. Where are you from?" "Rome." "Ah, il Papa!" "Si. Si. Il Papa!!" "What are you doing here? Rome is soooooo beautiful." "Ah, thank you, thank you. We're here because Lisbon is nice, too. Not as beautiful as Paris, which is second only to Rome in beauty, by the way. Lisbon is nice this time of year." [smiles all around]
"Can I have your photo?" as he points his tablet lens in my direction. "You look just like [some character from a famous Italian opera who's name I can't recall]." It was a Good Thing that I was having a Good Hair Day. The waxed 'stach was behaving itself. "OK. Take a second, please." "Oh, with pleasure. This time with your wife, too" as we lean together to have our portrait taken.
"By the way, my name is Arcangelo. Just with the angels. Il Papa and I are like brothers. We are all close, we Romans."
There are times when I feel too d*mned much like a German-American. Time-tables. Economies. Money. Solutions. Efficiencies. Exactitude. I still carry all these things with me, even after our move to Europe. How well do these attitudes toward life serve me? I'm no longer sure.
Perhaps that's the secret, isn't it? Song. While not exactly curing/correcting/solving in the American view of things, song might be a good way to respond to the inefficiencies of life.
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