The Hidden Door
For the second time in two months, I'm stepping off a plane in a foreign country. This time, I'm bound for Lisbon - a coastal town skirting the edge of the Atlantic ocean, the westernmost point of Continental Europe.
With a big roll of RMIT posters tucked under one arm, I follow Patricia, my work colleague, into a taxi. She hands the driver an address and before long, we're winding through the streets of Lisbon.
I rest my head against the window and look out onto the colourful houses below. We're high up in the hills, twisting and turning, until the signs become a blur. Paint is peeling off building roofs, most of which are only half constructed. I sense that the locals have only come into money in recent years, and have begun restoring the city to its former glory. Nevertheless, for now, it remains a vintage backdrop of bikes, graffiti and funiculars, relieved of the long queues and the souvenir shops flooding Barcelona.
When Patricia first briefed me on our work trip to Lisbon, I was unsure as to what I would find. A sprawling tangle of streets perhaps, but certainly nothing more than a few old buildings, with scant to look at. As we near the city-centre, the moorish architecture becomes apparent, with square-shaped towers and monasteries made from stone. No tourist signs to speak of. But a metropolitan city nevertheless, with small trams rattling up the hill and boutiques lining the paths on either side.
Due to geographical isolation and authoritarian ruling, Portugal has remained relatively untouched by outside influences. Which is probably why none of us have probably seen anything quite like it outside its borders. No copies of the Belem Tower, or the Jeronimos Monastery to speak of, or at least nothing that shares their vastness. No, rather than impressing viewers with elaborate displays of wealth, they achieve this through far more subtle means: through simplicity of design.
We soon discover that our destination is on the outskirts of the city-centre, at the top of a small hill. With our belongings in hand, we trek up the slope along with a swarm of students heading to their morning class. Up ahead, the sign Institutito Superior Technico comes into view.
IST.
At least we've found the right place.
I grit my teeth as my heels drags against the pebble stones. Turns out all the streets are covered in these stones. Portuguese stones, as the Brazilians call them - a tangle of flat, irregular stones that cover the walkways and the roads. While it certainly adds a level of charm to Lisbon, I find myself groaning at the sight of my bag, overflowing with goodness knows what, save for a pair of decent walking shoes.
Note to self: always pack for all occasions!
When we arrive inside, we're welcomed by the event director, who quickly gestures us into the main hall. It's decorated as an International Airport Terminal, with each country represented as a "Boarding Gate". We find Australia somewhere in the jungle of stalls. Two men are unrolling a country map and are sticking it on the wall. When they see us approaching, they firmly shake our hands and introduce themselves as Australian Embassy officers.
For the next few hours, our stall is greeted by a flood of students, asking questions about living in Australia. The four of us make a solid team - if students grill us about work-related options, we pass them onto the embassy team. If they want to know about student life, or their study abroad options, the embassy passes them onto us. Between the four of us, we're able to answer every question, from the most innovative Aerospace Engineering course for postgrads, to the average cost of buying a pet kangaroo.
Yep, the Aussies can make a mighty team when they put their heads together.
After six, long hours of calling out over the din, our voices start to become hoarse. At 5pm, we're only too glad to pack up for the day. We farewell our embassy members and depart the university, feeling exhausted. Although the flight was only an hour and a half, we've been required to wake up at 4am, to be ready for a full day of students by 9am. Consequently, we're definitely in need of a good, hearty meal and somewhere to sleep!
The taxi pulls up in front of Patricia's hotel. Before she leaves, we arrange to meet at a seafood restaurant for dinner, situated somewhere in between here and my hostel.
For the next ten minutes, I'm alone in the taxi, biting my lip nervously as I journey into the heart of Lisbon. There are larger swarms of people now, heading to the city centre in their shorts and sunnies. I pay the cab driver and get out of taxi. It's not until I take a good look around before I realise where I am.
I'm standing outside Rosello Station.
There are no other buildings in sight. Just a balcony, overlooking the city far below.
Great. My driver has just dropped me off at the wrong place, probably due a language barrier. And now I'm stuck in the middle of a foreign country, without phone or WiFi connection to find my way home.
In times like this, dear reader, you sometimes wish you could sit down on your bags, close your eyes, and someone could carry you there for you.
But with people elbowing past me, I realise that I'm blocking the street, and that I can't simply stand here all day.
There has to be an information desk inside. Someone to tell me how to fix this whole business.
My muscles ache from the weight of my luggage as I head inside the doors. A part of me hopes that this is all just one big joke. That I'll walk inside, and the hostel will be staring right back at me...
I halt in my tracks.
I'm staring at a train platform.
Trying to fight the horrible wrenching in the pit of my stomach, I walk up to the gates. People are roughly pushing past me, but I'm too nauseous to get out of the way.
No information point. No officer on duty. Not that I have any knowledge of the Portuguese language.
Tell me this is a joke. Please let this be a joke...
At that moment, something catches my eye. A hidden door on the far wall, with the words DESTINATION HOSTEL written in small letters.
An entrance to the hostel - yes that's it!
Fighting my way through the crowd, I make it to the far wall. It's a relatively quiet section unnoticed by many. Almost feels as if I'm observing the station through a glass wall, watching people go about their daily business from afar.
Ok. Here it goes...
I push the door open. Immediately, I'm swallowed up by a room full of tropical plants, hammocks and vines weaving their way up the walls. A group of young people are sitting around some bean bags, playing chess or cracking open a bottle of beer.
I check in at the front desk and am lead through the path of hammocks to my new room. I'm only spend twenty euro per night in the city-centre, with breakfast included, so I'm not expecting much.
When the door swings open, I almost faint then and there.
A large, open space with three comfy bunk beds, surrounded with wooden ladders and curtains flapping in the ocean breeze.
Faces peer from behind the bed curtains, and before long, my roommates have climbed their way through the tangle of ladders to greet me on the floor.
There's six females in total, including me. One lady is from Brazil and speaks both Portuguese and English, so I imagine she's able to converse with a majority of people here in Lisbon, both shopkeepers and tourists alike. Another woman was born in Greece but moved to France as a kid, and has travelled to Spain and Portugal extensively, while also learning English at school. So you can probably guess how many languages she speaks fluently! Finally, there's a young dentist from France, and an English school teacher from Amsterdam who certainly puts my own English skills to shame!!
I'm so fascinated, that I sit back for a few moments and listen to the myriad of languages. First, someone will speak in French and then switch to English, and then someone else will jump in with Portuguese or Greek. And somehow, we all seem to understand each other perfectly as if we're all in our home countries, speaking our native tongues!
It starts to become dark outside our window. Someone suggests that we shut the window, as the breeze is starting to cut through our clothes. As I'm fastening it closed, I wait a moment to take in the incredible view of the streets below. After a long day of rushing around airports and answering students' questions, I'm certainly glad that I made it to our little room tucked inside Rosello station.
I'm just about to return to the cushions, when it hits me suddenly that it's 6.45pm. I'm meant to meet Patricia in fifteen minutes, and I haven't even looked it up on the map!
I quickly connect to the hostel WiFi, and within ten minutes, I've hiked down the slope and threaded my way to the Seafood restaurant.
If I ever doubted Patricia's food sleuthing skills for an instant, then this certainly dispelled such qualms.
Fresh octopus serves with olive oil and herbs. King prawns. A large dish of Oyster. Thinly sliced sashimi with a spicy mayonnaise and wasabi dressing.
Food heaven to say the least!
With a full stomach, I returned back to my hostel, wondering how such a quaint city could remain hidden from the world for so long.