"Qu'est-ce que t'es originale comme fille."
What an original girl you are.
I told her it wasn't my idea. Another American assistant had proposed the idea to me back in November. Notwithstanding the fact that I'd just returned from the city of azulejos after Toussaint holiday, I agreed to run with her. The Lisbon half-marathon is allegedly one of the fastest 13.1 mile-courses out there and boasts a huge level of participation (30,000 runners to be precise). For me, what really cinched the deal was reading about the crossing-of-the-bridge: the race begins and runs over the Ponte 25 de Avril (25th of April bridge), Lisbon's shout out to the Golden Gate Bridge. I decided I wanted to run across that bridge.
So I went back to Lisbon.
This time, I stayed at the Lisbon Lounge Hostel, quite possibly the best hostel ever. Located in the Baixa neighborhood, it occupies an old four story building that has been extensively renovated. And by renovated, I mean it has clean and polished hardwood floors, private and public bathrooms with spotless white tiles and automatic air freshners, wooden cabinets for each guest (they lock!), plush bedding, and Ikea-furnished lounges on each floor. Also, a daily Happy Hour featuring 50-cent beers, free breakfast and wi-fi, and a live-in chef who prepares a three-course dinner every night for the bargain price of 8 euros. I'm sorry for the plug, but this hostel has earned it.
I arrived on a Friday afternoon and dove immediately between the sheets of my bunk for a nap. On waking, I showered, freshened up, and stepped outside to take in the neighboring pedestrian streets before sunset.
I didn't get very far before being assaulted. By window display after window display of pastries.
I'm not sure how I could have missed this my first time in Lisbon. Perhaps my mind actively blocked the pastries out as a means of protecting me against my will. I focused, instead, on the varieties of fish: bacalhau (codfish), linguado (sole), salmonete (red mullet), peixe espada (swordfish), savel (shad), eiroz (eel), or sardinha (sardine).
This time around, though, there was no escape.
I had heard about the insatiable Portuguese sweet tooth. This is a country where you can find at least two hundred different types of pastries. Where customers walk into pastry shops and enjoy fast, counterside service, much like a bar (only instead of pounding a pint, they pound a pastel de nata). Where the pastry shops open at 7 AM and close at 2 AM the next morning.
However, I had not heard of the pastry displayed below. A special, Easter pastry that is prepared in the weeks leading up to Easter.
No, your eyes are not deceiving you. Evidently, you don't have to go outside to hunt for Easter eggs in Portugal. You can find them in your bread.
The Folar de Pascoa originated in the convents and monasteries of 18th-century Portugal (along with most pastries and other sugary Portuguese treats, curiously enough; hence, awesome pastry names like toucinho do céu - heaven's lard, or barriga de freiras - nun's belly). The Folar wields strong symbolism: it's often associated with Jesus' sharing of bread at the last supper. The eggs you see baked into it are actually hard boiled. They are meant to symbolize rebirth.
As I oggled the Folars and their sugary neighbors, I forgot to consider my environment. To notice if I, myself, was being oggled, and to watch where I was going. And that is how I walked straight and hard into a fellow and his group of friends on the street.
It being a latin country, the fellow and his friends felt it necessary to take advantage of my misstep and goad me for a bit. Although it took me a few seconds to process. I was still on the pastries. And to be perfectly honest, although I can understand Portuguese quite well and speak it at a mediocre level, Portuguese Portuguese sounds more like an unfamiliar Slavic language than the sweet samba cadence of the Brazilian Portuguese to which I'm accustomed. It wasn't until the group closed in on me that I took full stock of my surroundings.
Me (in Spanish): Ay, disculpa! Mil disculpas! Apologies! A thousand apologies!
Fellow (in Portuguese): Menina bela! Tem que da-me um biejo. Lovely girl! You must give me a kiss.
Me: Ta bom, ta bom, disculpa! Okay, okay, I'm sorry!
After which I quickly kissed him on both cheeks, spun around, and walked onward.
Paolo, as the fellow's name turned out to be, wouldn't leave it at that. He walked after me and stopped me once more, and I lost track of the pastries. We spoke for a few minutes, him in Portuguese and me in Portuñol (a Portuguese-Spanish hybrid). He asked if I wanted him to show me the city the next day, and I said maybe. He told me about the magnificence of Portugal. I nodded and smiled. He asked what my favorite part of Portugal was. I smiled wider and replied:
"Os pastéis!"
The pastries.
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