Portugal

May 8–9, 2004

The 500-metre stretch of water separating the two countries turned out to be magical. The ferry from Spain docked in a completely different country. The taxi drivers smoking on the pier all spoke excellent English. Barely ten minutes ago a Spanish ticket seller was trying to understand what it was that I was after, and this despite the fact that the only thing he sells are tickets to Portugal. The people at the ferry terminal explained everything I needed to know about the timetable, where to sit and how, and where to change.

The railways in Portugal are spectacularly distinctive.

Waiting room.

Cleaning ladies.

Faro

Faro turned out to be a downright delightful and quiet town. It has a large airport for reasons unclear. It’s a good thing I managed to visit before the football championship.

Lots of storks here.

Orange trees grow in the streets.

A mind-boggling burial vault made out of skulls.

The poles here are painted the same colour as the signs hanging on them (just like in the Faroe Islands).

Payphones.

Water pipes of some sort.

Tiles are decorative staples.

It’s a nice place.

Plus it’s beautiful.

From here on it’s another train and then another ferry in order to get to Lisbon.

Lisbon

Lisbon is endlessly wonderful and interesting. There are lots and lots of little streets on different levels.

And lots of small details.

It’s insanely beautiful.

They’ve got XIX-century shop display windows still in their original state. All of the things that you only see on photographs hung on corridor walls in other cities: “this is what this place used to look like a century ago”.

Pedestrian crossing.

Fire hydrant.

Phone box.

Ordinary postboxes.

A postbox from the future, which, it would seem, even prints stamps.

Portugal is incredibly cosy and pretty.

It has to be said that from a distance Portuguese intonation is indistinguishable from that of Russian. As you wander through town you might spot Russians standing around, chatting. Come a little closer and you’ll realise they’re actually speaking Portuguese.

* * *

Heading home, fast-forward. Sheremetyevo — a word imbued with so much meaning for all Russians. The best airlock for readjusting to life in Russia there is. There’s the perpetually dreadful passport control zone, a cruddy leaden sky, and dusty “ZIL” trucks with their trailers painted a dark swamp green. You get used to Moscow again and fall back in love with it in the hour it takes you to get to the centre.