King of my castle (Portugal #3)

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King of my castle

Kings and queens, when they decide not to be genocidal maniacs or persistent inbreeders, hold many lessons for us; they teach us of the importance of a quality education, of how life needs to be performed with class, of fashion and style and stuffing your face with foie gras.

So don’t be a peasant, and read this post.

I have never been one for early mornings during vacation time, unless I’m forced by some ungodly travel agency to be there before the sun rises so we can catch buses, boats, and other nonsensical things that take away from my beauty sleep.

After a day of rain, we were blessed once more with sunshine and something that seemed like warm weather. The occasional cloud strolled across the sky, the heavenly version of my lazy persona. Coffee was cheaper and much better (and bigger) at Cerca Moura; the sister’s obsession for pastries continued.

My regal inspiration was caused by nothing else than a visit to São Jorge Castle – which for some unique reasons is smack in the middle of Lisbon (if the middle means where everything is happening, off course). More pretty views (one you pay a small fee) awaited, together with a swarm of incredibly annoying children that were yelling and running everywhere.

Yet the best part of the Castle popped out of nowhere, languorous and slow, plopping its majestic hind on the ground as if nothing else mattered. Queue dozens of photos of animals time.

As soon as the bird appeared, everyone gathered around, snapping pictures with their iPhones and tiny cameras. I lay my professional camera bag on the floor, switch my lens to the one with the appropriate size to either make people know their place or to simply mimic most Asian tourists (the hardcore ones). I moved the peasants away: this diva needed someone who could treat her like the star he was.

The castle provided various forms of shenanigans, from “steep stairs” that were filled with danger (maybe if you were a paraplegic), a nice view here and there, but nothing that could compare with the peacocks really. The remains of the proper castle were just bland ruins, certainly nothing compared to the forts I had seen in India.

After a few opportunities at a selfies using the big ol’ camera, it was time to grab some lunch at the A Tasquinha, which was right outside the castle. The staff was incredibly friendly (he insisted very much that I put my camera away from the table so it doesn’t get stolen. Little did he know I was a Romanian), and the restaurant confirmed my suspicion that Portuguese people love their steaks.

The time for the much celebrated post-card ceremony was upon us.

For dinner we ended up back in Bairro Alto, at Casa da India (Rua do Loreto 49); the fact that we had to queue to get into the tiny space was at first rather encouraging. The place was quite a standard Portuguese restaurant, despite the name that can be a bit misleading. Some nice (cheap) white wine, ribs and some weird traditional pork dish ended up filling enough, but not all that great.

We finally decided to go gay clubbing afterwards.

Note to self: never drink caipirinha again.

We did end up in a gay bar, however I will leave everything out (unfortunately not because I ended up doing anything remotely non-PG13 – which I hope was what was expected of me, but because I ended up doing all sorts of various things which I don’t quite recollect).

However, here’s pictures of a puppy.

Other post from this trip:

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