Midnight at the Oasis - but do the Camels know the words?.....

[Pushka]

Looking forward to Friday night. 7pm. Football Australia V Egypt. Now it’s Belgium and Senegal. Amazing TVs at the hotel. Mirrors when not on.

 

[MEL_Traveller]

DIL replied immediately. Details. From Trip Advisor.

View attachment 513009

Perfect, thank you!

 

[Pushka]

Yesterday (Weds) we took the 40 minute trip by train to Cascais. Supposed to be slightly cooler there. Gorgeous beach and coastline along the way. Train packed. We should have left a bit earlier as we had to walk some way before finding a lounge. A bit costly to rent but no choice really. As it faces the Atlantic the water is pretty much freezing. So much colder than Malta in the med. Most were just standing in the water and not swimming. Like me.

Even the locals were sheltering.





We arrived back at 5pm. My brain had turned to mush in the superheated train. Just horrible. And way hotter inside than out as every time the door opened people rushed to get some fresh air.

Dinner that night was fine. A gorgeous tiny restaurant. With a gross family sitting next to us. Foghorn father telling out his brain fades. Teenage kids who ate like they've never seen food before ramming pieces of ham in their mouths and leaving strips hanging out. I then looked at mother and then realised she had the worst manners of all. Every mouthful she kept her mouth wide open and would talk. Revolting. And it was such a tiny restaurant that everyone but this family kept their voices lowered.

 

[Pushka]

Lisbon had one more surprise for us.

We were sitting outside having dinner, surrounded by football fans, good food and that wonderful World Cup atmosphere, when everything changed in an instant.

A fight broke out just metres away. We've seen several here to be honest. And lots of angry men shouting pushing and shoving. And this one too looked like another heated argument. They got right to where we were sitting outside.

That was our cue.

We abandoned our table and headed for cover while the argument continued for some time. Eventually some larger person separated the two and they moved back up the street still yelling.

We returned to the table and the staff told us there had been a knife in one guys hand poised to use. Oh. Right.

Five minutes later the main protagonist returned. He bent down to pick up a package about half the size of a brick. The drugs drop.

Within a short time people were back eating, glasses were being refilled and the football was back on the big screen, as though nothing had happened.

It certainly wasn’t what we’d expected from a night out in Lisbon. But honestly there is a bit of an undercurrent here. There is an area behind the hotel where maybe around 100 immigrants, all males, seem to be there both day and night. It's hot. People are drinking. But you will hear angry voices on the street, always men, at any time of the day. We are on alert.

Last night we saw a volunteer van delivering food to the homeless. I slipped away from MrP and gave one of them a donation, didn't say anything and walked away. Next thing all the volunteers were told and were cheering. It seemed the right thing to do. Hopefully it made the volunteers realise that everyone else appreciates their work.

 

[Pushka]

I'm up to date. I spent my morning here.



One last day tomorrow which we will spend at Cascais then off to - Morocco. Where it's going to be blisteringly hot.

Our tour.

 

[Bindibuys]

Have you booked dinner at Ricks Cafe?

 

[MR61]

Before there were camels, there was Malta. And before Morocco had a chance to dazzle us, confuse us, or possibly rearrange our luggage and expectations, there was Lisbon, where we are now, sitting in a hotel so beautiful it has already earned its own paragraph. I love reading back over old travel reports, not because they are polished pieces of literature, but because they catch the little things I would otherwise forget: the first impressions, the wrong turns, the hotel breakfasts, the views from a window, the moments that seemed ordinary at the time and then became the trip. So this is where the Morocco story begins, so not in Morocco at all, but with a preliminary wander through Malta and Lisbon, before the desert, before the oasis, and well before we discover whether the camels know any of the words.

Wow, so beautifully written - I'm drawn in and captivated !

 

[Pushka]

Have you booked dinner at Ricks Cafe?

It’s the first night of the Land Tour so that’s a yes.

 

[Pushka]

Current location.


These cotton throws are fabulous. We purchased two for €15. Sand falls off them. Huge. Cotton. And lovely designs.

 

[Pushka]

Wow, so beautifully written - I'm drawn in and captivated !

I had help. We have an author in the family and it isn’t me.

 

[ellen10]

Just caught up on this wonderful trip report.
Thanks for sharing and loved all the wonderful photos.

 

[Pushka]

Last night’s dinner was back at our favourite tapas place. It was absolutely packed. Noisy, bustling and with Portugal playing just after midnight, every bar seemed to have giant screens ready for kickoff.

We squeezed into the last two seats, which happened to be right beside a Scottish couple. As it turned out, that was half the entertainment for the evening. They live on the very northern tip of Scotland, right on the coast. Their summer reaches a blistering 14 degrees on a good day. We were trying to imagine that while sitting in a Lisbon evening that was still sweltering.

They’ve travelled everywhere. Australia several times, including Adelaide, and they’d even ridden the Ghan. It’s funny how conversations with complete strangers can skip the small talk and head straight into swapping travel stories, favourite places and where to go next.

By the end of dinner it felt less like we’d shared a table with strangers and more like we’d spent the evening with old friends who just happened to have the best Scottish accents.

 

[Pushka]

Today we headed back to Cascais. Two trains again, but this time we left much earlier, which was the right decision. Still hot, of course, but at least the train wasn’t packed like a human storage container.

We sorted out loungers, claimed our little patch, and settled in for a proper relax. And now I understand why photos of beaches in England and parts of Europe often show people standing near the water rather than actually swimming in it.

The Atlantic is freaking cold. Not refreshing. Not brisk. Cold.

There was a lot of elegant paddling at the water’s edge and very little enthusiastic swimming. I joined the sensible people and treated the ocean as something to look at rather than fully enter.

The ladies on the beach do a brisk trade in selling these. We bought two, €15. They are large cotton wraps and excellent designs Large enough to cover the lounger then another to completely cover everything that might be in the sun or simply protection. Sands falls off them.

They also sell umbrellas. So many umbrellas at the beach. It wasn't too windy but would be havoc if it was.



She recognised me as she walked past and called me Mumma again like when I purchased them.






We knew not to enquire about the cost of these loungers.

 

[Pushka]

The train trip back, however, was the opposite problem.

If the Atlantic had been too cold to enter, the train was too hot to survive politely. We went from standing at the edge of freezing ocean water, congratulating ourselves for being sensible, to being packed back into a train that felt like it had been gently preheated.

There is probably a perfect temperature somewhere between Cascais beach and the Lisbon train line, but we did not find it that day.