In the morning, I climb up the hill to take a look at Odeceixe's windmill, which is being renovated by three workers in coveralls, then catch the bus back to Lisbon. The route visits each of the villages from the hike, then tailgates a tiny yellow Citroen to Lisbon. White storks have nested on most of the electric poles. You get a much better look at them here than on the hike, but I'm assured that it's very important to see them on clifftops.
Back in Lisbon, I'm in a surprisingly nice apartment in the Bairro Alto. The main thing is that it has the big wooden shutters that feel so historic. What's the point of visiting Europe if you can't, on at least one morning, fling open a set of those and look nosily up and down the street? Across the street is a tiny barbershop where the "today only" promotion for several days running is a free beer with a haircut. A shop called "Shoes & Booze" isn't far away. You don't have to do anything in this neighbourhood sober, if you don't want to. It's only alcohol for now, but the future is wide open. "Molly & Dollies", "Glue & Stew", "Stanozolol & Purses, Y'all". In Portugal, I would be a billionaire.
There are also tiny yellow or once-yellow trams, narrow alleys romantically crowded with tables, tattoo parlours for impulse tattoo-getting, cheap places where pizzas and their prices burst out of stars on cardboard signs and brunch restaurants where everything comes artfully piled up on towers of toast and taking pictures of your food is like saying grace. Every street has its tiny grocery store, with racks of enticing fruit outside and dim, cave-like interiors where shelves groan with Doritos and cheap wine. Renovation work vies with decay and taggers. As in other ancient European cities, it's like keyhole surgery. Tiny trucks manoeuvre gingerly through tiny streets, bags of cement prop open ancient doors, workers weave through crowds with buckets.
When arriving, I walk straight up a funicular route with my luggage, which is very foolish; but so is actually taking the funicular, which I did later. You wait for it to arrive, you wait for the driver to sell tickets to noisy groups and for the people who were kicked off for having cones of roasted chestnuts to hide them in their coats and sneak back on, and then you judder up the steep slope for about a minute while people take pictures of you from the sidewalk.
Down by the river and along the boulevards, meal times, even in February, mean being accosted by touts who jog alongside you, waving menus and ranting about the cod like they've had a religious vision about it. By the national theatre, riotous little groups are marching in outlandish costumes. It looks like they've come from another town to celebrate the start of their Carnival. The men are mostly in skirts and bright wigs, like the hairiest, lowest-effort drag performers you'll ever see. Stressed-out marshals in official t-shirts are trying to get them back onto their buses, but it's like herding drunk cats that are wearing heels for the first time.
There's a market of tables with red tablecloths running all along the Libertades. This is where locals come for geodes, old china, spoons, tiles, wallets, ugly handmade jewellery, Asterix comics, coats, rocking horses, and things of that nature. The street hawkers are all selling a sort of rubber ball that goes splat when thrown, and they stand splatting them against milk-crate tables for hour after hour.
On Saturday, I went to Belem, which was a mistake; even on a winter weekend, the crowds around Lisbon's marquee attractions are large. Two things have fallen out of fashion. The selfie stick has almost disappeared; and the locks couples used to put on things to symbolize their love are much rarer. Probably, people came back to responsibly remove the locks once they'd broken up.
