It’s been a productive couple of days in Madrid, especially considering I took most of the second day off. Saturday evening, like most evenings on which I arrive in a city, I didn’t do much more than get my bearings and buy some food. There was a pub crawl, that I skipped, and a milonga that started too late for my exhausted self. I did partake of the hostel’s two euro paella night because I got there just in time to reserve a vegetarian plate, and that was delicious, then I watched some more of the World Cup, but for the most part it was a slow night. I couldn’t even travel plan because the hostel’s wifi wasn’t quite what I would call functional.
The next day, however, I hit the ground running. While the hostel served free churros and coffee in the mornings, it didn’t have what you would really consider breakfast. Anticipating this, I had stocked up on Greek yogurt and muesli. Too much Greek yogurt and muesli, truth be told. The muesli I could pack and bring with me, but I’ve had four large bowls of Greek yogurt today just to finish it up. So much for protein deficiency at least!
My first stop for the day was actually a local ticket office. I had debated with myself long and hard over it, but finally decided that while in Spain I should see a bullfight. It wasn’t something I wanted to take part in, or even give my money to, but I kept hearing so much about its importance to the culture that I felt I owed it all a try. I’d attempted to buy my tickets online, but as I mentioned before the internet wasn’t really cooperating, so to the office it was.
Ticket buying was simple enough that I arrived at the meeting point for my free walking tour with plenty of time to spare. That meant wandering the plaza, Plaza Mayor, for twenty minutes or so, which was good fun in and of itself. I don’t know if it was because I was there on a Sunday or if this happens every day, but the square was lined with tiny tables where merchants were selling their wares, wares which all consisted of coins and stamps. It was a collectors paradise, but since I don’t know anyone who collects either, I didn’t bother to look too closely. No point giving the merchants false hope.
The walking tour was a good one, done by the same company I’d gone with in Barcelona. I now fully intend to look them up in every city they have a presence. I don’t know if it’s just better management or what, but the guides seem to be consistently better, the information more in depth, and the tours longer. What was interesting, however, were the differences between the tour in Barcelona and that in Madrid.
Both tours, unsurprisingly, featured a broader history of Spain; ‘these were our kings at these times who fought these wars and saw these revolutions so on and so forth etc. etc.’ What was surprising, or at least worth a note, was the parts of history they featured. Barcelona spent most of its time on the Wars of Succession between the Bourbons, the Hapsburgs, and their respective allies, wherein Catalonia made its first major bid for independence. Madrid, on the other hand, never even acknowledged that these wars occurred, preferring to profile the various kings that came before and end with a vague ‘and then this guy died without any heirs.’ It was fascinating to see how the personalities of each city came through in the scripts, even without a Spanish guide in either. (The guide in Madrid was from Argentina, in case anybody cares.)
Anyway, the walking tour took three hours and several miles and ended right outside the royal palace and Almudena Cathedral. I bought a sandwich to eat on the steps of said cathedral and then poked my head inside. It was one of those newer cathedrals, so pretty, but no more than most of the rest. They were also gearing up for Corpus Christi next week, so all the attendants were on super intense tourist watch. I did appreciate the romanesque crypts beneath the church though, and the lady minding the entrance there was actually very nice. She made a point to pull me aside and remind me that I *was* allowed to take pictures, so I brought out my camera just to make her smile.
It was well into the afternoon by this time, and I was a little worried about time. I figured I could still spare a couple of hours for the palace though before heading over to the evening’s bull fight. And I could have, except as I went to approach the entrance a very surly female security guard greeted me with a firm and final, “closed.” There wasn’t much misunderstanding that. I don’t know why it was closed. The internet said it would be open. I wasn’t about to argue though, so I didn’t see the insides. I heard a rumor somewhere it was based on Versaille? That might just be the outside though.
WIth a few hours I hadn’t expected to have all of a sudden free, I quickly recalibrated my plan, wandering past the Sabatini Gardens attached to the palace and stopping by Plaza de Espana to see the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Neither of those took long, however, and then I arrived at the start of Gran Via.
As you may or may not have gathered from etymology and context, Gran Via is just a really big street full of restaurants, shops, and fun. I had only intended to walk a bit of it and then take the metro to the arena, but now that I had time… Suffice it to say, I walked the entire thing, took a mile or more detour to see the Crystal Palace in Retiro Park, and got hopelessly lost. (While my mobile internet was spectacular in Madrid, for some reason my gps was not.) And I was more tired than I had yet been for the entire trip. Add that to the fact that getting lost ate up all that extra time I had and I was not only tired, but hungry and running lat
Once I had figured out where I actually was, I quickly identified the closest grocery store on my handy dandy smartphone, bought a half kilo of strawberries, and rushed on to the arena, eating them at my seat with Greek yogurt as I waited for the spectacle to start. It was a good thing I ate before hand and not during. I would never have been able to get them down.
I tried to give the bull fighters the benefit of the doubt. Not all Spaniards love the sport, if you can call it that. It’s even illegal in Catalonia. But enough people have ranted to me about it being art that I wanted to understand. And I do, I think. I just don’t agree.
Bullfighting is a spectacle because it is hard, it takes bravery, and sometimes people die. From my perspective, however, it reminded me of nothing so much as a fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground. A fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground and then gloats as all his friends cheer. Sure, the bull is strong and dangerous, but from the start he doesn’t have a chance. Is the playground scenario any different if you give the first grader a sling shot beforehand? I saw three bulls die that day, and each one of them, everytime he lunged, disconcertingly resembled one of those little kids you hold at bay with an outstretched arm and a hand on his forehead - until you stab him through the heart anyway and hope you don’t miss.
That was the worst bit, really. Beyond the teasing, and then the torture, when it finally came to killing the bulls, they never died in one strike. The toreador would stab, and then wait. Would it die yet? Or would it just continue to suffer more until he stabbed it again? With each successive fight, I found myself rooting for the bulls more and more, actually hoping in a way that disturbs me now that they’d land a blow against their tormentors. When the kill shot came, however, was when the true hopelessness of the situation set in, and you just wanted to tell the animal it was okay to give up.
The second bull in particular must have been stabbed a half dozen times. Even when he fell he would struggle back up, lunging angrily, vengefully despite the fact he was as good as dead already. I was angry too, which is strange for me, because I don’t get angry at much. I’m glad it’s an experience that I’ve, but I didn’t enjoy it at all, and I don’t intend to have it again.
After that trying episode, I did have the good sense to take the metro back, but mostly because I was in a bit of a hurry to make the bad decision to go out again. First of all, I needed a drink, but more importantly, the hostel had advertised a flamenco show at only a couple euros more than the one I’d almost seen in Seville. Furthermore, the upside to this one was that I would be going with other hostel folk, which makes it much less awkward and/or dangerous to meet people, and someone even picks you up at the hostel precluding the possibility of being late or getting lost. It sounded like the perfect opportunity. A half hour into the walk, however, I was starting to rethink.
I’d just walked too much the day is all. I couldn’t really keep steady on my feet anymore, despite wearing comfortable shoes, and my veins had this sort of shimmery unreal feeling to them to boot. We did eventually make it though, and I sunk onto a stool hoping I would be able to enjoy the show in my sort of glazed over state.
I needn’t have worried. The show was fantastic. Miles ahead of that free one I’d seen the first half of in Cordoba. It was exclusive to hostel guests, from my hostel as well as a handful of others, and they not only performed for us, but explained what they were doing and took questions as well. We had two guitar players, two phenomenal dancers, a percussionist, and even a singer who didn’t smoke. I found myself riveted. I wouldn’t say it made up for the bull fight, but I certainly felt better after. Better, but not less tired.
So of course, as soon as I got back to the hostel, it was into the shower and then onto bed for me. That was the plan, anyway. I was distracted for a bit by some new arrivals to my dorm who were nice enough, but just getting settled, which it’s hard to go to sleep through. Then I had a hard time deciding whether or not to set an alarm. I had my own breakfast, and nothing I had to wake up for, but… coffee and churros… and free. Free is my favorite number, and has been for a while. In fact, I think I like it so much you might say we’re involved.
So I compromised. I woke up for the churros and coffee, but then I took it easy for most of the day. I didn’t go back to the palace, nor to one of the other cathedrals that had been on my list. I did stop by the Prado Museum, because it is a must see, but tickets were free for students under twenty five, so I saw the collections I was most interested in and decided I could probably skip the rest without feeling guilty. That led me through a temporary exhibition of El Greco’s Library, Rembrandt’s ‘Triumph of the Eucharist,’ a few pieces by Goya, the permanent collection of statues, French painters, and Diego Vasquez, as well a few incidental galleries besides.
I also got my laundry done. In case you haven’t noticed, the hostel I have is really good at providing services and amenities to makes traveling easier. Churros, paella, flamenco, pub crawls, tango lessons, and more, all at refreshingly affordable prices. These services even included the best laundry set up I’ve ever seen, wherein employees at their sister hostel will do just about any amount of laundry for only five euros. That’s less than you’d spend on a single load at the laundromat and you don’t have to worry about taking the time out of your own schedule.
All of this was completed by early evening, much of the lead up to I’d spent reading and eating yogurt. I had a few more hours before my overnight train left though, and took the opportunity to do something I hadn’t been able to justify before. I went the movie theater one block over to see Maleficent. It was fantastic, by the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a movie. Much longer since I’ve seen a movie in theatres. And the timing was perfect. I left the theatre, drying my eyes, picked up some snacks for the train on the corner, grabbed my bag from the hostel, and headed straight to the station. Or rather… a station.
You see, I think the universe had decided that this whole traveling thing was getting too easy and it was time for me to mess up. Up to this point, I had obsessively checked my train tickets two or three times a day for two or three days before using them, just to make sure I had all the details right. Not so with my ticket from Madrid to Lisbon, for the first time. So of course, this is the time I miss something. I arrived at the station, sore from having walked the half hour with my fifty pound backpack and ten pound purse, checked the departures board and realized… there was no train to Lisbon.
There was a train that left at the same time, but it was going to Toledo, and while destinations sometimes read differently if there are other stops, that made no sense. So I found a quiet corner to unsaddle my bag and dig out my ticket only to realize my train leaves from a different station. In half an hour. Dun dun dun.
I mean, at least it was half an hour and not like… ten minutes. But a quick check on my phone said the other station was a two hour walk and a twenty minute car ride in light traffic. There was a light rail connecting the stations, but at this point every minute was precious and I didn’t really have time to figure out how that worked, decide if it would get me there fast enough, and then buy a ticket. So I took a taxi.
The good news is, the taxi only took ten minutes, and my cab driver was very kind. It was only really touch and go getting to the cab because Spanish speed is not American speed, or any speed at all really - which I will come back to. The bad news is, it blew the budget I had only just gotten back within comfortable limits a day or two ago. Alas, the perils of travel. I will just have to go back to saving more stringently again.
On the speed comment, however, I always enjoy observing the paces of everywhere I go. I think most of you would expect Spain to be more laid back, and it is, in a pleasant way that means things still get done, but there’s laid back and unhurried and then there’s downright slow.
I know I am a fast walker. It is something I have come to terms with, and something I try not to impose on other people or let annoy me when others prefer to walk at a more moderate pace. I’m actually much more moderate myself when traveling because I like to enjoy the places I’m in, take in the sights, see the details. In Spain, however, even my moderate is a full throttle sprint.
Take, for instance, how fast I was going on my way to the bull fight before I realized I was lost. I thought I had plenty of time, that I would get there early even, and so long had I been walking that I was pacing myself at a solid amble, so slow that I felt the need to be conscious of everyone around me should anyone want to pass. Well, a few people did want to, but what was astonishing was that I ended up passing a few people too. Not just passing, but leaving in my barely cognizant dust. I could understand this in a park, or from the elderly, but from the young and healthy on a random side street such a pace baffled me.
Anyway, on my way to the taxis I was behind a pair of girls at this inexplicable pace on a narrow ramp, too narrow for passing, for three stories straight. It literally took me ten times longer than it would have, and I did not have ten times the amount of time to spare. I made it though, no harm no foul, and under other circumstances I’ve even come to appreciate the slower pace. I don’t know if I could ever walk it, but I’m charmed to know some people still enjoy just being. They are, after all, almost standing still.
Which brings me to the train. I wish I was asleep already. I wasn’t even going to write this at first, because in case you haven’t noticed being tired is becoming a theme. Unfortunately, there is a group of several American college guys who have just met and are getting to know each other over a couple bottles of wine. Not even my ear plugs can block them out. The lights have recently gone out though, so I’m hoping they’ll take the hint. The train is due to arrive in six hours or so and I’d like to hit the ground running. (Don’t worry though, I’ll be taking the metro much more in Lisbon.) At the very least, I suppose I can always get a good nights sleep tomorrow night. I’ve tried not to book my days too full because my exam is coming up on Friday, but that gives me nearly a week to catch up. Right?
The next day, however, I hit the ground running. While the hostel served free churros and coffee in the mornings, it didn’t have what you would really consider breakfast. Anticipating this, I had stocked up on Greek yogurt and muesli. Too much Greek yogurt and muesli, truth be told. The muesli I could pack and bring with me, but I’ve had four large bowls of Greek yogurt today just to finish it up. So much for protein deficiency at least!
My first stop for the day was actually a local ticket office. I had debated with myself long and hard over it, but finally decided that while in Spain I should see a bullfight. It wasn’t something I wanted to take part in, or even give my money to, but I kept hearing so much about its importance to the culture that I felt I owed it all a try. I’d attempted to buy my tickets online, but as I mentioned before the internet wasn’t really cooperating, so to the office it was.
Ticket buying was simple enough that I arrived at the meeting point for my free walking tour with plenty of time to spare. That meant wandering the plaza, Plaza Mayor, for twenty minutes or so, which was good fun in and of itself. I don’t know if it was because I was there on a Sunday or if this happens every day, but the square was lined with tiny tables where merchants were selling their wares, wares which all consisted of coins and stamps. It was a collectors paradise, but since I don’t know anyone who collects either, I didn’t bother to look too closely. No point giving the merchants false hope.
The walking tour was a good one, done by the same company I’d gone with in Barcelona. I now fully intend to look them up in every city they have a presence. I don’t know if it’s just better management or what, but the guides seem to be consistently better, the information more in depth, and the tours longer. What was interesting, however, were the differences between the tour in Barcelona and that in Madrid.
Both tours, unsurprisingly, featured a broader history of Spain; ‘these were our kings at these times who fought these wars and saw these revolutions so on and so forth etc. etc.’ What was surprising, or at least worth a note, was the parts of history they featured. Barcelona spent most of its time on the Wars of Succession between the Bourbons, the Hapsburgs, and their respective allies, wherein Catalonia made its first major bid for independence. Madrid, on the other hand, never even acknowledged that these wars occurred, preferring to profile the various kings that came before and end with a vague ‘and then this guy died without any heirs.’ It was fascinating to see how the personalities of each city came through in the scripts, even without a Spanish guide in either. (The guide in Madrid was from Argentina, in case anybody cares.)
Anyway, the walking tour took three hours and several miles and ended right outside the royal palace and Almudena Cathedral. I bought a sandwich to eat on the steps of said cathedral and then poked my head inside. It was one of those newer cathedrals, so pretty, but no more than most of the rest. They were also gearing up for Corpus Christi next week, so all the attendants were on super intense tourist watch. I did appreciate the romanesque crypts beneath the church though, and the lady minding the entrance there was actually very nice. She made a point to pull me aside and remind me that I *was* allowed to take pictures, so I brought out my camera just to make her smile.
It was well into the afternoon by this time, and I was a little worried about time. I figured I could still spare a couple of hours for the palace though before heading over to the evening’s bull fight. And I could have, except as I went to approach the entrance a very surly female security guard greeted me with a firm and final, “closed.” There wasn’t much misunderstanding that. I don’t know why it was closed. The internet said it would be open. I wasn’t about to argue though, so I didn’t see the insides. I heard a rumor somewhere it was based on Versaille? That might just be the outside though.
WIth a few hours I hadn’t expected to have all of a sudden free, I quickly recalibrated my plan, wandering past the Sabatini Gardens attached to the palace and stopping by Plaza de Espana to see the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Neither of those took long, however, and then I arrived at the start of Gran Via.
As you may or may not have gathered from etymology and context, Gran Via is just a really big street full of restaurants, shops, and fun. I had only intended to walk a bit of it and then take the metro to the arena, but now that I had time… Suffice it to say, I walked the entire thing, took a mile or more detour to see the Crystal Palace in Retiro Park, and got hopelessly lost. (While my mobile internet was spectacular in Madrid, for some reason my gps was not.) And I was more tired than I had yet been for the entire trip. Add that to the fact that getting lost ate up all that extra time I had and I was not only tired, but hungry and running lat
Once I had figured out where I actually was, I quickly identified the closest grocery store on my handy dandy smartphone, bought a half kilo of strawberries, and rushed on to the arena, eating them at my seat with Greek yogurt as I waited for the spectacle to start. It was a good thing I ate before hand and not during. I would never have been able to get them down.
I tried to give the bull fighters the benefit of the doubt. Not all Spaniards love the sport, if you can call it that. It’s even illegal in Catalonia. But enough people have ranted to me about it being art that I wanted to understand. And I do, I think. I just don’t agree.
Bullfighting is a spectacle because it is hard, it takes bravery, and sometimes people die. From my perspective, however, it reminded me of nothing so much as a fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground. A fifth grader who beats up a first grader on the playground and then gloats as all his friends cheer. Sure, the bull is strong and dangerous, but from the start he doesn’t have a chance. Is the playground scenario any different if you give the first grader a sling shot beforehand? I saw three bulls die that day, and each one of them, everytime he lunged, disconcertingly resembled one of those little kids you hold at bay with an outstretched arm and a hand on his forehead - until you stab him through the heart anyway and hope you don’t miss.
That was the worst bit, really. Beyond the teasing, and then the torture, when it finally came to killing the bulls, they never died in one strike. The toreador would stab, and then wait. Would it die yet? Or would it just continue to suffer more until he stabbed it again? With each successive fight, I found myself rooting for the bulls more and more, actually hoping in a way that disturbs me now that they’d land a blow against their tormentors. When the kill shot came, however, was when the true hopelessness of the situation set in, and you just wanted to tell the animal it was okay to give up.
The second bull in particular must have been stabbed a half dozen times. Even when he fell he would struggle back up, lunging angrily, vengefully despite the fact he was as good as dead already. I was angry too, which is strange for me, because I don’t get angry at much. I’m glad it’s an experience that I’ve, but I didn’t enjoy it at all, and I don’t intend to have it again.
After that trying episode, I did have the good sense to take the metro back, but mostly because I was in a bit of a hurry to make the bad decision to go out again. First of all, I needed a drink, but more importantly, the hostel had advertised a flamenco show at only a couple euros more than the one I’d almost seen in Seville. Furthermore, the upside to this one was that I would be going with other hostel folk, which makes it much less awkward and/or dangerous to meet people, and someone even picks you up at the hostel precluding the possibility of being late or getting lost. It sounded like the perfect opportunity. A half hour into the walk, however, I was starting to rethink.
I’d just walked too much the day is all. I couldn’t really keep steady on my feet anymore, despite wearing comfortable shoes, and my veins had this sort of shimmery unreal feeling to them to boot. We did eventually make it though, and I sunk onto a stool hoping I would be able to enjoy the show in my sort of glazed over state.
I needn’t have worried. The show was fantastic. Miles ahead of that free one I’d seen the first half of in Cordoba. It was exclusive to hostel guests, from my hostel as well as a handful of others, and they not only performed for us, but explained what they were doing and took questions as well. We had two guitar players, two phenomenal dancers, a percussionist, and even a singer who didn’t smoke. I found myself riveted. I wouldn’t say it made up for the bull fight, but I certainly felt better after. Better, but not less tired.
So of course, as soon as I got back to the hostel, it was into the shower and then onto bed for me. That was the plan, anyway. I was distracted for a bit by some new arrivals to my dorm who were nice enough, but just getting settled, which it’s hard to go to sleep through. Then I had a hard time deciding whether or not to set an alarm. I had my own breakfast, and nothing I had to wake up for, but… coffee and churros… and free. Free is my favorite number, and has been for a while. In fact, I think I like it so much you might say we’re involved.
So I compromised. I woke up for the churros and coffee, but then I took it easy for most of the day. I didn’t go back to the palace, nor to one of the other cathedrals that had been on my list. I did stop by the Prado Museum, because it is a must see, but tickets were free for students under twenty five, so I saw the collections I was most interested in and decided I could probably skip the rest without feeling guilty. That led me through a temporary exhibition of El Greco’s Library, Rembrandt’s ‘Triumph of the Eucharist,’ a few pieces by Goya, the permanent collection of statues, French painters, and Diego Vasquez, as well a few incidental galleries besides.
I also got my laundry done. In case you haven’t noticed, the hostel I have is really good at providing services and amenities to makes traveling easier. Churros, paella, flamenco, pub crawls, tango lessons, and more, all at refreshingly affordable prices. These services even included the best laundry set up I’ve ever seen, wherein employees at their sister hostel will do just about any amount of laundry for only five euros. That’s less than you’d spend on a single load at the laundromat and you don’t have to worry about taking the time out of your own schedule.
All of this was completed by early evening, much of the lead up to I’d spent reading and eating yogurt. I had a few more hours before my overnight train left though, and took the opportunity to do something I hadn’t been able to justify before. I went the movie theater one block over to see Maleficent. It was fantastic, by the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a movie. Much longer since I’ve seen a movie in theatres. And the timing was perfect. I left the theatre, drying my eyes, picked up some snacks for the train on the corner, grabbed my bag from the hostel, and headed straight to the station. Or rather… a station.
You see, I think the universe had decided that this whole traveling thing was getting too easy and it was time for me to mess up. Up to this point, I had obsessively checked my train tickets two or three times a day for two or three days before using them, just to make sure I had all the details right. Not so with my ticket from Madrid to Lisbon, for the first time. So of course, this is the time I miss something. I arrived at the station, sore from having walked the half hour with my fifty pound backpack and ten pound purse, checked the departures board and realized… there was no train to Lisbon.
There was a train that left at the same time, but it was going to Toledo, and while destinations sometimes read differently if there are other stops, that made no sense. So I found a quiet corner to unsaddle my bag and dig out my ticket only to realize my train leaves from a different station. In half an hour. Dun dun dun.
I mean, at least it was half an hour and not like… ten minutes. But a quick check on my phone said the other station was a two hour walk and a twenty minute car ride in light traffic. There was a light rail connecting the stations, but at this point every minute was precious and I didn’t really have time to figure out how that worked, decide if it would get me there fast enough, and then buy a ticket. So I took a taxi.
The good news is, the taxi only took ten minutes, and my cab driver was very kind. It was only really touch and go getting to the cab because Spanish speed is not American speed, or any speed at all really - which I will come back to. The bad news is, it blew the budget I had only just gotten back within comfortable limits a day or two ago. Alas, the perils of travel. I will just have to go back to saving more stringently again.
On the speed comment, however, I always enjoy observing the paces of everywhere I go. I think most of you would expect Spain to be more laid back, and it is, in a pleasant way that means things still get done, but there’s laid back and unhurried and then there’s downright slow.
I know I am a fast walker. It is something I have come to terms with, and something I try not to impose on other people or let annoy me when others prefer to walk at a more moderate pace. I’m actually much more moderate myself when traveling because I like to enjoy the places I’m in, take in the sights, see the details. In Spain, however, even my moderate is a full throttle sprint.
Take, for instance, how fast I was going on my way to the bull fight before I realized I was lost. I thought I had plenty of time, that I would get there early even, and so long had I been walking that I was pacing myself at a solid amble, so slow that I felt the need to be conscious of everyone around me should anyone want to pass. Well, a few people did want to, but what was astonishing was that I ended up passing a few people too. Not just passing, but leaving in my barely cognizant dust. I could understand this in a park, or from the elderly, but from the young and healthy on a random side street such a pace baffled me.
Anyway, on my way to the taxis I was behind a pair of girls at this inexplicable pace on a narrow ramp, too narrow for passing, for three stories straight. It literally took me ten times longer than it would have, and I did not have ten times the amount of time to spare. I made it though, no harm no foul, and under other circumstances I’ve even come to appreciate the slower pace. I don’t know if I could ever walk it, but I’m charmed to know some people still enjoy just being. They are, after all, almost standing still.
Which brings me to the train. I wish I was asleep already. I wasn’t even going to write this at first, because in case you haven’t noticed being tired is becoming a theme. Unfortunately, there is a group of several American college guys who have just met and are getting to know each other over a couple bottles of wine. Not even my ear plugs can block them out. The lights have recently gone out though, so I’m hoping they’ll take the hint. The train is due to arrive in six hours or so and I’d like to hit the ground running. (Don’t worry though, I’ll be taking the metro much more in Lisbon.) At the very least, I suppose I can always get a good nights sleep tomorrow night. I’ve tried not to book my days too full because my exam is coming up on Friday, but that gives me nearly a week to catch up. Right?
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