Fast forward a few days. I'm in Portugal. 21 September, 2008 is the actual date this was written.
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This morning, I woke up early before my alarm clock began beeping. Out late the night before exploring a little of the Lisbon night life, I didn’t climb into bed until 4:30. Not being able to fall back asleep after a mere three and a half hours, I had a little extra time to pack my suitcase and prepare for my train ride to Porto.

Bairro Alto, the neighborhood I stayed in, is very quiet on this Sunday morning. It turns out this is the center of Lisbon madness. Within a few blocks of my hotel, there are dozens and dozens of bars, trendy restaurants and little boutique stores. Strangely, they are all covered in graffitti. Lots and lots of graffiti, some passing as artwork, During the day, the neighborhood seems rather sketchy. But by night, it’s wild. At 10:00 the restaurants are busy. Then people head to the bars and by 1:00 in the morning, the narrow cobblestone streets are filled with locals and tourists doing two things: drinking and talking. It’s difficult to navigate through the crowds and reminiscent of Mardi Gras, only there are no beads and it happens on a daily basis. Between 2:00 and 4:00 there is a migration toward smaller clubs with DJs, and between 3:00 and 8:00 the large clubs and discos are popular. I wonder to myself, “When do the people sleep?”

During the evening, I hung out with an American guy (from Boston, but he used to live half a mile from where I lived in San Diego) that I met at dinner. He took off after one beer and orienting me to the bar scene. Finally, I spoke with a Portuguese guy, in English of course. He persuaded me to go to a small club with him and his friends, but later disappeared. So, for the evening, I managed dinner, a bar and a small club. But at 4:00, I was all alone with no one to talk to (wahhhhh) and decided to head back to the hotel.

This morning, dragging my suitcase down the cobblestone streets of Lisbon, I realize it’s easier to carry it, causes less damage and avoids the annoying clakkety clackety clakety clack of the wheels bouncing off the stones. A quick two stops on Lisbon’s modern metro and I’m at the train station. Good timing, I hop on the train and take off, as I eat a very tasty little Portuguese pastry which is like a mini flan. By the second stop a family gets on with five children, whining and crying. I decide it’s time to settle in with my iPod. Shit, It’s not in my backpack. Damn. It’s in the safe at the hotel. Do I go to Porto and call the hotel and ask them to mail it to me? But where? Paris? San Francisco? Damn, damn, damn. No, I’ll be anxious all day. Just go back and get it now. My ticket has already been punched, and I can not use it for the next train. There goes $60 down the drain. Crap. Damn. (Actually, the word I was using started with an “F”.)

Back on the Metro, up four long escalators (about three stories each), I reach the surface. Lisbon is built on seven hills, which I learned upon arriving and dragging my suitcase for 20 minutes up the other side of this damn hill which now seems like a mountain. I’m NOT carrying the suitcase like I did this morning, so it’s Clackety, clackety, clack up the street with my suitcase. I arrive, someone has just checked into my room. I go to the safe. It’s empty. My heart sinks.

The most important thing to pack, when travelling, is your brain. Apparently, in my sleep deprived state, I forgot something. My iPod is safely tucked in my backpack in Paris at Ariel’s apartment. I decided not to bring it with me so that I would actually read, “The Messenger,” a book given to me by C.

Going back down the street, clackety clack clack, fuming about how I just lost an afternoon of visiting Porto, pissed that I paid $60 for a second train ticket, thinking about how I had no meaningful conversations and met only one local in Lisbon, fretting about the numerous tour buses full of Germans, French and Italians that descended upon all of the major attractions, remembering the screaming kids on the train who inspired me to reach for my iPod, I was thinking ”I hate Lisbon. This has been the worst travel experience I have ever had, or at least in a long time.”

But now, I’m listening to chckkty chckk chckk of the train rumbling down the tracks and watching the rain fall as the Portuguese country side passes by. Michael’s voice pops into my head and he is reminding me how lucky I am to have this opportunity to travel. My rational side kicks in and I remember that travel has its ups and downs. Despite today’s hassles, despite my own foolishness and mistakes, I know that soon I will be planning another trip. Thank goodness for my selective memory. And Lisbon’s not really so bad.