Portugal Day 5
This morning Jan suggested we go to the Gulbenkian Museum and Park, known for its collection of art masterpieces traditional and modern, a facility funded by an Armenian immigrant oil billionaire in gratitude for Portugal’s offer of protection from the Turkish genocide during World War I.
The traditional museum was closed for renovations and the modern one was closed on Sunday, but it was worthwhile to see the spacious modern section of the City where it was located: 20th century buildings, grafitti-free streets, a locked up two story shopping mall with ads for stuff you see in airports.
We entered the park surrounding the buildings under a curved stained wood portico of modern Japanese design.
The garden is immaculately tended, large mature trees of many species just coming into light green translucent leaf, fountains, gracefully curved walkways, inviting benches, only a few people and children quietly strolling.
After an hour we exited the park and stopped at a elegant café where waitresses wore artistic t-shirts,
and then uphill to the Edward VII park, another contrast to the funky beauties of the old town, a formal garden extending down to the riverside miles away.
The fountain seemed a bit incongruous.
Within minutes of arriving back at the hotel by Bolt I realized my phone was gone, most likely having fallen from my pocket upon leaving the car. “Where’s my iphone” on the computer told me its location at an address near that point. I dashed back out, looked along the sidewalk and approached every shop and café keeper nearby to try to locate the number. A tall dishevelled fellow came up and insisted he knew where it was and that I accompany him down the street. I pulled away from him and entered a little halal butcher shop next to the mysterious address, where a young clerk told me that it was behind an adjacent unmarked locked gate. I realized this was a false lead.
Back at the computer in our room the robot tracked the phone moving from where I left the Bolt out into the suburbs. It was still in the car. I repeatedly called my phone with Jan’s. Eventually the driver answered it and said he would bring it to me later. But as I tracked the phone’s travels all over the map I got more anxious.
Jan convinced me to go to the Lisbon artifact shop facing the square, “A Vida Portuguesa,” to practice “Sardine Therapy” by choosing from the hundreds different packages of fish.
Three hours later, the Bolt driver called her phone at the number I’d left, said he was nearby and asked where should I meet him. Down in the street Jan and I saw him approach, dressed in a priest’s robe and hat. I restrained my impulse to hug him but gave him a 20 Euro reward.
