A somewhat rocky start to the Lisbon experience

Arrived in Lisbon on time, luggage was there quickly, and picked up the SIM card for the phone within minutes. Everything was going smoothly, So, we sauntered over to the allotted place and sat waiting for the taxi we had booked on booking.com to come and pick us up and take us to our majestic sailboat. And waited. And waited. The taxi never came. After lengthy discussions with the very friendly woman who looked after the allocation of taxis at the airport, she gave me the name and number of Teresa Montez Travel, who was responsible for the ride, and then had a series of lengthy discussions with her. I could feel my blood pressure rising as one lame excuse after another came across the ether – and realising that I was on holiday and didn’t want my holidays to be an extension of my work life, said “screw it”, hung up and went to get a taxi from outside the airport. What’s $20 in the grand scheme of things. But: if you are not as mild mannered and equanimous as me, and if you don’t want to be screwed over, then do NOT book a taxi from Lisbon airport to meet you as the plane arrives. It rarely pays to be over organised. 

The dockyard was in Belém, a good 20-minute drive from the airport, so we went via the highway. It was a little further out from the centre of Lisbon than we thought, but getting the chance to stay on a luxury sailboat doesn’t come around every day in my experience, so it was worth it. Besides, the marina was right next to the Padrão dos Descobrimentos, the Monument to the Discoveries, right on the Tagus, so the views promised to be sensational. Indeed, as we got out of the taxi, the massive monument seemed to dwarf the dock and all the boats. The person looking after the boat was very friendly and met us at the door to the marina. “I’m just finishing the clean-up from the last guests,” he said. “Leave your luggage here, if you like. There’s a café over there for a drink and come back in 30 minutes or so.” So, we did. 

He texted us to say when he was finished and we wandered over, tired but reasonably coherent, to get into the marina and see the boat. The first thing I thought, as I saw it in situ, was how much bigger it made the Monument to the Discoveries seem. Then I realised that the reason it made the Monument to the Discoveries seem so big was because it, itself, was so small. It wasn’t so much a “luxury sailboat” as a small wooden boat with a wooden tarpaulin constructed over the top. It was the size of a large Tonka toy – one of the sorts of boats Ottawacker Jr. had in his bath when he was 2. There, I liked it – it kept his yellow rubber ducks amused and never seemed to sink, no matter how many attacks from the rebellious fowl it had to withstand. Here, faced with the prospect of housing the three of us and our luggage for four nights, it seemed somewhat, how shall I put it, inadequate. 

I must have had a narcoleptic attack, because the next thing I knew, the friendly caretaker had gone and I was sitting in the middle of the boat (simultaneously sitting both on the portside and at the stern) listening to Mrs. Ottawacker telling me there was no way she was sleeping in this damp wooden box, climbing up a ladder and walking for 5 minutes to go for a shower, and peeing in a toilet that opened directly onto a major European river. For some reason, I’d missed the explanation of where we had to shower and defecate. I also had no recollection of climbing down the ladder to get to the cabin. That might have been because there were only two rungs to the ladder, or because I was in shock.

I tried to make the best of it. “It’s not that bad,” I said. “It’s only for a couple of nights. We’ll have a good laugh at this when we get to the next place.” I instantly realised this was perhaps not the best approach to have taken. Mrs. Ottawacker, whose demeanour is normally so gentle and placid, gave me one of her looks. When she spoke, it was with an ice-like calm, the syllables leaving her mouth in perfect iambic pentameter. “Here, I’m not sleeping. You can if you like. Your choice.”

Somewhat mollified by an offer of a walk and an ice cream, we locked up the boat (it might have been easier to put it in my pocket and take it with us) and walked over to the nearby Jardim da Praça do Império, with its fabulous circular fountain and geometric plaza, just the sort thing that softens up a wife who loves architecture and green space, I thought. We had a bite to eat and she slowly started to come round. “I’ll stay tonight,” she said. “But you get on that laptop and find another place to stay tomorrow.”

Anyway, we carried on walking, past the superb Jerónimos Monastery, and into Belém, all three of us a little sulkily, Ottawacker Jr. catching sight of my warning look as he tried to convince his mother that it wasn’t that bad and we’d all have a laugh about it later on. He might have been repeating my words, but even I could see it was a red rag to a bull. I started to say this to him, and then realised that if there was one thing that could possibly make this situation worse it would be likening his mother to a 400-lb animal. So, I just said “ice cream”, and sped off into the distance. 

In hindsight, we were all a little jetlagged and probably not in the best position to make logical choices. We joined in with the throngs of Chinese tourists queuing for a Pastéis de Belém (my God, is there ever a time when there are not a lot of Chinese tourists queuing for custard tarts?), wandered through the streets of Belém in a sort of daze, and ate at a rather crappy restaurant looking out onto the Jardim Vasco da Gama.

Then, we wandered back to the boat, took out the essentials for the night, found the shower block, had the requisite experience, and wandered back to settle into the box for a game of Hearts and an attempt at sleep.