Photo credit: Carol Madigan

   The bad news about Cascais is that it’s a beach resort. The good news about it was that if this was to be our last day in Lisbon, it meant we wouldn’t be daytripping to Sintra, which by all accounts was steep and overrun by selfie-crazed tourists (present company included) keen to cross it off their must-see lists.

“But drawing on her experience with the New York subway growing up, Carol performed the equivalent of an RPO* maneuvering us around the crowd of disembarking passengers and then slipping in behind them to two open seats, all of which had disappeared by the time we claimed ours.”

   At least a beach resort near a metropolis like Lisbon suggests it would be overrun as well, but overrun with locals. Which for reasons that escape me makes all the difference in the world to me as far as going some place that is overrun.

   Cascais was breezy but warm enough for the bikinis to be well represented. While I’m well passed the age where still noticing such things should earn me the moniker of Aqualung, I’ll defend my casual glances in their direction as one of nostalgic homage and leave it at that. (If you’re reading this, it means Carol has approved that last line, probably with a side glance of sarcastic disdain.)
   We looked for a restaurant to have a light lunch. Since we were still officially on schedule to leave the following day, we had food in the fridge back at the apartment that I didn’t want to see go to waste. The restaurants were requiring reservations, but we managed to secure an outdoor table (Baia do Piexe) in exchange for promising not to complain about the breeze. The breeze became more like a gusty wind as we took our seats, using tableware to keep tablecloths and napkins from flying off into the street.
   Our waiter was a kindly gent who was sympathetic to our plight with the wind. He was also a drop dead doppelganger to Woody Allen as an old man. We shared a plate of scallops and reminisced over how much we enjoyed Midnight in Paris. I followed Carol on a stroll through some sort of former palace, and was rewarded for my solicitous fortitude with a sit at a cafe, while Carol did some souvenir shopping.

   My hand was on the open button of the 16:47 train door the moment it pulled out of the station. The 15:17 was thirty minutes late, and the platform was mobbed with passengers piling up for two trains instead of one. The prospect for standing crammed together for the forty minute trek back to the city was looming large. But drawing on her experience with the New York subway growing up, Carol performed the equivalent of an RPO* maneuvering us around the crowd of disembarking passengers and then slipping in behind them to two open seats, all of which had disappeared by the time we claimed ours.

   Back home, I let the availability of staying in our apartment without having to move to determine if we were to stay an extra two days or go home tomorrow. We didn’t and so we did. 
   Sintra loomed. But our first challenge was to get through dinner without any further breakage. We were almost there, and then came the moment of slightly bumping a coffee table that held my glass of white. 
   Turned out wine glasses were approximately $3.00 to replace.

*Run Pass Option