I…can’t turn my back on a pun.

We spent about 22 hours in Lisbon. Topographically, it’s my favorite kind of city: full of hills and near water. Cobblestones, red-tiled roofs, ancient trees. Here are some pictures (click through for more/commentary).

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These were our greeters at the Lisbon Airport metro station.

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The greatest clotheslines in the world.

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...and the best rooftops.

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Especially at sunset.

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I swore I would not pet any stray animals but when I was in the moment I just couldn't help myself. As with many things, I'm more afraid of rabies in the abstract than when I'm actually holding an animal. I will add that this was the only creature I pet during our trip, though, and I had a feeling this cat was associated with our hotel.

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If she had been a stray, she would have had to climb over the castle wall to get into the upstairs courtyard of the hotel. There are, however, two stray feet in this picture.

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My instinct was correct. When we left early in the morning for the airport, the hotel cat, whose name was Sushi, was having a snooze in the breakfast room.

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That's not to say I wasn't tempted by other elegant furry creatures.

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I think this is about the patron saint of wine. That night, I had "green wine" for the first time.

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Church

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Flower boxes

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Beautiful crumbles

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This courtyard smelled so delicious that I was surprised to discover this box is made of fake flowers.

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St. George's Castle

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The castle grounds felt more like a public park.

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Spying into someone's courtyard

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More of the castle

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The castle's resident peacocks

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I was trying to take a picture of the fountain, and so was Marty...

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...but apparently it was shy and turned itself off. I can't stop laughing at his disappointed posture.

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Lisbon's colors and textures are amazing.

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Saramago!

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All of the alleyways were inviting.

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Door #1

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Door(s) #2

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Door...archway #3

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Curves and lines

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I love it when the trees look like villains for a My Little Pony movie.

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Placid pool

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Night scenes

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Every time it rains I get Garbage’s “I’m Only Happy When it Rains” stuck in my head–not a bad thing–but usually with my friend Mikey-Mike’s (I think it was Mikey-Mike, but if not, it was Lincoln) alternate plumber-jingle lyrics, “We’re only happy when it drains,” to which I add “We’re only happy when you’re constipated” (don’t think about that too long…it doesn’t actually make sense as a business model; it just rhymes with “I’m only happy when it’s complicated”).

It’s usually followed by the zombie version, I’m Only Happy When it’s Brains.

I don’t mind this rain. It’s definitely the least offensive thing about this day, and the least ominous.

I haven’t blogged recently because I was in Morocco for two weeks. Part of my time there was in the Atlas Mountains, hiking and sleeping in gites in the valleys. Two of the four days we went up one mountain, down another, up a different mountain, and down that mountain. On the first day, I had a few different things in my head:

1. I don’t even want to print this because it’s totally inappropriate and not even something I ever chanted in elementary school…but lo, attempting not to lose my footing on the gravel that covered the goat trails, next to which was a 75 degree cliff with nary a scrub to cling to, it appeared. Suffice to say that it includes the line “I sit on the steeple and pee on the people.”
2. Amidst the baa-ing of the goats, day two of hiking found the Mario vs. Luigi fight song planted semi-permanently in my brain. You know the one? In Mario 3 for NES, when you’re playing two-player and you hit A at the right time when the other player crosses over you, so that you’re taken to a “battle” during which you try to steal the other plumber’s bonus? See here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1z8tZAyJyo
3. Heart’s “Alone.”

A week later in Chefchaouen, the blue city, I had this part of Enya’s “Book of Days” cycling through. The entire time. Not mad! It was very fitting. https://youtu.be/LiBwr4U59EI?list=RDJl8iYAo90pE&t=17

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Sanitation SVU. That’s the web series I should star in.

At one point last week I had live typhoid vaccine in my fridge and other people’s garbage downstairs inside my door. These are perversely related in the sense that when I touched the anonymous garbage bags (don’t judge; I regret my actions and I undertook them only because I’ve been primed–by trash citations/random assorted trash bags appearing in front of our apartment on days that are decidedly NOT trash day–to panic and lose my sense of reason when I see stranger garbage)…anyway, when I picked up the anonymous garbage bags to take them inside, because I DON’T WANT A TRASH CITATION, some kind of liquid slime got on my hands.

I’m 80% sure it was pee.

So it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I had just started taking the typhoid pills, even if only for metaphorical comfort.

Actually getting the typhoid vaccine was something of a trial. Even though I had a routine physical only a month ago, the doctor’s office wouldn’t write me a prescription for the typhoid pills without me coming in so they could “make sure I was healthy.” The doctor’s office is down the street. I’m there probably too frequently. So I went and sat in the waiting room for an hour, then had a two-minute appointment in which I wasn’t asked a medical question beyond “What are you here for today?”

Anyway. I understand liability. Fine.

But then I went to pick up the typhoid prescription and discovered that they had called in a typhoid SHOT, which the Duane Reade pharmacy definitely does not dispense, rather than the pills.

Try again. Call the doctor the next day…get the expected “she’ll be back in on Monday and can resend the correct prescription then” but fortunately am talking to an extremely reasonable man who, when I tell him I need to start the series of pills that day in order to finish them in time for travel, has someone else call the correct scrip in.

I go to pick the prescription up, armed with my 42% off coupon that I found on the internet.

Oh, says the (very kind and very competent) pharmacist who I had seen the previous day, it seems your doctor called in the prescription…to the Duane Reade down the street. 

Close enough!

The Duane Reade down the street only gave me 20% off but let’s call it a win.

Back to trash:

The store downstairs is very delightful and its owner and I have worked through many small absurdities of renting/apartment living/things breaking together. I know they have security cameras so I ask him for the footage from the night before. I am KEEN to catch the perpetrator of garbage.

He sends me the clips; for some reason, there’s background music to all of them. One definitely shows a woman running up to the (perfectly acceptable) pile of trash in front of the store on the other side–which enjoys commercial trash removal–and depositing her bag there. Later clips, in the middle of the night, show a bag being lifted by the wind and blown down from the store to our curb (this bag was really lightweight…probably because it may have contained ONLY PEE). A third clip shows it blowing around some more until a guy walks by and kicks it squarely onto our sidewalk (fair play to him, as I assume he was just trying to put it in its rightful location).

On Sunday night I went downstairs, 85% vaccinated against typhoid, and kicked the offending bags to the curb, literally. No citation. But now I know that if I ever want to make a short film, all I need to do is go to the front of my apartment and dance for the camera. Someone will add background music later.

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I’m probably just looking for excuses, but I feel like I’m having a hard time writing because I’m spending too much time worrying about getting rabies from a camel.

(Don’t worry. I promise I’m taking this concern with the appropriate level of humor. Or trying to, anyway).

Hear me out, though! The thing about this particular fear is: if I were to be bitten by a dog in Morocco, common sense would dictate that I get rabies shots. Even if it’s a small chance that the dog was rabid. Even if it’s expensive and painful and way less fun than going to a medina or a museum. Most people would agree to class that as a “better safe than sorry” situation.

But if I were to be bitten by a camel, I think the general response would be: huh? Camels don’t tend to carry rabies. What’s that? You have links to articles about a camel rabies epidemic in Sudan? Okay, okay, but we’re in the middle of the desert. It would disrupt everyone’s good time if you decided you needed rabies immunoglobin right now. The chance of this camel having been bitten by a rabid dog is so negligible.

To which everything in me would scream, But the chance of death after contracting rabies is so complete!

*Say what you will about standing up for whatever you think is the right course of action, and I agree in theory, but in practice it’s really difficult to inconvenience people who think that you’re overreacting to an extreme, especially if you know that you do, in fact, have a history of obsessing about disease.

I didn’t get prophylactically vaccinated against rabies before I moved to Thailand and I’m not getting it before I go to Morocco next week, because I don’t think it’s necessary. I managed to live in Bangkok for a year amid tons of street dogs without being bitten, and I’ll definitely do all I can to avoid the pointy mouths of animals when I travel this time…as I do with squirrels and raccoons in my everyday life. Also, getting pre-exposure vaccination doesn’t mean you don’t still have to get rabies shots if you end up getting bitten, and the rabies vaccine is absurdly expensive. (The typhoid vaccine, on the other hand, can be had for two digits and with up to 42% off with a coupon you print out online!)

*See! I’m totally rational and circumspect on this issue.

But I’ll be doing my best to save myself any of these dilemmas by: not getting bitten by a camel.

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• Things that always sound good that I later regret:

1. Tripod headstand
2. Almond croissants

Hence I spent the other day with both a headache and a stomachache. If I had done regular headstand and had a plain croissant, everything would have been fine. But tripods and almonds are a higher level of difficulty.

• Speaking about croissants, more than once I’ve gotten the last croissant at my coffee place because I was walking so fast that I overtook the people who then entered the shop after I did…to find that there were no baked goods left for them. I felt proud/petty at that moment, but don’t worry, last week the guy walking down the street ahead of me got the last croissant, so there’s balance in the world.

• The other night I went to see Grandaddy’s record release and the main topic of conversation overhead in the crowd was “I am so old.” “When are they going to start? This soundcheck has been forty minutes.” “I have to go to work tomorrow. Do you think this will end by 11?” It was appropriate given the band name…and the fact that at one point the guitarist sat down on the stage like he was also just kind of tired.

• Before the show I went to eat Kati rolls and the (very young) man at the checkout counter finished his spiel to my friend with “Thank you sir, and now please wait patiently for your order” before turning to me to say, “Welcome to Kati Roll sir, what can I get for you?” Me: “I’ll have one paneer and one…did you call me sir?” Him: “Oh yes ma’am I am sorry. What can I get for you ma’am?” Me: “I don’t mind. Just checking. One paneer and one chana masala, please.” Him: “Thank you for your order maam and now please wait patiently maam and I am sorry for calling you sir.”

I think I may have enjoyed it so thoroughly because it reminded me of the A.M. Homes short story “Do Not Disturb.”

• While I was walking home last week there was a guy behind me talking enthusiastically into his phone along these lines: “So can we get the photo of Jeff Dahmer where it’s full on, and he’s facing front? Or what about the one of him in camo? That one’s great.”

I was torn between thinking he had some really strange profession and wondering if maybe he just had a really unfortunately named coworker, like, Geoff Dommer.

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After several weeks of microwaving and ordering too much grubhub, I have a new stove.

The man who delivered the stove was just–one of those people that you would rate five stars if he was on Yelp. He had a near magical level of resourcefulness, though maybe I’m just easily impressed. First the stove wouldn’t fit through the door, so he took it out of the box. Then he determined that, as one person, he would not be able to carry it up our narrow stairs alone (he assessed my capabilities and did not ask for me to step up). So he just went outside and asked a random man if he wanted to make $20! This takes a combination of people skills, discernment–the man was not so much random in that seemed to find this normal, which the stove guy must have ascertained by sizing him up–and flexible problem solving. The not-really-relevant thing I kept thinking was, “This guy would make an AMAZING production manager.”

Unfortunately, no domestic drama is complete without a little bloodshed, and the man cut his hand on the stove while assisting, then bled all over the burner knobs. (Don’t worry, we tipped them, and the stove guy doubled the man’s compensation for assault-by-stove.)

Fortunately, his cut was minor and only needed one large bandaid.

Unfortunately, after they had moved the old stove out of the way I made a mad dash to vacuum the ten or so years worth of dust and dirt and weird unidentifiable green stuff that had been residing under the stove, and if you have more experience with household appliances than I do, you may realize that the green stuff was actually rat poison.

Fortunately, I found this out when the stove guy commented, “Oh, you got rid of all the rat poison” and could immediately wash my hands.

In short order everything was installed. The new stove was a marvel, and most blessedly has an electric ignitor so we don’t have to watch for rogue pilot lights anymore. The stove guy and his new friend left and my roommate and I sat back to admire the shininess of our acquisition.

Then we realized that…the oven door wouldn’t shut. Like, a one-inch gap where the left side stuck out at an angle. So I ran back down the stairs and out in front of the apartment in my socks (I’m afraid I’m getting a reputation for this) to catch the guy. He came back in, confirmed our concerns. Tried to see if the screws in the door were loose: no. Checked the rubber sealant for any lack of suction. No again. Finally he just pushed on it really hard. And that seemed to do it.

And then, yesterday, when I was doing my Duolingo Russian practice, I received this practice sentence…

So the moral of this story is: yes, your appliances are spying on you.

.

.

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In addition to my Family Feud habit (I’m trying to get my DVR source to record Jeopardy, which I used to play against my dad when I was in high school, both of us sitting on our couch with calculators and arguing about when it was legal to start speaking the answer), I’ve been watching:

Westworld

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

*These are two shows that have zero in common, except for the extremely important quality of knowing exactly what they’re doing and doing it brilliantly.

The Americans – practicing my Russian, and I’m a sucker for anything with spies, unless it’s fallen as far as Homeland.

The Killing – I’m finding this sort of relentlessly bad but I’m still watching it. I guess it’s worth it for Joel Kinnaman saying things like “Why’d your moms kick you outta her canoe?”

The Walking Dead’s dialogue has gotten so terrible that even its best actors are having a hard time saving it.

And for movies:

Passengers, which was a vat of steaming garbage soup.

The Arrival, which was more than solid in its scope and questions–as an alien movie it was average but as a discussion of language and time it was above–but definitely gets a boost when it’s being directly compared to Passengers. Or even just juxtaposed in a list.

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I’m the seven dwarves of mild sickness today: sneezy, sniffly, sleepy, hazy, dopey, snotty, and…okay, even with redundancy (I guess I could get really redundant and add snuffly or snoozy) I can’t come up with seven truly legitimate offerings. Should have gone with “The four horsemen of mild illness.”

I don’t think I’ve ever had the flu. This year and last year I got the flu shot, but I don’t think I’ve ever had it regardless, even as a child. Now, the *stomach* flu used to be a Christmas tradition of sorts. One that I don’t miss. Not having had the flu-flu makes me unwarrantedly proud, like I’m immune-superior, but then I remind myself that I’ve had both mono and bedbugs (yeah yeah–bed bugs aren’t a communicable disease in technical terms, but they follow the same type of epidemiological pattern…) and probably shouldn’t count on my luck.

Because I’m going on a trip in March, I may be getting a typhoid vaccination. I’ve had it before, when I was about to move to Thailand for a year, although when I went back to Thailand a few years ago I forgot about typhoid entirely until the night before I left. No harm done, but no harm done in getting it this time.

Maybe my interest (obsession? You be the judge) in vaccination and immunity is related to my interest in epidemiology (or it’s related to OCD…or column a, column b, etc etc). I’m always surprised by how rarely doctors–at least in my experience–ever bring it up. I’m sure that if I had been with my current health center for 10 years, they would have had my booster shots in their system and would have flagged me for needing current ones, but who goes to the same doctor for 10 years? That sounds divine. I didn’t even do that as a child, and there were paper records then, which always seemed to disappear. I knew I hadn’t had any vaccines in recent memory (well, I remembered getting Hepatitis A/B vaccine when it first came out; I was 16 or 17), but my doctor’s office had no way to confirm that, so they tested my immunity titers (a word I love) and it turned out I had no antibodies agains: measles, mumps, rubella, tetanus, diptheria, polio, pertussis, hepatitis A and hepatitis B.

I can’t recall a doctor ever asking me when I had last been immunized (except that they all mention flu shots). Obviously there were no ill effects even though I ride around on the subway all the time where there’s every form of virus and bacteria (did they not find plague on the F train or something?) But I would think that would be a standard question…so public service announcement: TITERS.

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Our stove had a gas leak and has to be replaced. Many things in our apartment seem to be going, whether they’re taking their cues from the atmosphere of the times and deciding enough’s enough or if they were just, you know, all purchased around the same year and are running out of, um…GAS.

Our landlord texted me the phone number for a plumber, which initially baffled me. Wisdom from Dad: “Plumbers also do gas.” This fascinates me. It would not surprise me that someone might go to school for both plumbing and gas, but the fact that they are apparently often twined, and that this is something people know–well, I was not one of those people.

I feel like I’ve written this exact statement before but I’m always fascinated by the varied things that people reach adulthood without knowing. For me, growing up with a gas stove but one with an electric ignitor, the first time I saw pilot lights was cause to call my parents and say “Uh…is there supposed to be a flame that lives under the stove?” (Don’t judge). In my early twenties I once caught a roommate poking around in the toaster–the PLUGGED IN toaster–with a fork, and she was surprised to learn that that was probably a bad idea. That one seemed extreme–“Don’t put metal things in the toaster” seems like it should be taught around the same time as “Don’t touch fire”–but we all have our blind spots.

So, public service announcement: never leave the dryer on when no one is home. Don’t slide down slides with a child on your lap — broken femur! Broken femur! — and definitely don’t swing small children around by their arms (dislocated shoulder! dislocated shoulder!). Using too much Ben-gay can be hazardous (this I learned after posting on Facebook, in jest, that I was marinating my limbs in it).

And this one is an opinion that contradicts official labels but GOOD GOD, man, don’t put anything plastic or partly composed of plastic in the microwave.

*I am excellent fun at parties!

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I’ve read many bizarre things over the past few weeks–it’s hard not to–but this explanation (a loose term) of what’s included and excluded in trip insurance might be the weirdest.

Some choice bits:

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