Image of my brain

It starts like any other addiction: a quick voyage into an unknown world. Maybe your friends are all doing it, and they’ve goaded you into trying it. Maybe you saw it on TV and it looked incredibly cool. I can’t tell you why we start, and I can’t tell you how to stop. My name is Brandy Bell, and I am a travel addict.

I’ll never forget the moment I knew I was hooked on travel. At the top of  The Holy Monastery of Rousanou in Meteora, Greece. I looked down over a valley of houses, farms and winding country roads. The cold wind whipped around me, making the weeping willows sway their long limbs, beckoning me like a siren to come closer.  I looked left and right, and seeing no one paying attention, I went closer to the willows. Just behind them I saw an interesting looking room, which was boarded up. Aha! I snuck over, and put my face against the barred window- I strained my eyes to see what was in the room and in between blinks, the face of a monk appeared 3 inches away- on the other side of the bar.

“What are you doing here?” He asked me in Greek. Busted. “I just wanted to see what was over here. I’m very sorry” I replied in my undoubtedly American accented Greek. This was enough to soften him up, and he allowed me to peer into the room by lighting a candle for me. The room was shelved floor to ceiling on all four walls, and the dusty wooden shelves were covered in skulls of former priests. I later found out the living monks currently use the room to feel at one with those who came before them.

My eyes went wide, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I quietly thanked the priest and floated away. A simple moment like that, that I cannot translate to the language of words, had me on fire from the inside out. What other magical little corners of the world are waiting for me? I was high. I  I stayed high until I came home lovely California, and then the withdrawals hit.

Back at home, I began printing out hundreds of photos, covering my walls in my trip,  rereading my journal daily and talking incessantly with Karlie, my travel partner. I was doing anything to get myself back to that wonderful peak that I couldn’t reach again at least, not until the next time the wheels left the tarmac and I was on my way to Turkey. Since then, it’s been a downward (is it opposite day?) spiral of never ending travel benders.  Nothing compares to the head spinning, heart pounding, blood pumping high of strapping on the pack and walking out the door. Where am I going? Doesn’t matter- let’s just get on with it.

I can’t help thinking about the next place I will travel to. I literally spend so much time fantasizing about travel each day it has become a problem. Sometimes I forget what country I am actually in because I am so absorbed in my mental travel. One minute I am washing dishes in my Madrid flat, the next minute I am in the cloud forest of Panama, on the trail of death looking for poison frogs to finish my dart project. I part the branches of the forest and start scanning the foliage for signs of movement, the ground beneath me is wet, so wet I can feel it soaking my feet. Dear God, that’s actually my sink overflowing because I am daydreaming again! Hello, reality- we meet again.

This weekend I went shopping, but I wasn’t there to buy anything. I was simply looking at the bottom of everything and inside all the clothing. What? Why? Because I am searching for a “made in” tag or imprint. “Made in Vietnam” oooh, I bet Vietnam is great. I wonder what kind of clothing they wear in Vietnam. “Made in China” Ooooh China! I want to go there too, the Great Wall… hmm. “Made in Turkey” OOOH Turkey. Then I start googling pictures of Vietnam, reading blogs of people who are in China, Kazakhstan.. you name it, I’m reading about it. Then the real evil ugly part of the addiction comes in. NEED.

I don’t simply want to visit now, I NEED to. There is no logic, no reasoning, and nothing that can stand in the way of what I feel I now need. A fiend on the hunt for their next fix, I can think of nothing but the next destination… not even finishing this post.

Nuevo Mundo

In case you live under a rock or only through your television, yesterday was October 15th, 2011- Global (R)Evolution Day. Spurred on by the Arab Spring, Spanish Summer, and American Autumn the whole world united in marches, peaceful (WTF Roma?) demonstrations, and a general outcry of discontent.

Along with an estimated 500,000 in the heart of Madrid I stood holding my bright yellow sign. In large red letters “First they IGNORE you. Then they LAUGH at you. Then they FIGHT you. Then YOU WIN! -Gandhi” on the other side the message was more concise. “Juntos creamos un nuevo mundo” (Together we are creating a new world).

For hours we stood in Puerta de Sol chanting along with the people of my city, my world “que no! que no! que no nos representan!” (no! no! they don’t represent us!). The demonstration was organized by people giving of their time, their precious little resources, and giving all their emotion and energy to forward a movement that is bigger than all of us. United we stood against a global system that is hurting its people more than it is helping them.

Marches were organized at various corners of the city beginning earlier in the day, with the destination being the Puerta de Sol- the center of Madrid. As each group entered Sol bearing their banners, signs, anonymous masks, and drum beats, we who waited for them cheered on our support and joined in chants, growing ever louder by the minute as more people flooded into the square. The excitation was palpable, and as hundreds of thousands assembled at 8pm we all sat and patiently waited for the main activities to begin.

At 8:30 on the dot the flash mob began. Tens of thousands in the center of the square laid on the ground, overlapping each other. The older lady next to me rested her head on my shoulder, I laid against the people behind me. A human woven mat, suspended in silence. As we were all pretending to be dead, I couldn’t help but think of the people who literally laid down their lives in unnecessary wars, that moment of silence was for them. The poor people who have been sacrificed for the almighty dollar, which is not being used to benefit those they left behind.

Can you hear us now?

After our moment of silence, we came to our knees, with our hands clasped behind our head we remained there again for a moment of silence. As my palms sweat and my heart pounded in my chest, I felt the hearts of those beside me pounding in unison. Blood pumping for change, for a world we want to live in, a world we can live in.

Then with our manos arriba (hands in the air) we shook our hands in a silent scream as the orchestra started up with Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. As the music began, piped through speakers resting atop metro exits resounding through Sol, the expressive dance portion of the protest began on a small stage. I fear my worlds fail me in describing the beauty of this act. Trust me and spend 3 minutes and 4 seconds of your life to view this. Even if you don’t agree with us, you can’t deny the creativity and talent displayed.

Two young men dressed in top hats and suits with money pinned to their clothes held the reins of six working class people. Men dressed in construction uniforms, sanitation uniforms, and the women with their eyes taped over, their mouths taped over in silence danced blindly and seemingly happy while under the firm hand of the bankers. As the crescendo approached, they removed their blindfolds- opening their eyes and following the nooses around their necks back to the hands which are controlling them. With a firm grace, they removed themselves from the nooses and the bankers stepped down. The scales of justice and an hourglass of time were held in the air and the crowd cheered as they danced peacefully until the end of the song.

The screams, chants, clapping and roar of the crowd in their appreciation and enthusiasm was just as heartening as the dance itself. I looked to my left at the octogenarian who was clearly in physical pain from sitting on the cobblestones for so long, and she had tears in her eyes. I took her hand and squeezed it, realizing the tears in her eyes were mirrored in my own.

After the demonstrations, a friend and I walked the streets to her house. Seeing no reason to put my sign away, I walked down the street with the sign held high over my head. Through the sea of people I received many thumbs ups, applause, and heartfelt smiles. This rapidly changed as we moved away from the center of town into the more posh, affluent area of town. My sign was met with jeers, looks of confusion, and ultimately I was stopped by an older gentleman who said with barely disguised disgust “no. you will not create a new world”. I wish I could say I kept walking, but my indignation took over. “No sir, your generation created this world, and my generation WILL CHANGE IT! It’s our turn to live in the world we want!” Behind me, several women clucked their tongue at the sign and walked away in their extravagant fur coats. Enjoy your comfort now ladies- change is coming.

Super bummed you missed your chance to stand up for a new world? It’s not too late. Get involved in your area. Spend 5 seconds sharing the above video- spread the word. The news might not be televising what we are doing, but you have the power of social media. Stumble relevant articles, Facebook your friends, Tweet about it.

Ignorant comments will not be approved, this is a place for growth and change, not the stagnancy of hate.

Except for this hateful comment I have: Bank of America, go directly to Hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

I even have plants!

Well there’s no denying that I’ve neglected you, readers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

I’ve just been hard at work. Actually, that’s a lie- I’ve simply been enjoying my life and you can’t fault me for that.

What have I been doing you ask? Establishing a non nomadic life. A life with books, furniture, and other stationary objects. A life with clothes that don’t get crammed into a backpack and strewn on fences to dry. No, my clothes get hung in a (DOUBLE!) closet on wooden hangers.

Mostly I spend my days acting as slave to a 4 pound cat named Sabah, who did not come with the flat, but weaseled her way into my heart and life. When I’m not doing that, I am:

Taking Spanish lessons to prevent my sloppy grammar – which in turn made my English grammar plummet.
Watching two beautiful boys grow, learn and develop personalities before my eyes. I have the best “job” in the world.
Turning a room mate into a great friend.
Swimming. Walking. Traveling. Bitching about the rain.
The most monumental thing I have done, nay, that I am still in the process of doing- is writing my first novel for publication.

What’s it about you ask? Great question… With countless suggestions to put my travel experiences into a book, on May 1st- my 26th birthday I went to the store and bought fourteen lined notebooks. Enough room for 100,000 words written by my own hand. I wrote the second chapter (I don’t believe in first things first) and left the obnoxious stack of books on the coffee table. There they sat for one month, taunting me- daring me. Do it Brandy, just write it all down and give it away. It’s just words… come on, write me. Alright, I will.

31,500 words (and a hell of a lot of pens, tears, and cafes) later and this book isn’t exactly a travel memoir yet. It’s mostly just the scribblings of an unquiet mind. I’m discovering one has to write a WHOLE lot of absolute and utter trash until one day brilliance creeps into your wrist and bleeds itself out all over the page. Those are the minutes I wait for, those are the sentences you’ll read.

I can’t promise you that this book is going to have you laughing your ass off. I can’t promise you this book will have you sobbing into your pillow that you hug at night. I can’t promise you anything other than the fact that this book will be 100% Brandy Mother Effin Bell- what more could you want?

Be patient with me… but don’t forget about me.

Peace & Laughter.

The One

Nothing can explain the way I feel when I see the golden sun sweep over the heavy grape vines of October in California’s central coast. There aren’t words poetic enough to explain the tranquil beauty of the gorgeous Pacific waves crashing on our shores. No foreign place will ever make my heart sing the way it does when I wrap my arms around my best friend in our home town. So why am I getting on a jet plane in 17 days? More importantly, why are all my belongings in a suitcase?

Because I am moving to Madrid, Espana! (Spain, for all my white peeps out there) Why? Why not? I’ve never been an English teacher before. I’ve never lived in a city of 4 million people. I’ve never lived in a country where English was not the first language. I can guarantee I will learn something new every single day. I know it won’t be easy- I am prepared for it to be uncomfortable at first. I know there will be days when I want to curl up into a ball and hide in my flat and watch English television all day. I also know that I will be smarter and stronger at the end of this experience. Like my old friend Winston Churchill said “To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often”. (Not that perfection is what I am expecting of this experience, cause that would just be boring.)

When I close my eyes, I see the cobblestone streets of Madrid- I see people walking their dogs in the morning and rolling their shop doors shut in the afternoons for siesta, I see elderly couples holding hands in Retiro Park, and I see myself breaking my ankle wearing Euro shoes. (Seriously, how DO they do it?) I want that to be my reality, except for the ankle breaking thing.

So to all my dear friends and family on the Central Coast, THANK YOU for the hugely warm welcome home- I hope to return the favor to each one of you in my new home- Madrid! (okay, not EVERYONE is invited to Madrid, just the special people.) I know I’ve been slacking on the blog, but I kinda have been planning a trans continental move… so gimme a break. I promise many life updates and to keep the travel bug alive and well.

Wish me luck!

Sometimes, this is how it feels

Anyone who’s had a backpack strapped to their back for several months and lived like a pauper on the streets abroad, this article is for you. You know who you are: the sweaty, dirty, often exhausted, sunburned and hungry ones. The ones who try to live in each country like it’s their own, who take a bite of culture so large it’s sometimes hard to swallow. Who feel the change inside themselves with every country they enter, and feel a small part of their heart break with each country they leave.
How do we keep it up? When the pack comes off and the work clothes go back on, how do we keep the good things we’ve found and cultivated in ourselves alive?
How do you possibly explain to your friends and family the deep and permanent changes you have undergone?
How do you recreate the small gestures of kindness from people that moved you to tears, but cannot be put into words?
How do you explain how the poorest people you have ever met have the richest lives of anyone?
More importantly, how do we resist molding back into our old lives once we’re back “home”?
The cell phone and internet tethers, the status items: cars and homes, the retail therapy to fill voids in our soul, the expensive dinners to socialize with people we don’t love, and general superficilaity.
Is it possible, or do you have to adjust to EVERY country you are in, including your own?
I know what I want. I want a simple life with a clean home, water I can drink, friends that are family, someone to love and trust, and eventually healthy and happy children. No more, no less.
I feel that coming back to America this would be looked at as “ambitionless”. I don’t want to live to work anymore. I want to work to support my life. I don’t want the job title, I want only the satisfaction of doing a good job for someone. I don’t want a car. I want to take the time to walk where I need to go, to be alone with my thoughts and myself. I don’t want a house full of expensive things that mean nothing to me. I want to be surrounded by photos of memories and the people I love. I don’t want to waste money on alcohol and gourmet foods, I want to save money to give to those who have less. I want to be the person I am abroad while I am home… but I don’t know how to keep this integrity to myself.
Travel friends, how do you do it? Do you find yourself compromising after time, or are you puritans? I’m curious to hear from everyone, really. Help a girl out.

Simple Life, Pure Pleasures

Okay, I don’t have anything else that starts with W, but who isn’t a fan of alliteration? Today, I got a message from a friend asking about the trip (yeah, Jen!) ” How has this experience changed you, the way you think, who you are?”. All my travel friends know you ask yourself these same questions many times on the road. Whether it be at 3am on the overnight bus when the driver is playing a Spanish backstreet boys CD on repeat, sitting on a camel wondering if you’ll ever be able to stand up straight again, or getting 2nd degree burns swimming in the rivers of Africa- these are the questions that come into your mind- well at least they pop into my head at these convenient times.

How has this changed me? The most noticeable difference to myself: I’m more patient. Living my life in the “now society” where I can get movies on demand, where Google has the answer to every question I can think, where my cell phone is a permanent extension of my hand, and where people take the time to update their Facebook status with “Suzie Q is shopping at Target” I was highly accustomed to getting what I want, when I want it, how I want it. The world was Burger King and I was going to have it my way, damnit.

However, last night I took an overnight bus that was supposed to take 8 hours, it wound up taking 14 and I had a chicken on my lap for 3 hours and then held someone’s dirty sleeping, sweaty child for the remainder of the trip. The funny part? I didn’t mind. Okay, I wasnt THRILLED when the chicken decided to shit on my lap, but hey- what choice did it have? The patience comes second nature to me now, it’s just how life is. But there are other things that require a daily practice on my part: self denial & understanding my wants versus needs.

I used to be spoiled – granted I spoiled myself but nevertheless, I did not want for much, if anything. Now I face the daily battle of: Do I need this to live- to survive? I will gladly walk 2 miles to save 50 cents on oranges, hitch a ride to save 3 dollars on a bus, and drink tap water to save money on bottles (even if it wreaks temporary havoc on my body). Practices I used to look down on and call “cheap” in a derogatory manner (hey, I’m bein honest here) are now my motto. But why? Not because I don’t have the money. I come from one of the richest places on this planet*, I spend more money on an airline ticket to travel for leisure than most people make in 6 months. I am lucky, I am spoiled even when I want for what I consider to be basic.

Preparing a salad in Portugal I was stopped mid-slice by a woman who put her hand on mine, and told me to stop wasting. I was shocked, hurt, and even offended. “Waste? I’m not wasting- I’m cutting an apple!” She picked up the pieces of the apple that I had put into the compost bin and said “this is food, we eat this” and proceeded to cut off around 1 Tablespoon of edible apple. I scoffed. “It’s not really that much waste” I defended. She looked at me with what can only be described as disappointment and I understood immediately. “Not that much waste” to me, was more than she could afford. This is a small example of how little the concept of waste registered on my brain. Now, I try to be much more thoughtful in my actions and evaluate everything for what is usable and what is actually waste.

Clearly I could write for days on how I’ve changed in my heart, my mind, and my soul,  but my favorite thing that has happened during this trip is a feeling of unity with the people of the world. I am able to understand and identify with so many different cultures and mannerisms, regardless of the language spoke, the religion practiced or the color of their skin. I feel a true citizen of the world, and I am consumed with the journey to continue to learn more about the people I share this planet with.

*Dear American friends, I know the country is in a recession and many people have lost their jobs due to no fault of their own and are struggling to make ends meet, but I can’t lie to you. We are rich and take for granted things most people will never have in their lives. Please remember this before leaving a comment to the effect of how poor you are because you can’t make your car payment. Respectfully.

Thorns in the Sane

From the very greeting “Asaalam Aliekum” which literally means “peace be upon you” to the genuinely warm hospitality and love that everyone in the country seems to possess in abundance, this is a country driven by love and respect. Morocco does for my heart what Greece does for my soul, and for me, that’s saying something.
In the city there was a man with no arms or legs. He obviously had no means of making money, so every day his neighbor would carry his stump of a body  (there really is no other way to put it) to the main street where he would wait for passersby to give him a coin or two. I hid in an alleyway across from him and watched for 20 minutes. Nearly every Moroccan who passed tossed in money, some stopped to fan him because of the heat, some tilted his head back and poured their water into his parched mouth, some simply put their hand over their heart and smiled warmly at him. The communal sense of responsibility for every soul is a recurring theme in Morocco, and deeply embedded in most people you meet.
Food and hospitality in Morocco is a serious business. Spending only 3 days in Fes I was invited to dinner over 20 times and always told to come early so that I could learn to cook traditional Moroccan dishes. Moroccans love to eat, and the food is always very flavorful and plentiful. I have never seen food go such a long way as in this country. You might prepare dinner for 4 people, and wind up having 8 people to dinner yet there is always enough food.
As one Moroccan friend told me “Everyone in this country is my brother, and we must always share. Food that is for one person will be for two or three, because this is love.” Words and actions like this cause my heart to want to explode out of sheer happiness. These monetarily poor people have more love and kindness in their country than I could ever dream of.

Marrakech Square

Walking down the street with a friend of mine in Marrakech, he stopped to buy a cigarette at a cigarette stand. (Side Note: Cigarette stands are cardboard boxes manned by people who sell individual cigarettes for 1 dirham, the equivalent of 10 cents. Most people are too poor to buy a pack a time) Immediately after lighting the cigarette, someone tapped him on the back and said a few words. My friend handed over the cigarette and we walked on. I asked what that was about, and my friend said “oh, he wanted my cigarette”. “Was that a friend of yours?” “No, I’ve never seen that man in my life!” The normalcy of that interaction kept me thinking for hours. I couldn’t imagine that happening anywhere else in the world. “Hey Stranger, can I please have your only cigarette?” is likely to be met with a few choice words if not simply a “no”.
Of course, this is not to blindly glorify the country. Like every other place on this fantastic planet, Morocco has its share of problems. For tourists, the main problem is the hustle of the country. It seems like everyone is a guide, and you’re in luck- their uncle also has a carpet shop and can make you “very special price, friend price!”. Walking by souks you are sure to be barraged by “hello, where you from? please, come look only, no buying, just looking…. please, my friend, come drink tea and look. no buy”. Through some Moroccan magic you inevitably leave with a lighter wallet and a purchase you didn’t exactly plan for.
If you happen to be a solo female traveler (good for you) then it’s going to be even double the harassment. “You are so beautiful, I want to marry you. How many camels? Really, now I call my father. How many camels?” “Please! Please girl, I want to make you very special massage, Berber massage, with the Argan oil. Please, I make massage on you for free- like friend. you don’t worry” and it goes on and on. Of course, that’s also part of the charm of the country. People are not shy, they say and do as they please for the most part (within the limits of religion and laws) and make no apologies for being forward.
If you’re thinking about a trip to Morocco, do your research. Make sure that if you’re visiting during Ramadan you’re informed and prepared. While I cherish this country, I know it’s not for everyone- most people get sick, can’t stand the heat, hate the harassment and don’t like being taken for a monetary ride. While those are all very real concerns, there is something so magical and captivating about this country that I wish I could mail a small part of it to everyone I know and watch their souls bloom.

The people are as strong and sweet as the hot mint tea they are pleased to pour for you. The food is flavorful and fresh, and always served with love. The best part about Moroccan food? You get to eat with your hands.

Look at the gorgeous tilework of the hamam, and hear the songs of women inside singing while scrubbing and massaging each other, until your eyes begin to burn with the sweat of your own brow and your backpack has melted itself onto your skin.

Only able to think about water. I want water. Now. Water is sold, but it is Ramadan and it’s impossibly rude to drink cold water in front of thousands of thirsty, fasting, incredibly hot people. So I keep walking – looking for a sign of the riad I am supposed to be staying in. Swat away the flies around your feet only to learn its sweat from your legs dripping down your ankles.

Ah, the smell of the berber crepe, look at the hands of the woman stained red from flattening out crepes all day and night, dripping the red oil from her palms onto the dough, and working it into a flat bread of perfection. Just 3 dirham could buy one, but it’s Ramadan, so you keep walking.

Finally to find the Riad, paying a fair price ensures you will not have a fan, but at least you will have somewhere to sleep. Besides, it’s too hot to sleep until 3 or 4am anyways. Take an ice cold shower, scrubbing every inch of your body and hoping to feel clean for the rest of the day. By the time your clothes are back on, you are sweaty again anyways.

If this sounds exhausting to every faculty you have, you have understood- however, it is also amazing and exhilarating. The genuinely warm welcome I have received from strangers, inviting me to their house for breakfast, to their parents house for tea, people who take me by the hand to lead me when I am lost and spray my face with water during the day when I am hot. Morocco is gorgeous, inside and out, and I cannot wait to return to this magical place.

The State that REALLY matters

I have a Canadian flag on my backpack, I won’t lie. I also have a Greek, Mexican, UK, and California seal on my backpack (thanks Laurie, I couldn’t have sewn those myself!). I don’t pose as a Canadian, but I have definitely been tempted to in the previous years of travel. When people guess where I am from, after incorrectly guessing English due to my extreme pale color, I respond with “I’m from California!!”.

I used to be greeted with “ohhh American… Bush” and a kind of stern face.  It made for a few tense moments when I explained that just because I am of the country does not mean I support the actions of our government, and that I am traveling to see the world for myself- typically people warm to that response and do their best to show me JUST how great their country is.
Now, when people ask where I am from (yup, England and Ireland are still the top guesses) and find that I am from USA, they say “OBAMA!” and usually high five me or play “Barack Obama” songs from their phones for me to listen to. I am continually surprised at how many versions of songs about Barack there are in the world, and how many people support the USA as having this leader.
Whether you’re democratic, republican, liberal, green party, purple party (is there a purple party?) or plain old don’t care- what have been your experiences abroad when greeted as a person from the USA? I’m curious to know how many “Barack Obama” songs you have heard- or maybe you’ve had negative reactions? Let me know below!
* I use the term American to describe solely residents of USA here, and completely respect that “American” can be anyone from North or South America.

1) Polite Drivers. Holy crap. I step out onto the street and the cars actually stop, some people wave and say “Bon Dia”… I’m used to dodging cars and running for my life, even if the light is in my favor. This is a refreshing change.

2) Cheap, Strong Coffee. MMMM. A cup of coffee will cost you 55 cents and is strong enough to last you through the day. But at that price, it’s hard to resist having 3 or 4

3) Gorgeous Men. I’m not alone in my admiration of the handsome men of Portugal (Natalie- I know you feel me ) Muscular bodies acquired solely through hard work, and a beautiful tan from the VERY strong sun of Portugal. If you have nothing to do for a day in Portugal just sit back with a beer and admire the scenery!

4) Cheap Beer. A bottle of Super Bock should set you back only 1 euro in a bar (unless you’re going to touristic places, then they’ll take as much money as you’re willing to shell out) and from the supermarket a 33ml runs for 40 cents at the infamous Pingo Doce.

5) The Wine. Oh yeah, you knew this was coming. Delicious Vinho Verde (Again, from the beloved Pingo Doce) will run you from 1 to 3 euros for a full 750mls of tongue pleasing juices. Also, they sell plastic cups that are perfect for enjoying your newly acquired beverages for a very reasonable price, to make you feel THAT much classier. Port wine should run you about 3-7 euros and is obviously going to be great, you’re in Portugal!

6) Palace Lisbon Hostel. Arriving their first night of business, and staying for only 1 euro due to an excellent promotion via HostelWorld (buy the Gold Membership if you plan on staying in hostels, cause the booking fee is total BS) I found the hostel with only 16 beds at the time, but over 20 people waiting to stay. I arrived back 6 weeks later to find the most pimped out hostel you could imagine. Amazing couches, incredibly fast wifi (they even have computers for those backpackers who are still purists!), a huge breakfast spread in the morning with proper coffee, a terrace with views that rival the miradours of the city, great music, brand spanking new beds with super soft linens, and staff so helpful they are like a mini tourist agency! After the walk up the hill to the hostel, you’re quite thirsty, which is perfect, cause they offer a free welcome drink, too! Needless to stay, if you’re coming to Lisbon (and can’t find a couch host via Couchsurfing)- stay with the Palace! Book and tell them Brandy sent you- I won’t get any commission and you won’t receive any special treatment, BUT it will make me feel better

7) The Metro System. It’s such a high security system, the standard hop on sans ticket will NOT work here, so don’t even bother trying- BUT it’s incredibly well laid out and marked.  The tickets only run about 80 centums each way if you’re staying on the same line. Don’t be discouraged by the machines if you don’t speak Portuguese, just watch the person in front of you buy their ticket, and do exactly what they did! If you can’t figure it out, ask the person behind you for help. You will find they are more than wiling to help you buy your ticket so they dont have to stand in line for an hour waiting behing a line of tourists who cant figure out the machines.

Eco Friendliness. The stores are now charging for plastic bags in most areas, and while the fee is modest (2 cents) it is a great encouragement to everyone to bring in or buy reuseable shopping bags. The metro, train, and boat tickets are all rechargeable and offer an incentive for recharging your card versus issuing a brand new one for each voyage. Recycling containers are VERY easy to find and are color coded (with pictures, for non Portuguese speakers) so there is no excuse to combine trash and recyclables!

9) Extremely Polite & Helpful People. When you come to Portugal (because let’s face it, you want to come now) you should learn at least a few pleasantries in the native tongue so you are able to reciprocate the niceties that EVERYONE will greet you with. Passing people on the sidewalk in Lisbon you will typically be greeted with a “Bon Tarde” as you pass. Be a good traveler and learn how to respond! For easy (and free) language tutorials in tons of languages check out www.byki.com and download whatever language you need. Never underestimate the importance of learning even a few phrases, it opens more doors than you can imagine!

Been to Portugal? What did YOU love the most? Leave a comment!
Not been to Portugal yet? Stop dillydallying and buy a ticket, you won’t regret any time spent in this country full of culture and happiness.