At one point in our trip to Lisbon, A and I managed to haul our 30-something asses to a pub crawl. The photo below — and I swear I have no idea how this shot was taken because it seems to be two separate images stitched together by some sort of digital miracle because no way was I sober enough to do something this, uh, “creative” — pretty much sums up how the night turned out.
What started with cheap, overflowing wine and surprisingly intoxicating ginjinha liqueur in my hostel eventually moved on to passion fruit flavoured tequila shots and port wine tonics (not even sure now if they used port anymore) at this practically empty sports bar (it was football night) our pub crawl leader Anna (is that what they call people who lead these pub crawls?) took us to a few minutes after we exited the Baixa Chiado metro (didn’t really take the metro from Alfama but used the station as a short cut to spare us from the inebriated walk uphill), which then led to another bar in a gritty looking alley that definitely had more people (and really good-looking people I might add), dude who looked like Prince Harry telling us about how he found himself waking up to a married woman that morning largely thanks to the pub crawl that happened the night before, after which the night progressed into the first unnameable club in Bairro Alto (I think) where I couldn’t wait to get out of my leather jacket because it was such a drastic change in temperature from the cold night air to the club’s crazy efficient heaters (I remember Versace on the floor and glass breaking at one point), dance dance dance the night away, and still not content but dance dance dance the night away some more in yet another club called Viking that played the songs of my youth (remember thinking about how Amsterdam, and now Lisbon, knew all the good songs!!!), and then and then snapped the photos below and that is pretty much all I can remember and show for as far as Lisbon night life is concerned.
Oh, and apparently drunkenness still didn’t get in the way of my being a germophobe because I managed to take a shower before finally collapsing on bed no. 4 at zero five hundred hours.
No epiphanies in this post, really.
Just your run of the mill, quick, effortful attempt at remembering a fun, crazy blurry night out in Lisbon.