Portugal: The Final Lap

Yesterday was, in technical terms, a bit of a dud travel day. We woke up from another blessedly solid night of sleep (yes, we still count those like lottery wins) and packed for our grand return to Lisbon. Everything was lining up beautifully: the driver was punctual, the seats plush, Joni was well-fed, well-rested, and cooing like a cherub. What could possibly go wrong?

About ten minutes into the drive, disaster struck. For the first time in her young life, Joni unleashed the fury of Mount Vesuvius… in liquid vomitous form. The car became a biohazard zone. Luckily, our driver was also a dad, so within seconds, the vehicle morphed into a triage unit as three adults sprang into coordinated crisis response: one cleaning, one soothing, and one dry-heaving slightly in the corner (names withheld). Order was restored, morale shaken but not broken, and the rest of the drive proceeded without incident.

We arrived in Lisbon, rehydrated our spirits with naps, and rallied for our grand culinary finale: Fifty Seconds by Rui Silvestre, a Michelin-starred temple of fine dining named after the length of the elevator ride to its sky-high perch. From the moment we stepped out into the dining room, surrounded by panoramic views of the Tagus River and a symphony of waitstaff who moved like synchronized swimmers, we knew we were in for something special.  

Each dish was a miniature work of art, a blend of science, poetry, and wizardry. A “Bloody Oyster” that tasted like Poseidon’s own blood Mary martini. Blue Lobster with harissa that flirted with danger but never crossed the line. Shrimp with Thai spices that were cooked to perfection. Caviar-topped tuna, citrus spheres that popped like fireworks, and desserts that made us question everything we thought we knew about hazelnuts and cranberries. Every plate looked like it was engineered in a futuristic laboratory where flavor is a religion and spoons are sacred relics. 

When we descended from the heavens (literally and metaphorically), we returned to find Joni awake and waiting, clearly wondering why we were late for her second bedtime story. We tucked her in, grateful, exhausted, and mildly intoxicated on truffle foam and parent pride.

The next morning came too soon, but we squeezed in one last heroic hotel breakfast before attempting a redemption tour of Lisbon’s missed sights. Jerónimos Monastery was, tragically, sold out (we admired it from a distance like true pilgrims of procrastination), so we strolled along the waterfront, craning our necks at the Monument to the Discoveries,  and made a final stop at the Lisbon Cathedral, a towering, echoing beauty that somehow still smelled faintly of incense and history.  

After a well-earned nap, it was time to head for the airport. Joni handled the Lisbon-to-London leg like a pro, snoozing half the way in my arms, then demanding full attention and entertainment for the other half. The seats were… let’s say “ergonomically humbling.” My knees met the seat in front of me in ways that will haunt my chiropractor for years. But we made it, breezed through customs thanks to Joni’s weaponized charm, and collapsed into our London hotel beds.

Tomorrow, the long flight home awaits, one final test in the saga of Portugal with a Baby. But tonight, as we drifted off, we couldn’t help but feel grateful. For the meals, the messes, the Michelin stars, and the memory of a trip that somehow balanced chaos and beauty, just like life with Joni.