Ask not for whom that bell tolls

Managed to get some sleep, but the boat is a little more animated of a night than it is during the day. At one stage of the night, my bladder revolted – and I had to make my way from the far end of the boat, around the table, and to the “heads”, which is what we nautical types like to call the toilet. Admittedly, the journey from mattress to “heads” was only about 4 feet, but it meant contorting my body and bending my neck, things at which I am not necessarily the best at 3am. At this time, I also discovered I am not best at trying to back myself onto a toilet when I cannot fit through the door. (Mrs. Ottawacker couldn’t really fit through it herself without doing a yoga pose – I think it was paschimottanasana, the double leg forward stretch – so it had nothing to do with excess weight, before you jump to any wild and illogical assumptions). This meant I had to do one of several things. Either I had to move all the boards that protected us from the wind and spray, climb up the ladder, make my way to the blockhouse of the Gulag Archipelago, and pee; or, I had to move all the boards that protected us from the wind and spray, climb up the ladder, and pee off the side of the boat; or, I had to lift up the toilet lid, take careful aim, and pee from outside the room being used as the “heads”. Well, what would you have done? Exactly. My bladder was far too full to contemplate the first two options, so Operation Wild Fire it had to be. Unfortunately, by this time, I had woken up Mrs. Ottawacker, who had still been sleeping next to Ottawacker Jr. in the sort of cardboard box-sized hole behind the ladder. And, as I was standing there in the pitch black, swaying gently as the Tagus flowed underneath the boat, hand on todger, trying to direct my stream of recycled wine into the eggcup-sized toilet in the next room that served as a direct conduit to the river, I was severely shocked to have a torch shone into my face and be addressed in rather unbecoming terms.
 
“What in the name of God do you think you are doing?” she said.
“Shh…Don’t wake up Ottawacker Jr.”
“Don’t you shush me – have you any idea how much noise you are making?”
“Well, I was just… and then I couldn’t… and, and – oh, for God’s sake let me finish.”
“And who is going to clean up the bathroom after you’ve ‘finished’?”
“It’ll be fine,” I said.
“Fine?" she said. "You can’t hit a toilet when you’re standing directly over it, how do you think you’re going to manage from three feet away?”
 
That last bit was a bit below the belt, I thought. So, I harrumphed, finished up, washed my hands in the dollhouse-sized sink we were using, and said “I’ll clean up any mess. Not that there will be any.”
“My God,” she said. “It’s like travelling with Mr. Bean.”

Somehow, I managed to get back into the space being used as my bed, and lay there for a while contemplating the injustice of it all.
 
The morning, when it finally broke, was warm and sunny. I had a sheepish look into the “heads” and found to my surprise it was rather clean; this may have contributed to an air of smugness. Certainly, when we climbed out of the boat, mustering on the jetty to stretch and then go for a shower, Ottawacker Jr. felt obliged to comment that he was pleased I had slept well. And more than a little surprised.
 
“I thought mum would wake you up,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“She was banging around with a mop for about 10 minutes,” he said. “She kept on tutting and saying ‘oh, for God’s sake’. Are you sure you didn’t hear her?”
 
My smugness disappeared pretty quickly.
“Er, no,” I said. “I didn’t.”
 
It seemed I had to intensify my efforts at mollification – so I rather quickly suggested that we pay a visit to the nearby Jerónimos Monastery, which had been one of Mrs. Ottawacker’s must-do things, and which we hadn’t yet managed (primarily on account of the size of the queues of Chinese tourists snaking round the building). I’ve nothing against Chinese tourists – it was just that they had all decamped en masse from the cruise ship in Belém and were going exactly where I wanted to go. But, I figured I needed to up my game a little to make up for the previous evening, so I was sure I could stand in line for an hour or so. Or two.
 
Anyway, wait we did. And it wasn’t too bad. In fact, once inside the massive monastery, you hardly saw other people. What a spectacular place it is. The cloisters were unbelievable, and the grounds were just as nice. You had to hand it to the monks, they sure as hell knew how to live. Despite the throngs, the whole place exuded this sense of peace; the walls were calm and, if walls can be, serene. The three of us wandered around for a couple of hours, poking our heads into little corners, pointing out the lines of beauty we kept on seeing; it really was a stunning edifice. And, even better, by the time we left, Mrs. Ottawacker was once again smiling. By the way, kudos to the Portuguese. The entrance fee to this UNESCO heritage site was 12€ per person. But, if you went in as a family, the fee was the same. This meant it cost us 4€ each to get in. I look at what a simple museum ticket costs per person in Ottawa, and want to scream. Privileged museum access, free parking everywhere, beautiful buildings, fantastic transit system to get around – the new world has so much to learn from the old.
 
After the monastery, we wanted to go to the Castelo de São Jorge. We’d made an abortive attempt yesterday, when we got off the bus early to see an advertised exhibition about St. Anthony’s birthplace and couldn’t be arsed going any further up the hill afterwards. This time, under Rain Man’s guidance, we made it to the top. The whole area around the castle is fantastic: old, narrow streets, all running into each other, all lived in. Real life mingling in with history, both happily thriving side by side. We thought about queuing up to get a ticket to enter the castle, then thought better of it. So, we walked and walked instead, eventually opting to climb the Torre da Igreja do Castelo de Sao Jorge, a church tower with reputedly the best views of the city (see extras, somewhere in there). I’m not the best with heights, but decided to go up with Ottawacker Jr. (In addition, the entrance fee provided you with a free beer, so I couldn’t miss that opportunity.)
 
As you climb the stairs, you arrive in a narrow corridor that leads out to the small, square view point. And there is a bell. And next to the bell, written in several languages, is a sign. And the sign says “DO NOT RING THE BELL”. And the bell is large. And the bell attracts your attention. And when the bell rings, it warns of tsunamis and earthquakes and fire. And the boy went up to the bell. And the boy rang the bell. And his father leapt across the small, square view point and hugged the bell, so the tolling of the bell would not summon police and fire brigade and helicopters and special forces and, quite probably, Beetlejuice. And the bell was quiet. While I stood there, hugging the bell, there was a kind of horrified silence from the other people on the parapet, all of whom appeared to be staring at me. I looked at Ottawacker Jr., and asked him, very, very calmly, why he had, despite the large notice next to it saying not to ring the bell, in fact, rung the bell.
 
“I didn’t see it,” he said.
 
After 2-3 minutes, I felt emboldened enough to let go of the bell. I’m not sure if time was still standing still, but nothing seemed to have happened. Maybe we had got away with it. Pausing only to grab the boy by the collar, we went down the stairs of the tower in double quick time, and ran out of the building to where Mrs. Ottawacker was sitting. My entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat.
 
“Did you hear the bell,” she asked? “I wonder what that means?”
 
We decided to leave the area as quickly as we could. By the time we had made it down to the Alfama district, I had calmed down a little, and we stopped for a bite to eat. And a couple of drinks. Then, Ottawacker Jr. took us back to the boat by a most circuitous route.