Lizzie Feneck, the lone traveller

Today’s Friday, the day Lizzie flew back to London, if my memory fails me not. 

We met her last week Thursday night, Humberto and I did. We were out for the night to Catacumbas Jazz Bar (the word we could not remember or believe it was right was… «catacombs», Lizzie. Ha, ha, ha!).

 

While we were having our first drinks, she sat on the next table, her profile facing us. As she was unaware of being observed, her face was relaxed thus showing her beautiful Greek-like profile. I wanted to take her photo, maybe having in mind that I didn’t take Stacy’s. And so I asked for her permission, she granted it promptly with a broad smile. Big mistake. Lizzie became naturally self-aware and all the photos I took of her profile during the night failed to capture the first impression.

I remembered that I'd just written To travel by oneself. I questioned her on this. She was travelling alone after all and she was a woman. The perfect person to comment on it. One thing led to another and we invited her over to our table, she gently accepted — and Mr. Manuel, the bartender, thanked me for it when I went to get us a new round of drinks: the table Lizzie just freed meant more satisfied customers.   

 

She told us that her friend who was supposed to come with her went to Cornwall instead, that it was a matter of coming to Lisbon alone or not at all. That it was fine to travel alone. That her sister told her to be careful for she was nice to people. That she trusts her judgement on people* to keep out of trouble. That she spoke such a fine English so that we could understand her. That a Portuguese friend of hers living in London and originally from Oporto** gave her excellent tips on what to see, what to experience. That she’s twenty-six. An anthropologist, a teacher to be. That her blood was infused with Maltese (hence the Greek look!), French and English genes. That her family name is Fenech and was adapted to the English language. That she’s originally from the Midlands, Yorkshire, close to Sheffield, a small town on hilly ground. That her grandfather was a fighter-pilot for the RAF during World War II. That she doesn’t like her difficult to comb mid-Mediterranean curly hair. Nor does her hairdresser. That she developed a taste for living close to the sea, close to water, and that the first thing she looked for in Lisbon was for the river, where it was. 

 

The good conversation was interrupted by not a bad band, beer kept dulling my mind, every so often I was unable to listen to all she and Humberto were talking about. This is what I can remember now from our meeting last week.

And to end this, I’m sorry, Lizzie, to have forgotten to invite you for a dinner afterwards. Humberto forgot about it too. (We were close to our end of the month financial stress, if you know what I mean). Thank you for the lovely company. We await for your good news, the tale of the adventures you got into here in Lisbon.

______________

* C’mon, woman. You spent the night with us. Doesn’t that show you how wrong your judgment can be?

** Damn it, Lizzie! The town’s name is Porto, «o» is the definite article, why don’t you correct that long lasting mistake? Too many wine bottle labels would have to be changed?