Sintra and the Football World Cup Finals

After reading the responses on my previous posts I came to the conclusion that people don’t want stories about drugs and aimless walks anymore. Maybe in the ‘60s or the ‘70s that was exactly the selling point for a blogger, who would have to curve his posts on paper, put them in a bottle and throw it in the sea (actually by this method you can access as many readers as most bloggers have). This is 2010, and people want practical advice like power plug types, voltage levels and airplane ticket bargains. They don’t care about your photoshoped iPhone pictures, they would be as pleased with a few cart-postal pictures of the main sites, the ones you can find everywhere else. I’m pissed with you people, and that’s why I decided to punish you, by going to such a boring place as Sintra and writing about it. Actually, the reasons I'm going are not that clear, but we will come to that later.

The town of Sintra, Portugal.

Sintra is a nice village a few minutes by train from Lisbon, so I had the opportunity to use a train in this country as well. It stoped to some Lisbon districts, like Benfica (If you are not a football fun, this name won’t ring a bell - and by football I refer to the sport most people on the globe call “football” - since it is played mostly with feet and a ball: foot-ball, get it?). While at the train, I wondered why I’m going to Sintra. Maybe my friend, who is sitting next to me, knows the answer.

- Dude, why are we going to Sintra?
- I though it was your idea!
- Why should I suggest to go to a place I didn’t even know it exists?
- Is this rhetorical?
- Dude, I’m telling you, I didn’t suggest Sintra or any other place. The first time I ever heard about this was this morning, when you said “OK, get ready, we are going to Sintra”.
- Yes, but I thought we planed that yesterday, when you said “hey, let’s go to Sintra tomorrow”.

Was that true? I had to find out.