I left her house receiving the coldest goodbye, a part of me wondering why things changed so abruptly and the other trying to keep a straight face in front of bad turns of the wheel of fortune.
What hurt was the lack of a flashing red light alerting me the trapdoor towards living in the streets was going to be triggered.
But I am still waiting for something before I can leave and have to be patient and wait wait wait, as cheaply and as close as possible to Lisbon - c'est la vie.
No one of the CouchSurfing hosts I contacted said yes, and so off I go finding a place where to sleep for free tonight.
I have to drop weight and the food reserves i have are the easiest target: 1kg bag of rice and half a bag of maccheroni.
A girl at the nearby Hare Krishna shrine tells me that the gods are pleased with the rice bag I offered, but that she cannot accept the bag of dry pasta because it could contain eggs.
The gods guarding the social soup kitchen I visited thereafter were definitely less protein selective.
I took a train towards Sintra, destination picked with very little reasons unless you count wanting to avoid being shanked by downtown Lisbon hobos guarding their turf and the two climbing blogs I found while packing up, mentioning its secluded stealth campsites.
All my belongings fit in two very unmanageable bags, packed with some straps I found at LIDL. They dig deep through my shoulder bones and there is something octagonal in the very middle of one bag that is trying to mate with my spine.
But hey, Sintra - it's like Disneyland for German retirees: mimes, artisans selling crap and pricey buses to tour the palaces within the hills around here.
As I consult a map I hear a boy telling others not to mess with me because I look malouco; little shithead tomorrow hopefully gets bullied at school for being a wimp.
I skip the tourist bullshit and feast in an Indian restaurant, can't beat 1.5€ naan paneer in this money trap.
While suffering because of the weight of my belongings, the comments on my attire of the tourists I pass by start to disappear in a cloud of who cares.
I find out the harsh way that the secluded climbing spot where I am headed to for some stealth camping is a major attraction. This calls for a detournement, I pull a santiagodecompostela and look for a church and the kind people that usually hang around it. They usually don't mind people sleeping on the floor or in the church.
Total failure, I spend 4 hour waiting for a priest that doesn't ever arrive, the semideaf woman I asked to trolled me with a smile and faux infos.
As I resolve to spend the night in the cold by this windy place, the winter tree of a lady passes by and opens a church door.
I wait for her to come out and test my luck, hoping for the best.
She tells me it's too windy here, very cold. The "just a bit" I replied with sounded way more badass in my mind, without all the stuttering from the hypothermia.
She tells me to follow her, she knows a better spot. She adds that she doesn't know if other homeless people use it. If i needed proof that I have the phisique du role for such a part, there I had it.
We walk though a tiny road surrounded by trees and as she goes "Here, it's less windy" she does that voilá gesture that is normally used by hotel staff opening the bedroom door for guests. My Suite Royale for tonight is one of those fountains that every European village used to have, with complimentary moss and mosquitoes.
It is definitely secluded, just like any other swampy fountain built in 1545 for the local leprosary. Sweet dreams and tuberculosis to you too.
But just like the girl I left today while I mumbled a cold yeah and shrugged my way down the stairs, tudo vai correr bem.
OK time to set up my tent and crash, hoping no leper zombie decides to bite my ass.
Dághel!