Transit

A priority item upon arrival in any non-US city is a transit card. Gateway to the city.

Card in hand, look at Google Maps for the nearest transit stop. Oh, a bus that goes along the river to a beach, sure! It’s raining, may as well take the warm, dry, guided tour.

As the bus moved along, I checked out the stop near the beach. I poked the bus stop on the inbound side to access the return schedule. Hey, a metro/subway stop for the ride home.

But it’s already after 7pm, and this is an upscale suburb, will there be trains back into the city?

Sure, only 10 minutes apart.

So I got off at the chosen stop and walked down to the beach, or rather to the cliff overlooking the beach.

Yeah, this isn’t a bad place to hang out at a local watering hole to watch the weather.

So, while I’m happy to take photos of buildings and food and much else, I am not likely to photograph people in their own neighborhoods, going about their lives. Too weird. I’m already a babbling ferengi, asking for food when the kitchen doesn’t open until 9pm. In those situations, I just soak it all in and commit it to memory.

If you zoom in on the panorama, you might see how every building has an outdoor shelter, which is for the reataurants/tavernas in each building. I wonder what the loyalties, if any, are?

While I didn’t get my langostinos on the beach, I did give some business to the doner kabob/pizza/burger joint across the street from my appartment. As mutual ferengi, it was an easy conversation in English. And excellent kebab.