República Portuguesa: A narrative

This is a trifle late. In fact I have put it off for four whole months. And with yet another environmentally destructive foray into Europe coming up I think its time I pinned this one down:

The exams were over and Europe had entered yet another record-breaking summer. It was mid June. The hellish Little Chef stint had not yet begun and I was in a blissful limbo. It was at this time that I received an offer I simply could not refuse. Three days away from the sunshine of Ipswich in exchange for three days in the yet more idyllic Portuguese town of Lagos. Three days with four of the finer specimens of mankind. And a luxury villa. All at no cost? Needless to say - I went.

My childish fascination with defying all the sensible laws of physics was suitably satisfied by some even more suitably cliché easy girls. On arrival we walked out of the air conditioned airport and into that wall of heat that stifles your lungs for a split second before going off in pursuit of our new car. What happened next was a nightmarish ordeal as the man at the helm took great delight in doing more than 100mph down what he cheerfully reminded us was the most dangerous road in Europe… His excessively aggressive driving was explained away with a “its how your supposed to drive over here”. Everyone must have been a foreigner because I never saw anyone else do the things he did…but we lived. Just.

The villa. Now that was something else. I knew we were dealing with a company that dealt in ‘luxury’ accommodation but I had taken this with a pinch of salt. Yet this was luxury in every sense of the word, it looked like the Saudi version of Cribs. It was huge! God knows how many bedrooms, ‘maid’ lodgings for those that wished to bring along their slaves, a jumbo kitchen with a living room and diner that made you drool. I consider myself quite the fan of neat architecture and this, in my expert opinion, was the bomb. Its Moroccan interior was fully explained by the view from the top floor, which boasted a commanding view of the Pacific meeting the Med - five white provincial kids had landed well and truly on their feet.

The weekend that followed was ace. And I, in true textbook fashion, even saw a shooting star as we sat out amongst the noisy crickets and silent heat. The pool in the back yard was ace too, and we spent hours doing absolutely nothing except lying in the sun, and despite my objections – listening to McFly…

It’s amazing how after packing all your stuff, paying all that money and flying all that way – that you are so peacefully content to just lie there and drift in total harmony. Anyway. To celebrate the non-holiday related birthday of a certain long time sweet and sour heart we all got kitted out and headed into the town centre. On the way we stopped for dinner at this Italian restaurant where we got to see a most uplifting sight. We were just getting ready to use our finest Spanish to ask our Portuguese waiter for the bill when the whole room erupted in howling laughter. Convinced that five linguistically disable Brits wasn’t an unusual sight we investigated further. Turns out Germany, in the first seconds of extra time in their world cup match - had just scored, totally gutting Poland’s heroic defence. Finding humour in the soul-destroying defeat of the underdog. Felt like home.

I love (real) European towns, the nightlife is amazing. It’s like an international mega mash bringing together the best and brightest humanity has to offer (or so I choose to believe). After being chatted up by a very persuasive Australian promo guy we ended up in this cool surfer bar where we stumbled across a pack of wild Americans. On closer investigation it emerged these Americans were of the finer variety, having just spent a year in Spain they were finishing it off by tearing around Europe for the summer. Top folks.

Pretty young things that can boast two tongues, especially when it’s so utterly unexpected, have always captured my imagination. I of course do have a secret weapon when it comes to making Americans laugh. Using the word ‘Arkansas’ combined with the phrase ‘I went to…’ never fails in generating fits of giggles. There is something sexy in seeing the barriers of language and nationality fall before your eyes and that night we rounded up a good collection of rich westerners with stories to tell. These are the best sorts of nights. The night ended late and in a rainstorm but it felt good.

Alas, or should I say alack - our Iberian adventures had to be cut tragically short. We wound up our activities, said our sad goodbyes to the night sky and graced the bizarre rooftop dome with our last presence. Until next time.