Wanderlost 2

by Simon Williams

  Seventeen years later Nicole and I reconnect again for the first time since our introduction in Spain. We get together for lunch and a few drinks in Florida of all places. I love to have a beer with Nicole, while reliving the mere 12 hours we have spent together in our lives. This is the greatest thing about travelling and meeting someone of a like adventurous mind, your paths will invariably one day cross again. Never close your mind to anything when you travel. I meet her husband and her two beautiful daughters. The very next day one of her children is rifling through a box of Nicole's memorabilia and comes across a photo. It is the one I took on the train that I had sent a copy to her after I developed the film.

  'That looks like the guy at lunch yesterday, Mummy.'

  'Yes, it is. That was taken when we met,' Nicole told her

  'How did you meet him?'

  Nicole apparently took a long pause before answering. There is always that awkward moment when as adults we have to explain to our kids what we got up to as youngsters, because they all think we have led the most boring lives. Nicole smiled at her daughter. 'We met while travelling in Europe. Back when we were all young, carefree, and stupid.'

  How bout some tucker?

  When travelling, the vital moments are sometimes the ones you simply don't remember.

  If I thought the bus ride from Seville to Faro was horrific, then I was in for a huge treat for the next leg of the journey to get to Lagos. I am travelling through the south of Spain with Sheilds and Jim to get to the legendary beaches of the Algarve region in the southwest corner of Portugal. Sheilds is still driving the bus, metaphorically not literally, after Jim and my indiscretions in Barcelona. She has mapped out our travel plans to the letter to allow us the most amount of sightseeing enjoyment within our limited time frame.

  The EN 125 highway appears to be like any other stretch of bitumen that crisscrosses the expanse of this once powerful seafaring nation. Except this road has a not so well-kept secret. You must be near certifiable to want to drive on it. Sheilds, with her encyclopedic wealth of travelling knowledge that she mines from the pages of her travel books lets rip with this stunner not long after the elderly coach driver pulls us out of the Faro bus depot.

  'This is considered one of the most dangerous roads in Europe,' she calmly states.

  I stare blankly at my good mate, 'where do you get this shit from, Sheilds? Who wants to know that type of information? You think Jim and I do? You think we want to know we are on the Portuguese equivalent to the Bataan Death March? Look at the bus driver? He is an octogenarian who looks like he suffered a stroke climbing the stairs to get on the bus. What is wrong with your mind? Be honest with me now, do you take drugs?' I dryly hiss at her.

  This road didn’t earn its reputation from the technicality of its turns or the dangerousness of the terrain, it is because most drivers in this part of the world behave like dickheads. Of course, now that I am aware of the rich, morbid history of the road we are travelling on I can't resist staring out the windows hoping to witness a fatal crash or two. In two hours the closest I came was seeing two motorcyclists passing the bus swerving onto the far shoulder of the road to avoid being collected by an oncoming vehicle. One of the most dangerous roads in Europe my arse. Get a couple of steel spiked barriers out there.

  As we traverse from Spain into Portugal we think it best that we brush up on the differences between the languages. Sheilds of course has her travel books, which contain a handy glossary of terms that are useful to travelers to the two countries. A thorough review of how to count, how to greet someone on the street, and how to send back a plate of beef for being undercooked in a cafeteria. This leads us to the assumption that the only notable difference between Spanish and Portuguese are the words for thank you and chicken. With our linguistics up to speed we are all now thoroughly prepared for our Algarve Adventure.

  We arrive to Lagos in one piece and make our way to the youth hostel to check in for our planned two-night sojourn. This first day we will keep it relatively low key. Sheilds offers to go shopping and cook Jim and I spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. That is what we need, some tucker. Having a woman wait on us hand and foot is not Jim's and my style, so we beg her not to be so magnanimous and considerate. Sadly, we can't get her to reconsider. Don't forget the wine we yell as she heads out the door in search of a supermarket.

  Youth hostels are an international social assembly location unlike any other. People of various nationalities are indiscriminately crammed together so tightly that the accommodations at forced labour camps look luxurious. Everyone is cautiously sociable until later in the evening when everyone gets drunk. Then everyone loses their inhibitions and tries to shag another traveler. If the UN required that all member delegates slept in bunk beds and use only one kitchen for meal preparation, then world conflict might become a thing of the past.

  Sheilds returns with her shopping bounty. While Jim and I contemplate how to open a bottle of wine with a broken corkscrew she starts preparing her ingredients. It is as we sit back and watch her frying the mince that she makes a gruesome discovery. What she thought was a tin of tomatoes, intended to be the base for her sauce, is in fact a can of kidney beans. Lord knows how someone can mistake a picture of kidney beans in Portuguese for a picture of a cherry tomatoes in English, or any other language for that matter, but she had. I can only imagine the clerk at the store scanning the items while thinking to herself - spaghetti… onions… mince… garlic… a tin of kidney beans? Ha ha, you dumb tourist. Portugal may have once been the conqueror of half the civilized world and is now the doormat of Europe but at least we won't be forced to eat this shit later tonight.

  Without anything else to use Sheilds adds the beans to the mixture and crosses her fingers. Jim and I quickly force open a second bottle of wine to prepare our taste buds for the gastronomic Armageddon that is about to befall us. Here is an amazing aspect about youth hostels that should serve as a blueprint for international negotiations. When the other guests realize the imminent distress that Jim and I are about to face they readily stepped forth to offer us more beer and wine to numb our senses. Does that ever happen in the UN? A disastrously prepared meal for a guest in a youth hostel is like a call to arms for others to step in and assist. Sort of like when one of member of a hiking party gets buried in an avalanche. Everyone pulls together to make sure the unlucky bastard makes it through the night buried alive.

  Despite these insulting remarks on my mate's cooking after a great deal of alcohol we were able to consume it. Along with a few other brave souls at the hostel who we convinced it was an Australian delicacy. Nothing helps hide the taste of a hideous meal like a blood alcohol level in the high teens. I also meet another traveler from Australia named Wayne. Wayne is amazed that we are drinking so much. (He didn't have my mate Sheilds preparing his meals obviously.) His desire is to stay clear headed so that he can rise super early in the morning to fulfill his dream of seeing the sunrise over the Atlantic while standing on Sagres Point at the far South-west corner of Portugal. To each their own. Full credit to the him that he had the balls to go it alone. It isn't every man that can follow his travel desires single handedly. I don't have the heart to tell Wayne that as romantic as his plans are, he is obviously confused understanding which direction the sun comes up when standing on a west facing coast. Go for it mate. I will cheerfully wake up tomorrow to your cries of despondency the moment you realize your stupidity.

  The next day is our opportunity to get to the beaches nestled below the abrupt cliff faces of the southern facing coastline. Praia da Dona Ana is our target. Regularly rated by Conde Nast Traveler magazine as the best beach in the world. Of course, ranking beaches is a completely relative mission. What if the judge shows up on a day it is raining or the same day a surfer loses a leg to a great white? If Conde Nast were there the day that Jim and I were expelling gas from the digested remains of our kidney bean banquet the night before then the place might have errantly slipped to rate below the beach in front of the Fu
kushima nuclear facility.

  The history of Portugal is as fascinating as the skill shown by Sheilds' to combine ingredients to make dinner. This country once dominated the seas and enjoyed one of the largest and longest-lived empires in world history. This is stunning considering the country's inability to enforce proper road safety on its highways. Despite its seemingly pivotal position on the Iberian Peninsula, as the gateway into the Mediterranean, the country has managed to remain neutral during both World Wars. Pick a side you sniveling wimps. This inability of the populace to make a tough decision has resulted in the steep decline of the country's relevance since the 16th century. The GDP of the country is now equivalent to that of any medium-sized town in South Dakota with 50% being contributed by Christian Ronaldo's salary.

  After a day of sunbathing and realizing that despite its enticing clarity the azure waters of the Mediterranean are too farking freezing for me to comfortably swim in, we return to the hostel. One of the young female guests approaches me and tells me that she is a masseuse. She is from Latvia and is making a living for the year selling massages to the tourists on the beach. Tiny flowers imbedded in the braids of her hair give the strong impression she possesses a spiritual, holistic personality. The type of girl who would be affronted if she received a coffee with 2% milk instead of a soy latte. She had overheard that I am a physical therapist, as apparently Sheilds or myself was drunk enough the night before to think this was a worthwhile piece of information to pass on to people. Possibly along with the fact that we had driven along one of the most dangerous roads in Europe to get here. With an embellishment that we had seen like a hundred accidents. The Latvian flower child asks me for an international exchange of knowledge regarding muscle kneading techniques. We can give each other a massage and learn from the other's methods.

  Let's see where this leads.

  How bout some tucker? - part 2

  Never one to pass up a free back rub from young ladies heralding from the Baltic countries, I readily agree. I offer to go first. She settles herself comfortably into her portable massage recliner. As a physical therapist I never actually massage anyone. That is what a masseuse does. But, I tell every young lady I meet at the bar while on holiday that I am an expert. Which I am, as the only qualification required to attest that one is an expert in any field of endeavor while drinking at a bar is the ability to say the words, 'I am an expert in (fill in occupation).' My proof of this is that I once convinced an entire pub in Sweden that I was Australian gold medal speed skater, Steven Bradbury. Because I merely told them that I was Steven Bradbury.

  My fingers are a little rusty, but I dug deep into the pressure points on her erectus spinae muscle like I am a Catholic priest exercising demons. If you have never heard a Latvian moan it is like the soft bellow of a Swiss mountain horn. For all her hippy attire and free spirit attitude she is as tense as a kettle drum. After 20 minutes I worry that I have killed the poor girl because she no longer moves. It can't be entirely at fault as she had asked for the massage. She will have to take 50% responsibility. Death by extremely poor judgement might be an apt way to describe her demise in the police report. No point in getting too stressed about committing a homicide while I am in the south of Portugal, the home of the one of the deadliest roads in Europe. I can blame it for her untimely death.

  Turns out I have merely sent her into a deep sleep. I abruptly wake her and politely remind her of the reciprocal arrangement we have. I position myself into her chair, eagerly anticipating having my aching back soothed by whatever is the traditional Latvian technique. Hopefully it involves her running and getting me a beer before she starts. She smiles and tells me to get prepared, 'I think you'll really enjoy this.' Well, without a cold beverage I'll just have to try love.

  She touches my shoulder with the point of her index finger then let's out what I can only describe as part chant part groan, 'ummuughh.' This action is then repeated on my head, the center of my spine, then my left earlobe. I am bemused. Maybe this is just leading up to her actually sinking her fingertips into my muscle bellies and teasing out my stress. After ten minutes of barely contacting my skin I raise my head up and give her a look out of the corner of my eye. 'Relax,' she says, 'I'll ease off if I'm being too hard.'

  This goes on for another ten minutes with me forced to stifle endless unsatisfied sighs. When she finishes she cannot see my look of bewilderment with my face buried in the cushion. I don't want to stand up too quickly and have her see the derision in my eyes. 'Take your time, enjoy the moment,' she says and places her hand on my shoulder. The pressure she now has on my body is the most she has applied by far. Do spiritualists and tree huggers not understand the basic physical dynamics of grabbing human tissue when giving a massage? I do not know how she is going to survive the summer dishing out this hippie, touchy-feely rubbish to tourists on the beach. On a positive note, the tangential axis of my lifeforce has hopefully been realigned correctly.

  I return to a seat at the dining table beside my friends. Sheilds stifles her laughter, 'how was that for you?'

  'Your kidney bean spaghetti was phenomenal in comparison.'

  'I admire you for your restraint,' she says.

  I shake my head in disgust. 'Alright, Jim I think we need to go get beers and get terribly drunk after that rubbish.'

  We head out for the walk to downtown Lagos and our choice of bars to drink at. At this point details of the evening become slightly fuzzy although I know we all enjoy the fervent hospitality of several Portuguese hoteliers. The next morning, we pack up for our bus ride north to Lisbon. I look around for Wayne and the Latvian finger pointer to see how they both were getting on with their plans, but neither could be found. I hope life went on to forgive them for their blunders.

  Pre-arrival into Lisbon Sheilds, Jim and I are faced with making accommodation arrangements. Luck had been a lady on every step of our trip so far. Barcelona, Madrid, Seville. We had always been able to find vacancies in budget lodging. Even in the Algarve, while confronting the daunting change in language of the word for chicken from 'pollo' to 'frango,' we had easily been able to find space in the hostel.

  'Sheilds, get out your book. Let's have a look at what we have available lodging wise here in Lisbon?' I ask.

  'We have a place,' she states.

  'Really? Where?'

  'With your mate from the bar,' she replies.

  'What are you talking about, Sheilds?' I snap.

  'The girl you were talking to at the bar in Lagos. The one who went to University with you,' Sheilds offers in response.

  'Are you crazy, mate? Really, I think you are on drugs. I don't know anyone from my University here.'

  'You were in the same course as her. She is a year older. She remembers your older sister. She is working at an International school in Lisbon. You talked to her for an hour.' Sheilds' face is deadpan.

  I stare at her with complete ignorance. 'Are you certain?'

  'Yes.'

  I shake my head, 'it will probably all come back to me when I meet her.'

  This is why the UN needs so many delegates from each country to be involved with peace discussions. So that at least one of them remembers who they spoke to at a function after they get smashed. After visiting several of the European nations on my trip I now have a much better understanding of how the UN General Assembly operates.

  Secretary General, 'call to order. Call to order. Would all nations please be seated. Germany, what is your take on the current state of mass migration from the middle east.'

  Germany delegation responds

  'France, your view.'

  France delegation responds.

  'Portugal what do you think.'

  Portugal delegate. 'Well I think that…'

  'No, no. That was a joke Portugal, no one cares what you think. Go back to sitting on the fence you pussies.'

  Jim produces a Lagos bar coaster with a number written on it. We call, and the mystery girl gives us directions to catch a cab from the train st
ation to her apartment complex located in the Carcavelos neighbourhood. She tells us it is very easy to get there as we only need to travel along the harbourside road directly out to the first major promontory jutting out into the bay. She did warn us to refuse to get in the taxi if the driver did not know where the area was. The driver will likely try to rip us off. Imagine that, a taxi driver looking to be dishonest, unthinkable. I wonder if this wonderful piece of advice is spelled out in any of Sheilds' travel books. The bane of tourists to every country in the world, taxi drivers. The reason that Portugal possibly surrendered its mantle as a world power, the cabbies stole the country's wealth by padding their fares.

  The first taxi we approach is driven by a friendly North African gentleman who enthusiastically opens his doors to usher us into his vehicle. 'Can you take us to Carcavelos,' we ask in a hybrid Spanish/Portuguese interpretation.

  'Certainly,' he replies. As we squeeze into the back seat he then proceeds to give us a prolonged stare as if waiting for more clarification.