MAIN » ARTICLESTraveling in 2007 II: Portuguese Diary
July 29th – August 11th
What follows is a transcript of a diary written on paper whilst in the patio section of a whitewashed villa in the town of Albufeira in southern Portugal. Naturally it is raw and unedited, and I can’t be sure on which day I wrote what. Nor can I vouch for the grammar.
ONE
I’m going to eat an Octopus on this holiday. Maybe not a whole octopus – to many tentacles – but at least some of it. I’ve eaten squid on a Greek island, horse in Hungary, but never an Octopus. I often wonder whether the meat you get when you order a dish is all from the same beast or whether multiple octopussies would be sacrificed to quell my rampaging appetite. I like to think the latter. How many Octopi could one man eat? Tentacular thoughts on a blistering afternoon in Southern Portugal, what would the locals think? Wait, no locals here, only English escaping the brutal deluge of untimely rainstorms back home; spreading across the Med in hordes. Modern colonialism, at least for two weeks or so, probing the nooks and crannies of beach resorts much the same way as an octopus might explore an aquatic cave for food. But with more suction pads.
The journey to this corner of the continent was only mildly interrupted by a mechanical delay at Gatwick. It had stopped raining by then, 5am on the outskirts of London, but damp was in the air, still permeating national spirit. Small talk was at a minimum, even amongst those hardly souls who had made the trek back to the coach drop-off point for one last cigarette. Nobody likes a long walk with a craving, even on good terms, and this was no exception. Especially for people who stand and block the moving walkways. No seats on the last bus outta town come the apocalypse for those bastards. ‘Slower than walking alongside at my own pace’, I remember thinking, cursing my luck and the gargantuan size of modern airports simultaneously, wondering whether I should go back for just one more smoke. Maybe two was enough, pace yourself, that’s the key for a trip like this, no need to rush.
TWO
No sign of any Octopus in the restaurants yet, just the hypermarkets, large gelatinous globs of meat covered in suction pads, the tentacles piled up in a grim lump below the bulbous body glistening in the artificial light. The supporting cast for this gruesome display includes the usual seafood fare and more exotic delicacies such as the black eel; a thick slug of a fish with a large mouth and a rather surprised look sporting what appears to be an artificial eye best compared to one you might find in a joke shop. I can however say that I’ve added to my list of unusual meats in foreign countries: Crocodile, Ostrich and Kangaroo at an Australian joint down the road staged with a curious contingent of Russians and Ukrainians. The crocodile was little more than a weak-tasting fish, whilst the Kangaroo emulated a very satisfactory beef steak in both taste and texture. Only the Ostrich proved to elusive to pin down to a likeness, reminding me of chopped liver and tasting of nothing in particular. Good food all over the place and good bars too, always a choice here from the excellently prepared Mediterranean food at Johnny Hooper’s Saxophone Bistro to the hot Sake at the Oriental tea room and all night cocktail and music extravagance at Wild & Company – the most Americanised of the lot but still entertaining. No beer mats yet though, at least not when you’re sucking down Bloody Marys until 2am.
THREE
In Portugal they have large flat escalators you can push a food-trolley on to. In the hypermarkets. To reach the second floor. Built on a slighter include they allow you to continue shopping upstairs without leaving what you’ve already collected behind. It is truly a marvellous idea. The real coup-de-grace of this engineering however, is in the way the escalator prevents the trolley from rolling back down, crushing small children as it goes, gradually gathering speed and power for one unapologetic rampage through the fruit and vegetables isles. Magnets.
FOUR
Went to see the bullfighting at Albufeira’s local arena just 5 minutes brisk walk in the cool evening breeze from the villa. Three matadors, some horses and lots of waving of pink sheets thrown in for good measure. Highlights included one guy being taking away on a stretcher after being flipped by the bull head first and one of the horses being caught up with finally and slammed against the wall. It was a curious spectacle of man versus beast, some blood, and lots of bravado. There seemed to be a curious custom after each of the six bouts whereby the usual thrown flowers were joined by various items of clothing – the latter thrown back into the crowd by the matadors as they completed their lap of honour. I don’t know why they did that. I drank a couple of beers and joined in with the applause, wondering whether this is the closest you can get to the old Roman gladiatorial battles. I suspect it may be.
Meanwhile, I have been keeping up with my daily swimming and recreational reading, having so far completed Ice Station by Matthew Reilly, The Rum Diary by HST, and Hannibal Rising by the guy who wrote the other Lecter stories. I bet he is minted from all the film rights. I have just begun A Wild Sheep Chase by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. Tomorrow morning, early at around 7am, we are travelling to Lisbon and staying over in the city. I know little of Portugal’s capital though I’m eager to learn. We have some guided tours around a couple of places – the word Monastery leaps up from my memory palace – so that should help lubricate the process. An early night is in order. Olé!
FIVE
Back from the two days in Lisbon. Despite being rebuilt a few hundred years ago following a devastating earthquake (or so I was told, I haven’t actually verified this), the city felt old and tired. Not as developed as many other European capitals, it still felt fairly cosmopolitan in the centre and in many ways reminded me of Athens, minus the Acropolis. The tour (coach) showed us many different things; the large monastery, the monument to the navigators, Belem tower, and the town of Sintra up on the mountain, but there still felt like a lack of sights now and again. I still didn’t get an overall picture of what exactly is Portuguese. Beforehand I didn’t know much of either Portugal’s culture or what its biggest city was famous for. I’m not sure I am any closer now to answering these questions. I had a lovely pizza at an Italian near the main square though. Actually I did enjoy the walk around the area of Alfama: an old Moorish settlement, it was a labyrinth of buildings, steps, narrow winding streets, all on different levels. The whole city was on different levels, “like steps” the guide said. It was different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like Alfama before. Some of the windows of opposite buildings were so close you could reach across with little effort and shake hands with a neighbour. I expect it is cheap to rent a room there too. Maybe I will look into it. Only a hilly tram ride from the bustle of city life and a stone’s throw from the sea.
Many good photographs. Enjoyed the hotel as I always do. Tired from the coach journey and our early departure I collapsed in bed with the TV on BBC World, soon falling asleep before 10pm. Though not before my pizza, two beers from the mini-bar and another in the tasteful bar downstairs. Something about the mild ambience of hotel bars and the background jazz just settles my mind. Time stops still there, it’s peaceful. And the barmen call you ‘sir’ and return your change on a silver dish. A long way from a Suffolk pub there. When the end of the world comes that’s where I’ll be, in an almost empty hotel bar, with a Miles Davis instrumental playing away softly, sipping on a Brandy. Now back at the villa in Albufeira things have returned to normal: playing pool down the side, drinking a chilled Super Bock and wondering whether another 10mins in the banking heat will tempt me into the pool for a refreshing dip. Can’t find a decent Portuguese radio station, but apart from that it’s all good in the Algarve.
SIX
Not much has happened since the return from Lisbon a few days back. Hazy days have passed, sun-drenched trips up mountains (Monchique is the highest in the Algarve, perhaps in all Portugal – again, not verified), sitting on rocky outcrops surveying southern Portugal, hours spent at an immensely large Sunday beach and a couple more drinks than I am capable of remembering. Every day I have pondered over the souvenirs I’d like; I quickly gave up the search for a decent metallic key ring, passed on an engraved Zippo lighter, couldn’t find a flag, ran out of cash for an official football shirt, and balked at an 8am start to the gypsy market in Loulé for a woven rug. I reassure myself each night that my subsequent trip to Egypt will yield a bounty to render my disappointment on the European continent obsolete.
SEVEN
It is now the last day here in the Algarve and I refuse to reflect on the past two weeks. The day, a breezy blue-skied Saturday, began in grim fashion. But it’s only football right? I attempted to cheer myself up afterwards with a quick 18-holes of crazy golf and a trip to the liquor store. Showing a well-matured restraint I limited my spending spree to a bottle of Bacardi Oro, a litre of the finest Portuguese brandy, and a carton of 200 Lucky Strike. Again my thoughts wander to East and to Luxor. What do they drink in Egypt? What do they smoke? More importantly, how much do they pay to do these things?
To be continued…
Written by Jay.
What follows is a transcript of a diary written on paper whilst in the patio section of a whitewashed villa in the town of Albufeira in southern Portugal. Naturally it is raw and unedited, and I can’t be sure on which day I wrote what. Nor can I vouch for the grammar.
ONE
I’m going to eat an Octopus on this holiday. Maybe not a whole octopus – to many tentacles – but at least some of it. I’ve eaten squid on a Greek island, horse in Hungary, but never an Octopus. I often wonder whether the meat you get when you order a dish is all from the same beast or whether multiple octopussies would be sacrificed to quell my rampaging appetite. I like to think the latter. How many Octopi could one man eat? Tentacular thoughts on a blistering afternoon in Southern Portugal, what would the locals think? Wait, no locals here, only English escaping the brutal deluge of untimely rainstorms back home; spreading across the Med in hordes. Modern colonialism, at least for two weeks or so, probing the nooks and crannies of beach resorts much the same way as an octopus might explore an aquatic cave for food. But with more suction pads.
The journey to this corner of the continent was only mildly interrupted by a mechanical delay at Gatwick. It had stopped raining by then, 5am on the outskirts of London, but damp was in the air, still permeating national spirit. Small talk was at a minimum, even amongst those hardly souls who had made the trek back to the coach drop-off point for one last cigarette. Nobody likes a long walk with a craving, even on good terms, and this was no exception. Especially for people who stand and block the moving walkways. No seats on the last bus outta town come the apocalypse for those bastards. ‘Slower than walking alongside at my own pace’, I remember thinking, cursing my luck and the gargantuan size of modern airports simultaneously, wondering whether I should go back for just one more smoke. Maybe two was enough, pace yourself, that’s the key for a trip like this, no need to rush.
TWO
No sign of any Octopus in the restaurants yet, just the hypermarkets, large gelatinous globs of meat covered in suction pads, the tentacles piled up in a grim lump below the bulbous body glistening in the artificial light. The supporting cast for this gruesome display includes the usual seafood fare and more exotic delicacies such as the black eel; a thick slug of a fish with a large mouth and a rather surprised look sporting what appears to be an artificial eye best compared to one you might find in a joke shop. I can however say that I’ve added to my list of unusual meats in foreign countries: Crocodile, Ostrich and Kangaroo at an Australian joint down the road staged with a curious contingent of Russians and Ukrainians. The crocodile was little more than a weak-tasting fish, whilst the Kangaroo emulated a very satisfactory beef steak in both taste and texture. Only the Ostrich proved to elusive to pin down to a likeness, reminding me of chopped liver and tasting of nothing in particular. Good food all over the place and good bars too, always a choice here from the excellently prepared Mediterranean food at Johnny Hooper’s Saxophone Bistro to the hot Sake at the Oriental tea room and all night cocktail and music extravagance at Wild & Company – the most Americanised of the lot but still entertaining. No beer mats yet though, at least not when you’re sucking down Bloody Marys until 2am.
THREE
In Portugal they have large flat escalators you can push a food-trolley on to. In the hypermarkets. To reach the second floor. Built on a slighter include they allow you to continue shopping upstairs without leaving what you’ve already collected behind. It is truly a marvellous idea. The real coup-de-grace of this engineering however, is in the way the escalator prevents the trolley from rolling back down, crushing small children as it goes, gradually gathering speed and power for one unapologetic rampage through the fruit and vegetables isles. Magnets.
FOUR
Went to see the bullfighting at Albufeira’s local arena just 5 minutes brisk walk in the cool evening breeze from the villa. Three matadors, some horses and lots of waving of pink sheets thrown in for good measure. Highlights included one guy being taking away on a stretcher after being flipped by the bull head first and one of the horses being caught up with finally and slammed against the wall. It was a curious spectacle of man versus beast, some blood, and lots of bravado. There seemed to be a curious custom after each of the six bouts whereby the usual thrown flowers were joined by various items of clothing – the latter thrown back into the crowd by the matadors as they completed their lap of honour. I don’t know why they did that. I drank a couple of beers and joined in with the applause, wondering whether this is the closest you can get to the old Roman gladiatorial battles. I suspect it may be.
Meanwhile, I have been keeping up with my daily swimming and recreational reading, having so far completed Ice Station by Matthew Reilly, The Rum Diary by HST, and Hannibal Rising by the guy who wrote the other Lecter stories. I bet he is minted from all the film rights. I have just begun A Wild Sheep Chase by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. Tomorrow morning, early at around 7am, we are travelling to Lisbon and staying over in the city. I know little of Portugal’s capital though I’m eager to learn. We have some guided tours around a couple of places – the word Monastery leaps up from my memory palace – so that should help lubricate the process. An early night is in order. Olé!
FIVE
Back from the two days in Lisbon. Despite being rebuilt a few hundred years ago following a devastating earthquake (or so I was told, I haven’t actually verified this), the city felt old and tired. Not as developed as many other European capitals, it still felt fairly cosmopolitan in the centre and in many ways reminded me of Athens, minus the Acropolis. The tour (coach) showed us many different things; the large monastery, the monument to the navigators, Belem tower, and the town of Sintra up on the mountain, but there still felt like a lack of sights now and again. I still didn’t get an overall picture of what exactly is Portuguese. Beforehand I didn’t know much of either Portugal’s culture or what its biggest city was famous for. I’m not sure I am any closer now to answering these questions. I had a lovely pizza at an Italian near the main square though. Actually I did enjoy the walk around the area of Alfama: an old Moorish settlement, it was a labyrinth of buildings, steps, narrow winding streets, all on different levels. The whole city was on different levels, “like steps” the guide said. It was different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like Alfama before. Some of the windows of opposite buildings were so close you could reach across with little effort and shake hands with a neighbour. I expect it is cheap to rent a room there too. Maybe I will look into it. Only a hilly tram ride from the bustle of city life and a stone’s throw from the sea.
Many good photographs. Enjoyed the hotel as I always do. Tired from the coach journey and our early departure I collapsed in bed with the TV on BBC World, soon falling asleep before 10pm. Though not before my pizza, two beers from the mini-bar and another in the tasteful bar downstairs. Something about the mild ambience of hotel bars and the background jazz just settles my mind. Time stops still there, it’s peaceful. And the barmen call you ‘sir’ and return your change on a silver dish. A long way from a Suffolk pub there. When the end of the world comes that’s where I’ll be, in an almost empty hotel bar, with a Miles Davis instrumental playing away softly, sipping on a Brandy. Now back at the villa in Albufeira things have returned to normal: playing pool down the side, drinking a chilled Super Bock and wondering whether another 10mins in the banking heat will tempt me into the pool for a refreshing dip. Can’t find a decent Portuguese radio station, but apart from that it’s all good in the Algarve.
SIX
Not much has happened since the return from Lisbon a few days back. Hazy days have passed, sun-drenched trips up mountains (Monchique is the highest in the Algarve, perhaps in all Portugal – again, not verified), sitting on rocky outcrops surveying southern Portugal, hours spent at an immensely large Sunday beach and a couple more drinks than I am capable of remembering. Every day I have pondered over the souvenirs I’d like; I quickly gave up the search for a decent metallic key ring, passed on an engraved Zippo lighter, couldn’t find a flag, ran out of cash for an official football shirt, and balked at an 8am start to the gypsy market in Loulé for a woven rug. I reassure myself each night that my subsequent trip to Egypt will yield a bounty to render my disappointment on the European continent obsolete.
SEVEN
It is now the last day here in the Algarve and I refuse to reflect on the past two weeks. The day, a breezy blue-skied Saturday, began in grim fashion. But it’s only football right? I attempted to cheer myself up afterwards with a quick 18-holes of crazy golf and a trip to the liquor store. Showing a well-matured restraint I limited my spending spree to a bottle of Bacardi Oro, a litre of the finest Portuguese brandy, and a carton of 200 Lucky Strike. Again my thoughts wander to East and to Luxor. What do they drink in Egypt? What do they smoke? More importantly, how much do they pay to do these things?
To be continued…
Written by Jay.