Wake from a bouncy evening of intermittent sleep to find some ot the most beautiful countryside (sunshine) yet. Portugal. Our night train rolled noisily down the Spanish tracks until finally reaching the tiny Iberian country. The scenes are breathtaking: bamboo lined tracks set in front of sand blasted white mansions,
abandoned buildings and lush green vegetation. The rolling hills, the spotted cloud cover, the clay-shingled roofs, the abandoned water towers for abandoned towns, my ears popping, my head ringing, the tracks rolling, the trees swaying. Nothing could be so pure.
And then, Lisbon, far off in the distance, the skyrises begin where the lush vegitation ends. Time to pack up my things and get ready for the day. Time to speak the romantic language of the Portugese.
Saturday Night In Barrio Alto
The Fado was spectacular; a combination of dance, music, mourning, praising and food mingle for a night of authentic Fado fun. Like Flamenco dancing, Fado is unique to this region of Portugal, but it is more than just a dance, it is, as the doorman told us sincerely, "A Night of Fado." We ordered white wine and salmon steaks; we were determined to eat well on Saturday nights.
Our waiter doubled as a mournful singer, offering the most beautiful gibberish in song I had ever heard. He served us well, too.
We had begun the night as we had begun many of the nights: with a healthy game of billiards to get the juices flowing. It had become an obsession - to the point that we couldn't order food in a restaurant, but we could ask where the nearest pool hall was.
The score was Dave 20, me 13, so I had to make a run quickly, but I didn't, and he stretched his lead in the ongoing saga to 9 games. The pool hall was filled with street kids, ostensibly wasting time before dinner, strikingly similar to our state of affairs.
"Why wouldn't that go in?" I complained as the 8-ball sat heavily over the pocket, ready for his imminent victory. It was just my luck, but the same thing had happened to him as well on many occasions, so I let it pass. A scratch on the break, a scratch on the 8-ball; both sure-fire ways to blow a perfectly good game. The tragedies came in bunches. For some reason, it became our motto to complain about our shots like this. It made no sense that we couldn't just make all the shots we wanted to, so we whined about it.
"Of course that would bounce off the wall at that angle," I yelled. "Why wouldn't it?" These outbursts weren't relegated to the billiard halls; no, a train could be delayed, a sandwich could taste horrible, a hostel could be fully booked. In a way, I guess, our fate became the fate of all travelers. A constant dose of unexpected occurrences coupled with the worst attitude possible.
A bad combination any day.
