Couuntry 60 - Portugal
Published July 10, 2024
It's a different kind of hot here. The Mediterranean warmth. Not the happy horror heat of the tropics, or the suffocating thrilling annoyance of a muggy New York or stuffy London. It's pleasant. A pleasant hotness.
I was just off the plane. A nice flight. I had a very sexy, very polite, very E, chavvy kinda gal sitting next to me. And a group of big fat black people surrounding me. They were genuinely fun.
Football played on screens through open doors and windows.
I walked the dark streets from the bus station in the centre of town towards my accommodation for the night.
As I did, the penalties were being lined up and put away and saved. And a lot were saved.
Portugal saved them all and scored three to win.
For the last couple I was in the fan zone of hundreds of people by the harbour, hundreds of amped-up Portuguese. Jumping, dancing, screaming. Football is the same everywhere. It's the only sport that really matters to the world.
I checked into my hotel for the night, ate the snacks I bought at the airport and fell asleep.
The next morning I saw some of Faro, a quick walk, probably an hour. I got the sense of the place. Nice sense. No problem, would return.
Faro station had no electronic boards, no information or updates on trains and timings and platforms. I hate lack of details. When details of the world are missing, details that should be there. You're a fucking train station, act like it!
The train was the train. Through the country up to the capital. It looked like Portugal. It was Portugal.
Arriving in Lisbon. I decided Portugal was a country of aesthetics. There was nothing among its various tourist attractions that interested me. The majority of the bullshit ‘must-dos’ all had a ‘meh’ that ruined them. . .
The statue of my son Jesus Christ? Too small and a rip-off of the original Brazilian effort. Meh.
The Golden Gate-looking bridge? Too small and no pedestrian walkways. Meh.
And everything that was interesting-enough to have a quick poke around in had an entrance fee. An insulting entrance fee. You don't slap an entrance fee on a church. Fuck off.
Portugal was within the walls and rooftops, the waxy cobbled streets and street wires.
I did visit some of those ‘must-dos' but found more interest on the walks and rides to them than them themselves. Them themselves.
I wrote this next part before structuring this post… I'll just put it here.
I do look a bit Portuguesey. From this angle or that. Biologically I'm a quarter Portuguesey.
When I lived in Kingston a passerby once shouted across the street excitedly, “Do you speak Portuguese?”
I told him I didn't.
And I don't.
The last stop of this three city trip was Porto.
Porto was disappointing. Especially that bridge.
I was looking forward to walking on that bridge and looking upon it.
It looked much better in the pictures, really did. I also needed a piss, really did. That could have skewed the enjoyment of it, but honestly I don't think so, I think it was just a bit shit.
It was a super-photogenic bit shit bridge. The worst kind.
TUT-a-fucking-tut-a-fucking-tut!
My hotel in Porto was on the 12th floor of a tower on a hill above the city centre. It was old. 60s old. That night after watching the UK exit poll, I covered the ancient TV and its horrifying reflection with a towel, put a chair by the door and rested a plastic bag and can on it. I slept with a light on.
A few hours into my half sleep the can ejected off the chair and landed on its head. I heard whispers from the bathroom.
Ghosts are pricks.
At the airport I ate my veggie whopper and read the news of the change of government. I'd be returning to a new regime.
But we all know,
WE ALL KNOW the only vote that matters is mine and I spoiled it. Big squiggly Sharpie lines! Chaos and that is what it shall be. This new colour shall be just more madness.
BRAD save the BRAD, these isles are mine!
The flight back was eventful.
At the gate, a weird looking young European woman with weird looking tattoos started arguing with a middle aged British guy. Real vicious stuff. She was a fucking cunt. An ugly fucking cunt.
Next to that argument, two scrawny American Jews started talking to a tall British girl with a small fat jiggly arse. Americans are so natural at talking to strangers. They weren't even hitting on her. It was like they genuinely wanted to talk for the sake of talking.
The plane was hot, so hot I turned the little ceiling nob air-con on, something I rarely do.
A woman pissed herself a few seats back.
The plane had a, “small technical issue. . .”
I don't like small technical issues.
Then the flaps came out and revealed what looked like bad fire damage. So bad I took a photo to enjoy for later. And then a video also to enjoy for later. Flamed wing. Burnt wing. Dirty rusty shit.
We circled for a bit when returning to the New Socialist Communist Glorious Revolutionarily Boring Workers The People’s Republic of Service SHOCKING of the English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish (North-type) KILL THE MIGRANT SCUM Union of Harmony and Growth . . .
We landed in the rain. The skies grey.
...
That was Portugal.
Country 60 and my penultimate European Union country - Malta shall be the last.
We're in the SIXTIES!