Some random notes on my last day in Portugal…
read more ↓* I forgot to recount my tale of language barrier on my first day in Horta. It seemed that everyone spoke English at the front desk of my first hotel, but I always ask out of courtesy, ‘cause you know what they say about making an ass out of you and me. And I’m sure it goes without saying, but I speak very little Portuguese. I know how to say thank you, I know university, library and swimming pool, and I know how to say dirty things that would curl your hair and make your ears turn black and fall off.
So because I didn’t want to sleep through dinner, I called downstairs and had the following discussion with one of the receptionists.
Her: (Something in Portuguese.)
Me: Good afternoon, do you speak English?
Her: (Something in Portuguese.)
Me: (Thinking she didn’t hear me.) Do you speak English?
Her: Yes, little bit.
Me: Okay, I need a wake up call.
Her: (Long pause.)
Me: (Waiting.)
Her: (Something in Portuguese.)
Me: Is there someone else there who speaks English?
Her: (Long pause.)
Me: (Waiting.)
Her: You want a haircut?
Me: No, someone who speaks English.
Her: (Long pause.)
Me: (Waiting.)
Her: You want room service?
Me: English?
Her: (Long pause.)
Me: (Waiting.)
Her: (Hangs up.)
I spent a good chunk of the remainder of my trip asking people if they wanted a haircut for dessert.
* I can’t decide if I’m disturbed or amused to tell you the following, but it appears that there is a 14 year-old boy stuck inside my head. Sandra, you’ll be happy to know that the nut conversations we began when we were on our cruise were continued in your honor – you may not have been here, but you were with me in spirit.
It all began when I pulled out my bag of nuts (and you can all see where this is going.) I brought some with me because in a world where my dietary restrictions are complicated at best, at least I know I have something to eat if I bring nuts along with me. So there I am, sitting in the back of the van opening my bag of nuts, and I started to giggle to myself. Jessica asked me what the deal was, so I told her all about the dialogue Sandra and I had started on our cruise. Gamely, she picked up right where we left off. We had the whole “salty nuts in her mouth” conversation, and brought it to new lows. Little did we know, it was a gateway drug.
There was the do-rag thing you could buy at the Whaler’s Museum that had illustrations showing how you could wear it, and one looked like an uncut penis. I told Jessica to buy it for her husband so he could dress up like a Johnson at home. There were countless references to genetalia in completely unrelated conversation. And then last night, there was the piece de resistance.
We went for dinner at this gorgeous old historical hotel in downtown Ponta Delgada, right on the water. It felt like the last night of camp (yes, Sandra, I invoked the Kellerman’s song) as we all chowed down on our final evening meal and shared great conversation, ranging from pregnancy advice to deep metaphysical discussions about our brains and the world around us. Two of our party left a little early and took a cab home, and Jessica, Rob, Jayme and me decided we would walk home. Jessica and I amused ourselves by going on the balcony of the hotel and mildly played with the idea of singing “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina,” then went to the bathroom, where a word that looked slightly like “whores” was on the door of the women’s loo.
“Hey, we’re not whores!” I demanded.
Inside, we both grabbed a respective toilet and did our business. On my way out I washed my hands, and walked to the dryer to dry my hands.
“I’m getting blown!” I called to Jessica.
She laughed and joined me. Just as she did, the blower turned off.
“Come on, siemens!” she cried, reading the blower’s make off the side of the unit.
We both started cracking up laughing. Back outside with Rob and Jayme watched Jessica and I start belting out “Argentina” in earnest and continued making ridiculous comments about everything. But as Jayme led us down another street on the way to our hotel, I spotted the crown jewel in our pre-pubescent humor. There was an organization that made its home in one of the buildings with a balcony, and I’ll be damned if I can tell you what the name of the place was. But helpfully, the initials of the org were spelled out in big, black letters on the balcony above it, complete with white lights dotting the letters. And the letters spelled out CUM.
I died. I could barely stand, I was laughing so hard. All I could do was point, and soon Jessica followed suit. We were laughing so hard we could barely speak, let alone walk. Jessica finally gained the presence of mind to take a picture. Trust me when I say you had to be there.
Of course, we weren’t done. Looking in the shop windows as we walked home, Jayme spotted a make figurine standing behind a bull figurine in a rather suggestive way, and upon spotting a group of ceramic roosters, Rob commented, “Azorean cock.”
I suppose we should be ashamed, but whatever. Sometimes it’s fun to regress.
* In the afternoon we had lunch at this restaurant that cooks your food in a geyser, and followed that with a walk through a botanical gardens (and when we saw the bust of the guy who created them, Rob commented, “He did this all with no legs and no arms?” Which, of course, made us all wet our pants.) But after hearing about the naturally heated ironized body of water that the Swedes flocked to like mice to cheese, we determined that we had to go for a swim. There was just one problem: I hadn’t brought my bathing suit. But after hearing that the water had regenerative properties and was good for your skin, I couldn’t resist. I was wearing a sports bra, which doubled nicely as a bikini top, and luckily my undies were relatively full-bottomed instead of thongish, so I just decided to throw caution to the wind and strip down to my skivvies to swim.
So in we went, and it was surprisingly warm… but the water was this unholy shade of yellowish. Slightly unappetizing, but somehow still very nice to swim in. But as Jessica got out of the water, I floated waiting to get my hands on a towel and thought, I wonder if I’ll have time to hit the bathroom before we leave? And then the water started turning this pumpkiny shade around me.
“Why is the water turning orange where you are?” she asked.
I looked down, then back up at her, horrified. “I swear I didn’t do anything!”
“Just move away from it,” our guide, Ana, said.
I did. But naturally I was fretting that people either thought that a) I pissed myself, or b) I was lying about pissing myself. And then there was c): In my advancing age, nearly 32 (officially in 19 days), could it be possible that I was becoming incontinent? I didn’t want to think about it. I hopped out of the pool and got dressed. (In semi-related news, my underpants are a strange shade of yellowish orange that supposedly comes out in the wash. I told my travel mates that one lucky winner will get my underpants at the end of the trip.)
* It appears the Portugese are as nuts about Christmas as I am. Not only does someone across from my hotel have their Christmas lights up, but someone had little outlines of Christmas trees on their balcony in one of the fishing towns we went to, and as a grande finale, I heard that song about how Christmas is coming, they’re cutting down the trees, etcetera, etcetera. Get ready, people – Santa’s coming to town, and you’re on his list.
Today, we visit a pineapple plantation and have lunch before we head back for the States.
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