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 Fukushima 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.