Rain drops keep fallin' on my head

Over Easter vacation my friends Jackie, Eric, and I decided to go for a low-cost, high-beach vacation in the Algarve, Portugal's southern-most province and their version of Andalucía. I love Portugal. Last year's vacation launched the tiny country into my number one destination in Western Europe, mostly due a critical combination of food, Sagres Preta beer, EU debt, lack of tourists, castles, pastry, falling down historical buildings, scenery, crazy driving, and the possibility of getting bread with chorizo baked inside at any hour of the day. I was excited to spend a few days relaxing on the beach. Yes, I know Málaga has a beach, but the dirty, waveless paddling beach of the city is little comparison for the windswept, Atlantic surf-pounded, relatively-empty beaches of Portugal. I like a beach with caves and the possibility of body surfing for hours.

Looming over our trip, however, was the forecast of a week of rain. Rain. On our beach vacation. We were apprehensive.

On Monday I set out for Sevilla, as our bus left the next day at 7 a.m. Upon arrival, Jackie and Eric met me in Santa Justa station and we walked through the crowded streets of semana santa revelers to Eric's house. That evening we went to dinner at Luna's house, one of Eric's friends, who lives in Triana. Eric's friends all seem to be some sort of artist, as he met most of them through his roommates, who are in theater or drama or dance school. It's a creative household.

La bien pagá sung by a Frenchwoman.

On the way back from dinner we saw a semana santa procession proceeding over the Triana bridge. The thrones are much smaller in Sevilla than they are in Málaga. However, this cofradía had the maximum number of nazarenos (KKK-hatted people) with them, and it was an impressive production.

We set out for Portugal and arrived in Portimão on Tuesday afternoon and went to our hostel. It was sunny. We had a bargain lunch of quiche (so cheap in non-touristy parts of Portugal!) and then put on our suits and headed to Praia da Rocha, the beach famous for its rock structures.

We promptly fell asleep on the beach. That night it clouded over. We stopped at a restaurant on the main plaza to fortify ourselves with some crisp vinho verde from the north before heading to a restaurant, where we ate grilled fish with boiled potatoes, washed down with a liter of house "aka shitty boxed" wine.

The next night was the final of the Copa del Rey, Spain's soccer championship. Like normal, it pitted F.C. Barcelona against Real Madrid, (a matchup called El Clasico, which is like civil war in Spain). We walked into a bar and asked if they would be playing the game, as the Portuguese league had a match that night too. The man looked at us with that distinct "you're not from around here" look and confirmed that they would, indeed, be showing it. We grabbed some seats, some Sagres, and waited for the game to start. By kickoff, we were surrounded completely by a group of Portuguese and African men, yelling and making bets on who would win, talking about Mourihno (Madrid's coach) and Ronaldo (Madríd's forward), both of whom are Portuguese. A small boy who took the chair in front of me decided that we were best friends, and spent the rest of the game staring at that foreign girl. He attempted to explain what offsides was in Portuguese, until he realized that offsides is actually an English word. The game ended after 2 overtime periods, with Ronaldo scoring Madrid's only goal, giving them the cup.

The next day was spitting rain. We had another break and salvaged a few more hours of beach time in a cove that was protected from the wind.

It started pouring, so we went back to the hostel to begin what turned out to be a lot of napping/reading time.

The next day it was stormy. We got back on the bus for a half-hour trip down the coast to Lagos, our next destination. At this point we were looking into turning around and heading for Sevilla, but due to our rusty Portuguese (to say the least) and the fact that the woman at the Plaza de Armas bus station in Sevilla decided that she didn't feel like printing off our return bus tickets, we couldn't manage to change our tickets.

As we got off the bus Jackie called the owner of our second hostel. The confirmation of our reservation did not have directions to the place listed, but said to call the owner, who supposedly spoke English and could come get us. Jackie got out her phone. The conversation went something like this:

"Hi, my name's Jackie and we have a reser....yes....ye........yes...."
Jackie stops smiling.
"Yes, for tonight, for thre..........."
Jackie's face gets serious.
"Yes, we are at the bu........bus..........yes, the bus sta.....ok...."
Jackie looks confused.
"The bus station. And what does your car look like so we know wha.......ok.....gree.......green Foc...ok...."
Jackie is frowning. Jackie shifts her weight.
"Ok, gre.....ok...."
Jackie hangs up.
"This woman is coming to pick us up. She has a green Ford Focus. She talks a lot."

The woman, who was the owner of our guesthouse, was very sweet to come pick us up at the station. Especially because we didn't know where we were going and it was raining. Shortly we saw a car approach and she jumped out, energy overflowing. The talking started. The talking continued. The talking didn't stop.

She learned English from working with tourists over the years and in the short ride to the apartment she told us about the town, where she came from, how her day was, her kids, the Portuguese identity cards, etc. It was a mix of English and Portuguese. When we walked up to the guesthouse she explained in detail our room, the apartment, the view, the weather, the towels, the bathroom, the guestbook, the beach, her trip to Tunisia, the process of bartering, the types of tourists she gets, where things are on the map, a good restaurant to eat fish, where the grocery is, what she would do later that day, and so much more!

On her way out, after about 40 minutes, someone dropped a vale. She turned.
"Hablas español?" she asked, eyeing us. 
"Pues sí, trabajamos en España..."
"Ah! Well I have many Spanish tourists and my granddaughter speaks English and she learns in school and my daughter also speaks a lot and this one time my granddaughter was here and...."

After another 15 minutes we shut the door, sat down, and reveled in the silence. Any thoughts of going home early were dashed, thinking of the time that would be invested in explaining that we were leaving.

It was rainy, so we hunkered down and read and napped for a while. The view from the apartment was gorgeous, and for our own apartment, the price was supercheap.

We spent our time in touristy Lagos moving from café to restaurant to bar. When there is not much else to do than go to the beach, one becomes very attentive to the next meal. And alcohol consumption goes up.

We took a boat ride on our last day to see the grottos around Lagos. They're beautiful rock formations that have been worn away by the sea.

Our last night we ate at a fish restaurant recommended enthusiastically by our host. It was delicious. Eric and Jackie confirmed that it was reminiscent of a Wisconsin fish fry, which I have never been to, but can imagine. It was a giant hall filled with people eating fish. It was great.

The next day we made our way back on the six hour bus to Sevilla and I left for Málaga later that day. The rain was a bummer, but it was a good trip with Jackie and Eric. If you have the chance to get to Portugal, do so. You won´t be disappointed.