06 May 2006 12:23:53 AM
Alrighty, so rather behind on the whole tales from afar so again will have to recount with great but speedy accuracy. So whizzed through Lisbon enjoying every minute to arrive haphazardly in a little town not even our travel guide thought to mention. Once we had alighted from our shaky steed, we looked dumbly at Odd Hoyning, the 60-year old Norwegian from Norway, who didn't quite seem to know what to do with us after wondering why he had made the offer of sharing his little town. Perhaps he was, as we were, banking on a sunny day at the beach but the pouring rain was a bit of a fiddle.
There's a saying somewhere that was rather apt from this point in our trip - 'The rain in Spain follows us bloody everywhere' or so it began to seem, as it had encroached on our happy sunshine of Lisbon, beating us to this little coastal town. So a little awkwardly we got into Odd's car, a Peugeot convertible, and saw our life flash before our blood-shot eyes as he took daring little coastal road bends at 100km/hr whilst nonchalantly pointing out the fauna and flora that blurred by.
A little shaken, well very, even, we fell out at the other end after peeling our white fingernails from the dashboard.
Odd's house was really pleasant, tasteful decor, gosh this is sounding exciting - anyway, put down our bags, and went about preparing a traditionally Norwegian meal - Cod stew. To be fair it was fine. That's fair enough so moving on, um, Odd had a Portuguese friend called Nelson who was so brash and openly raw, bordering rude, you couldn't help but like him. He shared with us his passion for going to Morocco every year as he just had to put two feet on African soil to remind him where he came from - Mozambique, actually. He left there 12 years ago but had no recollection of such foreign countries as Botswana and Swaziland - how odd... Actually, come to say that, it's amazing how stupidly often you use a person's name if it happens to be an adjective, I personally blame the parents but alas, Odd seemed to be my choice word for describing almost everything as I managed to fit both my feet in my mouth.
So Nelson brought with him these things called 'Persivas'. I'm not quite sure how to describe them really, without of course using someone's name, but they looked like little monster toes, hung in clusters growing out of a foot-like mound.
Really attractive. Rather intrigued, I watched them bubble and boil wondering how they might compare with jellied eels and if I should try to bow out now. Knowing Kylie and I weren't getting out of this one with Nelson's strong personality, I heard her chime 'Oh, I can't eat them, I'm allergic to seafood' 'Doh!' So like a lone ranger, I picked up a cluster, inches from my mouth, Nelson asked what I thought I was doing. Lowering the limb I blinked a reply as he plucked one from the bunch, wriggled it out of its little rubber tube and ate it. Now somewhere between amusement and nausea I managed to do the same, and settled down to eat my portion of deep-sea toes, still quite unable to explain what they were, but they beat the cod stew. Most things would. But they really weren't bad.
Anyway, rushing along, went out for some drinks, had a few laughs and the following morning, got a lift in the death trap to Albufeira - the town in which our 4-star hotel resided, on the beach of course. Now paralleling a 4-star hotel to, say, a train station floor is a tricky thing. We arrived in the reception area and immediately got the evil eye from the desk staff who spied our backpacks and desperately wanted the lot, including us, removed from public view. With a dirty sneer, near laughing, the man behind the counter asked 'Do you have a reservation?' knowing nod and smile to his fellow colleagues, he'll sort this out. 'Yes I do, here's my confirmation notice'. Slightly taken aback, obviously from my charm and astounding wit, he took the paper and held it to the light to read, like someone checking a large possibly counterfeit banknote. He begrudgingly but quickly told the bell boy to put our backpacks on a trolley and show us to our rooms, a task which turned out to be rather awkward as 'Pedro' (generalising here) rolled them over looking for the handle.
So we shot up the lift to the 6th floor and were shown to our home for the next week - a gorgeous sea view, clean beds with ensuite showers and little soaps and shower caps and things. It was splendid and we again unpacked our four items of clothing and five minutes later found ourselves lounging on our generous patio, talking a little more snootily than before.
Being the Easter weekend, Albufeira was crawling with stripy English tourists, and although it was fun to again hear a language we understood, it mostly came from retired old coffin-dodgers or little screaming snotty kids on a family holiday, so during the day we tried to keep to ourselves. We were in a perfect position to experience the local night life and did so with gusto, meeting an array of interesting characters. To spare the details, some mornings were rougher, or more absent than others, and the first few days were spent mildly tanning and going to local little markets - you know, all that taxing stuff. Sadly the rain made its way to our side and the beach seemed a tad glum as we planned the rest of our trip to try to coincide with our budget, trying not to cling too much to clean beds and - gasp, a maid coming in every morning to make them! Scandalous.
At the end of the week we checked out with a rather relieved employee, who showed us the little back side door which was 'quicker to the bus station'. With a wave the door shut and almost sounded as if it were locked, and relocked just to check. Weird. So we hopped on a bus and, wanting to dabble a tad more in the delights of Portugal, headed to another coastal city called Faro, edging nearer to the Spanish border. Although it was rainy and a tad chilly, it was a likeable city, and we decided to give it a bash and give the weather a day to calm down before we went across to Spain.
Alrighty, so rather behind on the whole tales from afar so again will have to recount with great but speedy accuracy. So whizzed through Lisbon enjoying every minute to arrive haphazardly in a little town not even our travel guide thought to mention. Once we had alighted from our shaky steed, we looked dumbly at Odd Hoyning, the 60-year old Norwegian from Norway, who didn't quite seem to know what to do with us after wondering why he had made the offer of sharing his little town. Perhaps he was, as we were, banking on a sunny day at the beach but the pouring rain was a bit of a fiddle.
There's a saying somewhere that was rather apt from this point in our trip - 'The rain in Spain follows us bloody everywhere' or so it began to seem, as it had encroached on our happy sunshine of Lisbon, beating us to this little coastal town. So a little awkwardly we got into Odd's car, a Peugeot convertible, and saw our life flash before our blood-shot eyes as he took daring little coastal road bends at 100km/hr whilst nonchalantly pointing out the fauna and flora that blurred by.
A little shaken, well very, even, we fell out at the other end after peeling our white fingernails from the dashboard.Odd's house was really pleasant, tasteful decor, gosh this is sounding exciting - anyway, put down our bags, and went about preparing a traditionally Norwegian meal - Cod stew. To be fair it was fine. That's fair enough so moving on, um, Odd had a Portuguese friend called Nelson who was so brash and openly raw, bordering rude, you couldn't help but like him. He shared with us his passion for going to Morocco every year as he just had to put two feet on African soil to remind him where he came from - Mozambique, actually. He left there 12 years ago but had no recollection of such foreign countries as Botswana and Swaziland - how odd... Actually, come to say that, it's amazing how stupidly often you use a person's name if it happens to be an adjective, I personally blame the parents but alas, Odd seemed to be my choice word for describing almost everything as I managed to fit both my feet in my mouth.
So Nelson brought with him these things called 'Persivas'. I'm not quite sure how to describe them really, without of course using someone's name, but they looked like little monster toes, hung in clusters growing out of a foot-like mound.
Really attractive. Rather intrigued, I watched them bubble and boil wondering how they might compare with jellied eels and if I should try to bow out now. Knowing Kylie and I weren't getting out of this one with Nelson's strong personality, I heard her chime 'Oh, I can't eat them, I'm allergic to seafood' 'Doh!' So like a lone ranger, I picked up a cluster, inches from my mouth, Nelson asked what I thought I was doing. Lowering the limb I blinked a reply as he plucked one from the bunch, wriggled it out of its little rubber tube and ate it. Now somewhere between amusement and nausea I managed to do the same, and settled down to eat my portion of deep-sea toes, still quite unable to explain what they were, but they beat the cod stew. Most things would. But they really weren't bad.Anyway, rushing along, went out for some drinks, had a few laughs and the following morning, got a lift in the death trap to Albufeira - the town in which our 4-star hotel resided, on the beach of course. Now paralleling a 4-star hotel to, say, a train station floor is a tricky thing. We arrived in the reception area and immediately got the evil eye from the desk staff who spied our backpacks and desperately wanted the lot, including us, removed from public view. With a dirty sneer, near laughing, the man behind the counter asked 'Do you have a reservation?' knowing nod and smile to his fellow colleagues, he'll sort this out. 'Yes I do, here's my confirmation notice'. Slightly taken aback, obviously from my charm and astounding wit, he took the paper and held it to the light to read, like someone checking a large possibly counterfeit banknote. He begrudgingly but quickly told the bell boy to put our backpacks on a trolley and show us to our rooms, a task which turned out to be rather awkward as 'Pedro' (generalising here) rolled them over looking for the handle.
So we shot up the lift to the 6th floor and were shown to our home for the next week - a gorgeous sea view, clean beds with ensuite showers and little soaps and shower caps and things. It was splendid and we again unpacked our four items of clothing and five minutes later found ourselves lounging on our generous patio, talking a little more snootily than before.
Being the Easter weekend, Albufeira was crawling with stripy English tourists, and although it was fun to again hear a language we understood, it mostly came from retired old coffin-dodgers or little screaming snotty kids on a family holiday, so during the day we tried to keep to ourselves. We were in a perfect position to experience the local night life and did so with gusto, meeting an array of interesting characters. To spare the details, some mornings were rougher, or more absent than others, and the first few days were spent mildly tanning and going to local little markets - you know, all that taxing stuff. Sadly the rain made its way to our side and the beach seemed a tad glum as we planned the rest of our trip to try to coincide with our budget, trying not to cling too much to clean beds and - gasp, a maid coming in every morning to make them! Scandalous.
At the end of the week we checked out with a rather relieved employee, who showed us the little back side door which was 'quicker to the bus station'. With a wave the door shut and almost sounded as if it were locked, and relocked just to check. Weird. So we hopped on a bus and, wanting to dabble a tad more in the delights of Portugal, headed to another coastal city called Faro, edging nearer to the Spanish border. Although it was rainy and a tad chilly, it was a likeable city, and we decided to give it a bash and give the weather a day to calm down before we went across to Spain.
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