An extremely relaxed Sunday. Got up around 1000 and had a leisurely breakfast. The hostel had returned my washed laundry the afternoon before. I washed my shorts and T-shirt and updated the diary. I helped S make an escudo/peseta exchange with an American hosteller. I had no demands on my time until 1500, when I was to meet the Portuguese artist at the cultural centre.
S told me interesting facts about Japan. The Koreans in Japan are distinctive, their faces look different. They like a special style of spectacles. The girls walk hand in hand. But they cannot speak Korean anymore and in speech are indistinguishable from the Japanese. As for himself, he said that he played golf and went fishing with his friends from high school. He would get his tax accountant certificate soon and then be self-employed, rather than being a salaryman.
At 1400 I went for lunch. The Adega Ribatejana was closed so I settled for piri-piri chicken. An Indian couple at the next table sprinkled bits of English in their conversation. Then I had to hurry to the appointment. There were other artists and they were talking about moving to Brazil, to an island near Sao Paulo it seemed. S was undecided. Later I bumped into her again at the hostel, copying addresses of hostels.
S and I shared supermarket shopping again, This time we bought choriço and feijão. After dinner we played billiards again. I listened to a new age station on my radio to lull me to sleep.
In the middle of the night one of the (probably drunk) Aussie boys climbed up the roof to bother the girls in the next dorm from the window. They got rid of him after some altercation
In the morning I felt listless and unmotivated to do anything after the tumult of the night before. To misquote Sartre, company is hell, but no company is also hell. But I had to make an effort so I walked to the bus station and checked the schedules to Sagres. I walked to the eastern beach, Meia Praia, took some photos and had an orange juice. I returned to the town by crossing the narrow channel on a ferry.
I had been moved from dorm 9 from dorm 7. My roommates were one Argentinian and later a few Brazilians. The place had quietened a lot since most of the girls (and boys) left.
At 1500, S finished work at the restaurant and showed up at the cultural centre while I was examining a poster for a concert that night. She had been a lawyer but had abandoned that career to devote herself to painting and sculpture. She was petite, with combed-back hair, and green eyes. We walked and talked on the beach. She said that her dream was running a cafe by the sea. She thought Portugal was being "taken over" economically by the powerful nations of the European Community, e.g. Germany. Maybe that explained the anti-Nazi graffiti, e.g. Nazis are no fun!, I had seen on sundry walls. Not anti-fascist but anti-foreign ownership. But she also thought that the Portuguese were lazy. We agreed to meet again on Sunday.
I felt chirpier after an afternoon nap. The world feels better after a rest; I must remember that. For dinner I tried an East Timorese restaurant, whose staff looked authentic. The Pãu Kukus turned out to be a Chinese pork bun. The Chao Meng de Gambas was exactly that, fried noodles with prawns, only the noodles were flat rather than square, as is normal. The chilies in the condiment dish were fiery and mixed with salt. C had expressed an interest in joining me for the concert, but as the time drew close she was still talking on the phone, to her boyfriend, as it turned out later. So I went by myself. Perhaps it was just as well: the price, 1000 escudos, was ok for me, but might have been a bit pricey for a backpacker like her.
I felt a bit formal in my long sleeved shirt and dark trousers. The players were the Medici Ensemble, comprising graduates of the Porto Conservatory, with a substitution of the pianist Rui Soares da Costa. Some of his vocal compositions performed in the first half were lovely. In the second half, they played lighter pieces by Berlin, Kern, Porter and Gershwin. I was transported to a higher world for a while and forgot my fatigue induced melancholy. Music goes straight to the heart, no matter what style.
I realised that the diary I wrote, the postcards I sent, and the promises I made for later, were all links to my other life, the one back home. What would it be like, I wondered, to be totally cut myself off from that "normal life", say to put my affairs on ice for a year and travel. Was it possible to cut all ties like that?
Some inconsiderate idiot played a drum machine in Room 6 late into the night. I slammed the door of my dorm in anger. He must have heard and played softer afterwards. I left at 0930 and caught the train for the short ride to Lagos.
On approaching I looked out at the marina from the window and already I liked Lagos. But it was very very touristy. I noticed that the local radio station used the first few bars of Santana's hit, Europa, as station identification. In town I got a haircut and delivered the note that M and I had asked me to pass to S, a Portuguese artist they had met in Lagos who worked at the Hong Kong Chinese restaurant. We agreed to meet up later. I had a satisfying lunch of chicken stew at the Adega Ribatejana.
It was breezy in the courtyard of the hostel and a great place for dolce far niente. Lagos seemed to be a party town. I guess the word got around by bush telegraph.
The hostel was handy to the beach, they even lend you beach mats. At the beach I met C and other beach belles, including two South Africans working in London, B, another German girl, a few bronzed Aussies, and H, a Norwegian girl taking a break in Iberia before heading to Nice for studies.
I joined R and N, the South African girls, in grocery shopping for a group spaghetti diner and helped with the cooking. From left to right, C, H and B. After dinner C brought out her guitar and played a little while B sang. H tried her hand at a tune.
Then we all headed into a music bar in town where a Peruvian band was playing. I was exhausted by the end of the night. It bound to be quieter the next day as the girls were leaving early.
At 1400 I went for lunch. The Adega Ribatejana was closed so I settled for piri-piri chicken. An Indian couple at the next table sprinkled bits of English in their conversation. Then I had to hurry to the appointment. There were other artists and they were talking about moving to Brazil, to an island near Sao Paulo it seemed. S was undecided. Later I bumped into her again at the hostel, copying addresses of hostels.
