io parle portunhol, boludo

My life here is good. Today I woke up at noon, made some bacon and eggs and toast, and then I walked 5 minutes to the train station and took a $1 ride to the beach. It stays nice and sunny and hot until about 9, so I just laid about with Stephy on the sand all afternoon. The water at Carcavelos is supposedly pretty nasty, but I didn't go in anyway. I feel relatively tan for my normally bluish-white self. But, I have never seen people tan like the people here. Old men walked through the crowds of people selling cerveja fresquinha, batatas fritas, and pipocas, and lining the sidewalk on the way in were old couples and African women selling bikinis, counterfeit CDs, towels, old romance novels, and obviously stolen sunscreen and lotion. I can't really imagine getting all the way to the beach without a bathing suit, but I guess maybe some people are more spontaneous about life than I am.

Language is a fascinating thing in this city. Last night I went out with a German, an Austrian, an Argentinian, and a Brazilian. When I went out in France or Spain, everyone spoke either the local language, or English, because that was what we were either a)reasonably fluent in and a language we had studied for a long time or b)a native speaker. Portuguese is, obviously, not language most people have ever studied. But, many of us have studied a language similar to it. Somehow, our international group got around last night without anyone speaking in pure Portuguese. Almost every sentence would start in Portuguese, morph into "Portunhol", flow into Spanish, and end in English, with an occasional German or French word thrown in for clarification. And it all seemed perfectly normal.

The evening started at the Miradouro Santa Catarina, a scenic overlook down the street from my apartment. It's full of euro-hippies drinking beer and Angolans and Brazilians playing soccer. Not exactly my scene, but I figure it's close and a nice place to sit and have a drink on a warm summer night. After meeting up with Alex and Tomas (originally from São Paulo, but working here in advertising and television) for a Sagres, Stephy and I went home for a bite to eat and planned to go to Bairro Alto later with Anya, the German girl downstairs. I'm not sure how to describe Bairro Alto, except as a seemingly never-ending web of streets lined with bars. I mean, hundreds of bars. And they all serve drinks in plastic cups because nobody stays inside. We met Chacho, an Argentinian guy who works with Tomas (this nationality will follow me wherever I go--and I will always charm them with my Argentine expressions and love of maté and chori-pan), and joined Alex, a cameraman/editor for a sports TV network.

Chacho talked us into going to this "great place" called Plateau, where they played "underground" rock music, "from Asia", not the usual electronic merda heard in European discos. It's illegal for 5 people to be in a taxi, information that was reinforced by the 10 or so taxis who refused to take us along the way. After a long walk we arrived at said Plateau, paid to get in, got a drink, and had a look around. I'm not sure if Chacho was confused, or lying, or just drunk, but the DJ was essentially playing the soundtrack to "The Breakfast Club". Those Portuguese know the words better than I do. At some point Chacho came over with a bottle of whiskey and set in on the floor next to us. Even though people frequently buy bottles in France, this seemed suspicious to me and, sure enough, a security guard escorted Chacho outside. No one in our group really did anything, until a guard came up to me and told me that "my friend was waiting at the door for me". So, I think that maybe we won't be going back to that "underground" club anymore.

I may just have to go back to the beach tomorrow...