In another country

Quick, go--first thoughts on Portugal: It's a lot quieter than Spain. People don't talk as much or as loudly; doors aren't slammed as much; there are fewer motorcycles. People speak more English and smoke less than in Spain. It's cheaper here.

I was kinda supposed to be in Lisbon today; I'm only in Faro because of the terrorists. See, the bus ride from Sevilla to Lisbon takes 7.5 hours, and at the bus station they told me to buy the ticket ahead of time because they buses often sell out. So I bought the ticket before I went to Cádiz, which was back when I thought I might not be able to charge my iPod for months. (And I need a new charger because my old charger got ruined by shampoo, which exploded because the terrorists made British Airways make me check my bag.) Seven plus hours on a crowded bus without music seemed like cruel and unusual punishment, and the bus stops in Faro, a mere 2.5 hours from Sevilla on the south coast of Portugal. And I've been feeling beachy lately and I have a place to stay. So here I am in Faro.

Right after I got here I had a drink with this Italian-Swiss guy that I met on the bus who has perhaps the nicest teeth I've ever seen. He had an hour to kill before catching another bus to Lagos to go surfing. So we're at this cafe and this old guy sits down with his little dog. I think it was some kind of poodle. The waiter brings him a Coke, a glass of ice, a glass of water, and a saucer. After pouring some Coke into the glass with ice, he pours a mix of Coke and water into the saucer and feeds it to the dog, who's sitting on his lap. He was one of those older guys whose mouth is always smiling, and when the dog's ear got in the Coke he wiped it off with a napkin. It was the cutest thing ever. So far so good.

I'm staying with Mehmet, a Turkish civil engineering student. We had lunch at this place that felt like someone's backyard, where an old guy with about three teeth cooked sardines on an old beat-up grill and told war stories that I could only barely follow. (Portugal had some involvement in Angola. I did not know that. Later I saw another older guy with some names and Angola 1972 tattooed on his arm.)

Mehmet is Muslim and seems to be in something of a transitional state with his faith. He doesn't eat pork and he prays, at least sometimes, but he started drinking occasionally when he came to Portugal and he's currently reading the Koran to get a better sense of things. And he wants to marry a virgin. I wanted to start trying Portuguese wine, so I ended up pre-partying (there's a term I haven't heard since college) with one of the more devout Muslims I've ever personally met. Bizarre. He lives a longish walk from the city center and thought we should ride bikes to the bar. Sounded like bad idea jeans to me (I can't ride a bike properly when I'm sober), so I was relieved when one of the bikes had a flat tire. But he really didn't want to walk, so I rode on the back of his bike. (We've gone from college to junior high.) Not on the spokes, because there were no spokes: I was on the seat and he was on the pedals. It was a little fun and exhilirating, but mostly scary and painful. (I had to hold my feet up and back the whole time to keep them out of the way of things like walls and oncoming traffic.) And sobering, so the pre-partying ended up being for naught. And I can't tango.