Paris

Yessica and I commenced our romantic weekend to France watching some X-rated, not-so-discreet, canoodling through the narrow crack that (supposedly) separates airline chairs during our flight to Paris. With Ryanair's congested and narrow seating map, we couldn't have been any closer than if we were actually tongue-tied with these fools.

Let me provide a contextual background: as a whole, Europe has no qualms about PDA. In fact, groping is communally habitual next to waking up, brushing your teeth, and going to work. But this couple transcended the line of affectionate over-the-
sweater action. These sexually ravenous beasts were going at it like two greased-up baboons battling for air. Oh, and this was no sprint. It's a full-out freaking marathon. You know the flight duration from Madrid to Paris? THREE HOURS. I won't even consider locking lips with a guy for at least three weeks after witnessing that abomination. I should have stuck my face right up to the crack to see how they liked it... "No no, it's cool. Please continue."

Okay, this was taken in Times Square, but you get the picture.

After landing in the tiniest airport on earth, Yessica and I take an hour-long bus ride into the sparkling city of Paris. Ridden with anxious anticipation, we explode from our seats as the bus pulls into its terminal. We gather our bulky belongings and descend the stairs into the warm Paris night air. The city hums with romantic charisma as amorous couples drown the streets, flocking restaurants and bars. Of all the places I've visited thus far, Paris is by far the most enamoring. From the top of the Eiffel Tower to the wide depths of the Seine River, every crevice of the shimmering city is robust with romance--everywhere you turn, some couple is performing the 1950's emotional embrace dipping kiss that you see on posters. Jerks.

For our romantic weekend getaway, I arranged for Yessica and I to stay with my friend Malcom and his family in the heart of Paris. I met Malcolm about three years ago when he came to the States to find work as a sound engineer. His lanky 5'9" stature supports a handsome face with delicate features, thin amber hair, and the hairiest, most barbaric-looking chest I've ever seen. With a true, deeply rooted love for France and a strong abhorrence for America, my friends and I took huge delight in fucking with Malcolm's affiliation for his country:
"Dude, let's sing 'Proud to be an American' to piss off Malcolm!"
"Yeah! Wait... Do you know any other words besides the refrain?"
"Uhh... Who cares, man. Malcom will hate the refrain and it will be AWESOME!"

Another charming attribute I associate with Malcolm, and Malcolm only is this: he is, hands down, the most disgruntled, agitated human being I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Malcolm hates EVERYTHING. You like a song? Malcolm thinks it's the worst song ever made. You like football? Football is the dumbest sport known to man. You like babies? Man, fuck babies. I'm not even fully convinced Malcolm likes me all that much, but I don't care. I love that pestered little French bastard nonetheless.

I greet Malcolm with a slow-motion running embrace. First thing he says to kindle our two-month reunion: "I'll show you around Paris, but I WILL NOT take you to the Eiffel Tower. Fuckin' hate that place. So many tourists. I fuckin' hate tourists." God, how I've miss you, Malcolm.

We take the train back to Malcolm's apartment--the coolest, most French-looking urban living space I've ever stepped foot in. Located just west of Paris in one of the city's most affluent residential areas, the antique-looking residence is adjoined to the oldest school in Paris.

We entered an open living space lined with inundated book shelves that scaled the rustic brick walls. The old wooden floors creaked as we cased the narrow halls leading to the bedrooms and one large room with a piano and an enormous standing base (his dad is a musician and teacher). The cozy kitchen, clearly made for a chef, has elaborate cooking utensils arranged strategically on the wooden cutting table, long webs of garlic and red Chilean peppers strung from the ceiling against the wall, and fresh herbs growing in a small boxed-in garden next to the window. The overall ambiance of Malcolm's apartment is so comfortable you practically sink into its surroundings.This is my sanctuary.

Lethargic from our extensive day of travel, Yessica, Malcolm, and I prepare a feast of pasta oilio, thinly sliced cured ham, a rich bottle of French red wine, and bread and butter. Side note: France has THE greatest butter in the universe. If you're ever traveling in Paris, stock up. I don't know what it is about the taste, but I could eat it like a Snickers bar.

As the three of us guzzle decadent wine and wreak culinary havoc around the stove and cutting table, we're greeted by Nicole and Peter, Malcolm's parents--the coolest set of parents ever. Seriously though, if more couples mirrored these two, we'd have a lot less intolerable children in this world. You know, the kids who make you seriously reconsider ever bearing offspring. Why Malcolm appears so vexed all the time is beyond me.

Peter, a traveling bassist and steady music teacher, was--get this--born in New Jersey and Nicole, who is ranked highly among the school administration board (thus the impetus behind their bomb-ass apartment) moved to France after being born in Venezuela to an Italian father and French mother. Therefore, according to my calculations, this makes Malcolm 1/4 organic, full-blooded French. Fuck you, Malcolm, you stupid French wannabe. The two met on a cruise ship--Peter playing music and Nicole working as a waitress simply to travel. It was Elizabeth who kept Peter on board the ship for an additional year.

Now, I'm no hopeless romantic by any means. In fact, I pity those who are. "Oh my GAWD, I like totally sobbed during the 'Notebook'. She still comes back to him even though, like, they're still old and stuff. True love really does exist!" Correction: Nicholas Sparks is just really good at his job. There's a one-in-a-million chance your fate will resemble the fabricated epic love story of Noah and Allie's. Grow up.

However, I, the pessimist, was struck by Nicole and Peter's romance. The two met and fell deeply in love on a ship that both of them boarded by chance. They pursued a long-distance relationship--Nicole in France, Peter in the States--for an additional two years until Peter threw in the towel and moved to Paris. The two didn't marry until after having their two children, Malcolm and Lucinda, and have cultivated a home dripping with love and strong family bonds. Que mono. How cute.

We swapped stories until midnight when Yessica and I, satiated and content, fell fast asleep, using each passing minute as energizing agents to fuel the rest of our extravagantly glutenous weekend.

Portugal Part 4: The Truth Hurts

What better way to spend your last day in the shimmering city of Lisbon than wandering the ghetto looking for a contemporary art museum.

We passed an art museum--which seemed in close proximity to our metro stop--riding the train home from the beach the previous day:
"Why don't we walk? It's such a beautiful day," I suggest.
"You know where it is?"
"Uh yeah, dude we like totally passed it on the train ride yesterday, remember?"
"Okay, lead the way!"

So we set out for another traveling excursion...

We navigate along (what we assume is) the train route. We walk. And walk. And walk some more. "Shouldn't we have reached it by now?" says Yessica. "I think it's just a bit further up here on the right," I reply, not having the vaguest notion of our actual location. With each stride the elaborate intricacy of the picturesque graffiti fades to a grungy chicken scratch. Suddenly, Lisbon had lost it's luster. I scan our desolate industrial surroundings and feel my palms dampen. Yep, we're in the ghetto. Two young female travelers, who can't speak the language, with no operating cell phones, and minimal cash. Rick DiBucci is somewhere having a conniption right now.

Fuck my life.

Frantic, we attempt to hunt down an English speaker, dodging threatening glares and gawking old Portuguese men with about four rotting yellow teeth (in total). Of all days to forget my samurai sword...

We finally spot two men in uniforms--for what, I'm not sure, but the name tags seemed reassuring nonetheless:
"Hello, do you speak English?" asked Yessica.
Blank stare.
"Spanish?"
"Si."  
Sigh of relief.

Me after I'm through with the bastard.

Yessica proceeds to ask him where the museum is. "He said it's a 30-minute walk from here." Fan-fucking-tacstic. The attendant then proceeds to pull out his phone and blurts out a hasty question to Yessica. "He says he wants our numbers..." Are ya kiddin' me? We shake our heads and, just like that, he turns around and disappears into the building, leaving us stranded once again. If I had my sword I would have stabbed this asshole right in the heart.

After an hour of dire panic, we catch a bus back to our metro stop and head for the beach. We sleep for hours, trying to cleanse ourselves of our morning debauchery.

After assuaging our nerves and returning to The Independente, we shower and beautify ourselves for our last night in Portugal. Considering our 9:00am flight, we agreed to return to the hostel early after only a few drinks. But, like all our traveling itineraries, the night didn't quite unravel as planned.

We set out for the bar that Peter tried touching Yessica's boobies in the night before. We plop down on the bar stools to be greeted by a very attractive older female bartender--rough around the edges, but stunning nonetheless. "Let's get tequila shots!" cried Yessica.

Let me provide a brief overview of my alcohol tolerance. I absolutely loathe shots. They suck. The smell of naked hard alcohol is enough to singe my nose hairs and cause me to pass out. I'd rather bong gasoline.

So, naturally, I took a shot. Forcing down vomit, Yessica demands another. "Yessi, PLEASE. I can't take another shot. I'll vom all over you." Yessica's posture straightens as she proudly boasts, "Girl, I'm MEX-I-CAN! Tequila runs through my blood. You can't take shots cause you're white as hell..." What did I tell you? Racist.

I sit back and watch Yessica rip four more tequila shots (one was a combination of tequila, vodka, and gin--one ingredient short of arsenic), and we order two more mixed drinks to carry with us around the congested Lisbon alleyways. Lit up and rosy-cheeked, we sway back and forth arm-in-arm through the cobblestone streets, laughing and slurping our beverages like toddlers drinking from sippy cups.

Polishing off our big-girl drinks, we sluggishly head in the direction of our hostel, droopy-eyed and up to our necks in gratification. Until something catches Yessica's eye... or ear, rather--an after-hours dance bar. "Oh my gawwwddd! Can we please go dance?!" begs Yessica. "Hell yes."

God really cheated me with with the dancing gene. My excitement and infatuation for dancing never translate to my actual body language. The disconnect between my brain and body limbs have resulted in a general flailing motion, having striking resemblance to one of those huge inflatable air dancing figures posted in front of car dealerships. Now I know why I was placed towards the back in the choreography of my grade school dance recital. And Yessica's not much different. Except she's cute and Mexican so she can get away with it. I'm just another sorry-ass white chick who sucks at dancing.

Bursting with excitement, Yessica and I barge through the doors of the bar straight past the security guard. If he had tried to restrain us, I probably would have picked his Frankenstein-looking ass up by the neck and tossed him like a rag doll. We wanted to dance, God damn it

The bar was dark and musky with three steps descending to the 30' x 30' dance floor. Danza Kuduro blared as we pushed, kicked, and scratched our way to center stage. We danced our little hearts out, attracting "what-the-fuck?" glances and a small army of sexy black Portuguese men (Yessican's boobs=tractor beams). From a bird's-eye view we looked like two marshmallows floating in a venti hot chocolate--one a little toasty brown and the other white and fluffy.

After about thirty minutes of getting yelled at by the band for repeatedly knocking into the lead singer's microphone, Yessica and I bid fare well to our new friends and stumble around the corner to our hostel. We tiptoe into the sleeping quarters around 4:00am, trying (unsuccessfully) not to wake the other travelers. We hoist ourselves into our bunks--Yessica on the second and me on the third--and I let out a deep sigh as my head hits the pillow. I began to drift until Yessica half-whispers:
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't feel so good..."
Ruh roh.

I help Yessica out of bed and guide her to the bathroom. "I just want to sit in the bathroom for a while (hiccup). You know (hiccup), just in case." We plop down on the bathroom floor--me against the wall, Yessica lying down with her head in my lap. I clothes my eyes as Yessica calls literally every freaking person in her phone book. Finally, I'm forced to wrestle the phone away from her when she begins dialing her mother: "But, Alex (hiccup)! I'm (hiccup) totally fiiieeennnn-ah!" Nice try.

Defeated, Yessica quits struggling and stares blankly at the ceiling:
"Alex?"
"What's up, Yessica?"
"I just realized something."
"What's that?"
"I'm not Mexican," she sniffles. "I'm... I'm Mexican-American!"

You can't make this shit up. I've re-told this story at least 435 already.

Hungover and reeking of rancid alcohol (Yessica, baring a scent strikingly close to Jose Cuervo), we board our plane, breathless and dehydrated from hustling to make it to our gate in time for departure. We sink into our seats, adjusting ourselves for an hour and ten minutes of deep, REM-cycle sleep when--of course--a screaming child starts to wail.

I've never had such an overwhelming desire to punch an infant. The piercing sound emanating from this miniature terror sounded like something between a pterodactyl in heat and a cat being strangled. I thoroughly hated this child.

So as I sit awake, cursing myself for forgetting my iPod, I reflect fondly over my weekend rendezvous. My love for Lisbon, Portugal runs strong and deep. Even since then, I've traveled to several of Europe's staple historic cities and have yet to find an experience that's come close Lisbon. I hope to one day return with ample time and money to further explore and dissect the small exotic country. Until then, I will think of her fondly, being forever grateful for my weekend of passion and beauty, letting the anticipation build until I'm cradled in arms once again.

Portugal Part 3: Karma Rears its Ugly Head

After our night of rambunctious candor (I like to think of mine as an excerpt from 'Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights'), we wake up surprisingly early and depart for the Portuguese beach, San Pedro de Estoril. We jot down directions given to us by one of the hostel employees and scurry out the door to be greeted by a clear blue sky and mild end-of-summer heat. It was the perfect beach day.

Remember how I said females lack the navigation gene? Well, my spidey senses failed me yet again (shocker), and this time my misfortune was twofold.

Failure number one: finding the correct train route and buying a metro pass. It's like mother nature enjoys fucking with us. First, we couldn't pinpoint the correct train:
"It's the purple one. Didn't he mention something about the color purple?"
"No, purple is just your favorite color. You associate everything with purple."
"Oh yeah."
We waste about thirty minutes standing like idiots in front of a huge metro map, of course, to no avail. Light bulb. "Hey, let's just ask somebody!" My mom always told me, "For as smart as you are, you are so fucking stupid." I guess I can see the merit in that.

We nail down our train. FINALLY. Now, for our next act, Yessica and I will attempt to buy the actual metro passes. We try translating the Portuguese directions and poke at random kiosk buttons for roughly five minutes. Needless to say, our efforts are fruitless. Finally, after excessively prodding at the large metal box and inserting way to many coins, the machine spits out a receipt. "My ticket!" cries Yessica. Sigh of relief. I proceed to purchase mine, following the same steps Yessica performed seconds before me, except my procedure resulted in one additional product: an actual ticket.

I glance behind me to see perturbed Yessica slowly waving her receipt in front of the electronic metro gates like a security guard scanning her metal-detector wand over an airport passenger. Oy vey.

"Your transaction didn't give you a ticket."
"WHAT? I don't have any coins left!"
"Here, use mine and I'll buy another one."

She inserts my ticket in the metro gate and the doors part like the Red Sea. She enters and turns to face me: "Just run in behind me. Hurry, before the doors close!" Now, I don't know what distant, off-the-beaten-road part of my brain considered this a promising option. But I went for it. I frantically scuffle through the gateway when BAM! Doors clothes. Sirens ring. Lights flash. Oh, and all the metro gates stop working for at least a minute. Guess this is what I get for laughing at Yessica for slipping in poop. Karma's a real bitch.

San Pedro de Estoril

After wasting an hour at the metro stop and evading incarceration, we make it to San Pedro de Estoril. And let me tell you, the transportation struggle was worth it. The beach is breathtaking. Located at the base of towering ebony rocks, the off-white sand is scattered with sun-kissed bodies kicking soccer balls, playing racket tennis, and peacefully baking in the sun. Yessica and I lay down our belongings, strip down to our suits, sprawl out on our scarves, and pass the fuck out.

I wake up (what seems like) an hour later. I forgot my watch and my cell provider sent me a defective charger--rendering my phone useless--so I have no concept of time. But as I glance out over the sharp blue waters of the Atlantic, blanketed comfortably by the mid-day sun, I find it difficult to care. I just sit and watch. To my left I see a young couple canoodling and reading newspapers. They seem happy and very much in love. Glancing to my right, I see a younger man, probably in his mid thirties, playing paddle ball with an older gentleman who appears to be his father. The son lets his old man win.

We make it back to the hostel around 7:00pm, shower, and have a mouthwatering dinner at the hostel restaurant consisting of pear and apple gazpacho, strips of crispy bread drizzled with olive oil and parsley, baked chicken stuffed with goat cheese and artichokes, and a three-layer ice cream dessert. Burp.

Following our feast, Yessica chooses to stay in to catch up on sleep, but I've got a hot date with the cute, bad-ass bartender lady, Vanessa. I hang around the hostel bar boozing and mingling with the other travelers until midnight when Vanessa gets off work. "You ready?" She chirps. And we're on our way.

Vanessa is booked to DJ at "Bedroom Bar" located about three streets east of my hostel. We enter through a curtain towards a musky square-shaped room with a small disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Vanessa posts up camp at her DJ station and mixes until about 3:30am. Within those three hours several other travelers staying at the hostel stop in to see Vanessa (She reels them in like moths to a flame. It's actually quite impressive.). We all bob our heads and chat over drinks and cigarettes.

Random fact: in case you were wondering, French people really do loathe Americans. I learned this conversing with a short, sandy-haired French dude whose hatred for Americans pumped vehemently through every inch of his body, dubbing America "the dumbest country in the world". He then proceeded to hit on me ten seconds later... "Oh, I should leave with you despite your overwhelming hatred for people just like myself? Like, totally. Can I just jump your bones right here, right now?" Fugging idiot.

In the midst of bidding adieu to my new friends, Vanessa protests my departure: "Oh no. This is when the real party starts. You're coming clubbing with us." Done.

We end up in a distant urban area of Lisbon at some underground Portuguese club with a line circling the block. "Follow me," says Vanessa. She struts her 6" heels up to the bouncer, spews out a couple of sentences in Portuguese and, of course, we're let right in ahead of the line. Love this chick. We enter a colossal smoke-filled warehouse with blaring rave music and flashing neon lights. The air is sticky as coked-out sweaty bodies jump up and down in a communal ecstasy. I thought places like this only existed in movies. No time to waste. Finna get my fist pump on.

We danced until 5:00am and, as the party peaked, I left when this forty-something year old guy with a scarecrow-looking black hat was following me around trying to convince me he was the devil. "You know, my friends call me the devil. They're right you know. You do drugs?" "Welp... See ya later!"

Exhausted, I return to the hostel as the sun rises, falling dead asleep the moment my head hits the pillow. You'd think this night would represent the pinnacle of my Lisbon experience. But it doesn't. I was in for a world of debauchery my final night's stay.

Portugal Part 2: How Ya Pooin'?

According to Yessica, she snores only when she's "extremely tired". False. Yessica snores any and every time she's not awake. As a result, I spend most of my first night in Portugal staring at the ceiling in my bunk atop Yessica's, waiting for the sun to rise and tacking on hours to my heaping pile of sleep deprivation (Europe is slowly, but surely, making me an insomniac). Finally, Yessica's snoring miraculously softens to a cartoon-like snooze and I begin to drift... Only to be instantly awakened by some girl puking on what sounded like the doorstep of our hostel. Not just puking, but violently retching. I'd be baffled if the poor girl still has all of her organs intact.

6:00am finally rolls around and I start my day, showering, doing homework, and making it downstairs for a complimentary smorgasbord of freshly squeezed juices, cereals, and bread with accompanying jams, cheeses and ham. Needless to say, I do work. And grind hard.

After breakfast, I nap until 1:30pm, finally catching up on some much-needed Zs, and Yessica and I set out for Castillo de San Jorge, a medieval Moorish castle positioned at the acme of Lisbon's highest hill. After two hours of locating the trolly designated to take us to the castle, riding the trolly up to the castle, and, like idiots, missing the effing stop for the castle, we ended up right where we left off: in the middle of Lisbon shit out of luck, trying to find our way back up to the castle. Don't worry, Loid. We'll catch our break soon. Just gotta keep our eyes open...

New Russian amigos.

We start truckin'. And let me tell you, the cobblestone streets of Lisbon may look aesthetically impeccable, but are a real bitch on the feet. Psycho bitch, to be exact. Looking like a pair of sweaty disgruntled homeless women, we stumble upon a pack of Russian tourists who shockingly take our smelly asses under their wing (Don't ask me to spell their names. Their alphabet is about as legible as a Pentecostal priest speaking tongues. I won't do it.).

View of Lisbon from top of Castillo de San Jorge. Titties.

As we neared the pinnacle of the mountain, our new friends treated us to several bottles of white wine and we clanked our plastic cups in a celebratory "we-finally-reached-the-fucking-top" toast. The Castillo de San Jorge is spectacular. We traced every angle and orifice of the medieval stone landmark in awe. There's something about standing in amidst a towering ancient, history-shaping piece of architecture that makes you feel so trivial, so unimaginable small in the realm of humanity and time; but at the same time, assert confidence knowing that people just like you wield great power if able to leverage and hone their potential...

And then Yessica wiped out in the middle of the Castle's wide-open and heavily tourist-populated courtyard. So we left. Smooth.

After we worked our way back down the hill to the heart of Lisbon, we ate a sub-par Portuguese dinner outdoors and began the walk that would result in one of the hardest stomach-clenching, I-can't-breath laughs of my young adult life.

Lost (again), we change direction for the fourth time in search of our hostel. "It's this way. We have to go up that steep hill with the graffiti," I say. To which Yessica replies, "Every hill is steep with graffiti." Shit.

We're holding hands, giggly and gaily swinging our arms in adolescent euphoria. We're in freaking Portugal! Doesn't being in love give off endorphins or something? Anyway, the streets are littered with people and rambunctious mystique as the hot fall air melts to a crisp breeze. The sky is dark but the streets shimmer with light and movement. It's (almost) the freakin' weekend, baby!

Yessica and I walk at a moderate pace, probably talking about how white I am and how Mexican Yessica is (she's racist), when suddenly... BAM. Yessica goes down. "What the fu-?.... Ohhhh man..." Oh yes, ladies and gents. Yessica did a banana peel, feet-in-the-air style wipe out in a fresh steamy pile of dog shit. There was poo everywhere--on her feet (she was wearing open-toed sandals), on her hands, everywhere. So I did what any other sensitive and empathetic friend who just witnessed a mortifying and potentially scarring life experience would do: I collapsed to the ground in roaring laughter. It's not every day your friend falls in shit on a congested sidewalk in the middle of one of the world's most exquisite cities.

After I find my breath and rub out my cramp, I look at Yessica who flashes me a vicious glare. Ooooo Yessica maddddd. Mad is an understatement. Girl's pissed.

Let me provide a quick backdrop for this story. Yessica is a 19-year-old, 5'3" gregarious Latina girl from the suburbs of Chicago with tight black curls and deep brown eyes. She wears a matching rainbow-striped pajama set to bed and goes ape-shit over red convertible Mini Coopers. If I could, I'd jar her laugh and sell it to teddy bear manufacturing companies.

Continuing on, I use every last ounce of strength to compose myself and erase the smirk from my face. "Think of a dying puppy, think of a dying puppy." Composed. I think... "Oh no, Yessica (smirk). I'm so sorry (giggle). Let's get you to a bathroom to wash up (tehehe...)."

Smelling like ass, we hobble to the nearest Starbucks and lock ourselves in the bathroom for twenty minutes while Yessica sanitizes her entire body.

After Yessica is poop-free, we finally make it back to our hostel to shower and beautify ourselves for our first night on the town in Portugal. We invite our new friend, Peter to come along and, after several glasses of wine at the hostel bar, we walk no more than 100 yards down the bumpy sidewalk, towards the web of smaller cozier streets behind the main drag. Young, handsome men and women swarm the small streets, buzzing and kissing cheeks with their drinks in hand. Lisbon's nightlife is unlike any after-hour experience I've ever had. No one really spends much time in the bars; the real party manifests in the streets until about 3:00am where it matures and shifts to after-hour night clubs near the center of the city.

Yessica, Peter and I buy several rounds of drinks and, feeling a substantial buzz, head out to the streets to mingle. The area resonates with a vibrant current as we carry on, laugh, and swap stories. Over the course of the night and after one too many drinks, poor Yessica had to shield herself from Peter's pan as his hands started exploring the areas north of her belt line. (Another quick fact about Yessica: chick's got huge knockers. I'm talking gargantuan, Pamela Anderson-sized boobies. I can't really blame Peter. They stare right at you.). So, she kicked Peter and his green hat to the curb as I was whisked away to a Brazilian dancing bar with the tall, dark hunk of man, Raffaele, who is 6'3", half Italian, half Brazilian and barely speaks a word of English. Tommy likey.

Raffaele and I danced and swung our hips until around 3:00am (him-sexily, me-not so much) when he walked me to my hostel. He kissed me on the cheek and we parted ways, never to see each other again. So awesome. That's what I love about Portugal: it's devilish allure is organically unpredictable; but it always keeps you wanting more.

Portugal Part 1: The Affair

"You're staying at a what?"
"A hostel."
"A hospital?!"
"No dad, a HOS-TEL."
"I don't understand... Why are you staying at a hospital? Are you hurt?"
"I'm staying at a... place, dad."
"Ohhhh, a place... Why didn't you just say that?"

This is the conversation I had with my dad upon my entry into our hostel, The Independente (which is spectacular, by the way. If you're ever in Lisbon, Portugal, I suggest you stay here: http://www.theindependente.pt/lisboa/). Rick's not much of a traveler, but he vicariously tags along through my journeys nonetheless. Next stop: Lisbon, Portugal.

Now, I've previously mentioned my wholehearted infatuation with Spain. And I love her dearly, but I confess to a passionate weekend rendezvous with her half-sister, Portugal. Before departing for Lisbon, my roommate, Enrique, warned me, "There's a spell on Lisbon. I don't know what it is, but you won't want to leave." And, sure enough, five minutes within eyesight of the city, I was smitten. The buildings, streets, and people resonate with colorful zing and the air is laden with whimsical mystique. Every friggin' inch is dripping with beauty. Even the graffiti is breathtaking for crying out loud. Yep. My affair had begun.

Let me plead my case. Madrid, enchanting as all hell, is like Natalie Portman--sultry, classic, and charming. But, for those of you who have seen Black Swan, Portugal resembles Mila Kunis--the same attractive charm, but with an exotic, sexy flair. Natalie is gorgeous, but Mila is hot... Smokin' hot.

So, like my first middle school crush, I fell hard for Lisbon. Hard and fast.

Running on roughly three hours of sleep each, my roommate and I immediately dumped our bags in the hostel and scurried off like prepubescent school girls who just spotted Justin Bieber in a hotel parking lot--cameras, stupid smiles, and all (I may have let out a high-pitched squeal, but I swear it was involuntary). We explored the city, snapping touristy pictures and soaking in the thick afternoon air--actually enjoying getting lost, blaming our mishaps on our insatiable appetite to explore, justifying every wrong turn with the look-on-the-bright-side, "It's a learning experience!"

A word about navigation. A woman's ineptitude for direction is the only negative female stereotype I willingly attest to. We SUCK at navigating. My roommate, Yessica, and I probably walked eight extra miles due to our complete ignorance of a map. "Yeah yeah, we're going the right way... I remember seeing a blue building like five hours ago when we were walking at the opposite end of Lisbon. Oh FUCK but that building had shutters. This one doesn't have shutters. Okay, let's just lap the city one last time." It makes for interesting traveling experiences... Which I'll get to later.

Finally, we made it back to the hostel, showered, threw on some summer dresses, and headed on down to the hostel bar for happy hour (yes, this place has a bar). Yessica, bless her little soul, forgot her phone charger and waited in our room to charge her phone with the charger that our new friend, Peter from some tiny ass country in the Soviet Union, let her borrow. So I headed to the bar solo, plopped down in a bar stool and was greeted by the cutest damn thing I've ever seen in a bartender uniform--Vanessa.

A sex-ified Polly Pocket, Vanessa is about 4'9", brunette, and full of spunk. We instantly struck up conversation about everything from school, home, and traveling to cooking, music, and birthdays. Our personalities clicked (maybe because we're both Libras) and we arranged for me to go see her DJ that upcoming Friday at a local bar (as if she wasn't bad-ass enough... The bitch DJ's).

Side note: It's unbelievable how we (or at least I) rarely meet anyone of striking similarity during our familiar daily routine, but can connect with someone right off the bat halfway around the world who follows a completely different life pattern. Weird how shit works out.

Yep. This is the view from my hostel.

So, after learning how to roll my first cigarette with Vanessa on a bench overlooking the city across from our hostel, I met Yessica and our new friend Peter to venture the Lisbon streets for a quality Portuguese dinner. Peter, by the way, is the spitting image of Peter Pan--little with sculpted arms and legs, pointy ears, and a funny green hat.

We stumble upon an all-you-can-eat Portuguese buffet where we gorge ourselves with succulent pork and beef tenderloin, flaky fish and seafood, and exotic sauteed vegetables. Yessica and I gulp down a liter of white sangria and, about to pop, sleepily scuffle back to our hostel. We needed a good night's rest for the remaining debauchery we unknowingly had ahead of us...

frol·ic[frol-ik] noun, verb, -icked, -ick·ing, adjective

noun

1. merry play; merriment; gaiety; fun.

2. a merrymaking or party.

3. playful behavior or action; prank.

I run through this.

During my run through one of Spain's largest and most aesthetically revered parks, Parque de Retiro--which bears something similar to the Bible's manifestation of The Garden of Eden and is located about 20 swift strides from my host mother's front door--I couldn't help but notice the overall happiness level of Madrid's city dwellers. Maybe it's something in the water, but this happiness pumps so vehemently through their veins that, well, they frolic. 

Now, we throw this term around to (improperly) indicate the state of someone acting stupidly happy. You know, those idiots we see literally jumping for joy over a menial accomplishment--my close family and friends experience this every time the Steelers score a touchdown, I win a game of beer pong, or my dad offers to take me out for ice cream. It's a pathetic association. Although we use this word ignorantly without the faintest idea of its literal definition, the people of Spain truly do frolic. Life here reminds me of a less-cheesy nauseating beach commercial featuring a blissful family laughing over nothing with jubilant background music (in slow motion, of course). In America, unless there are red cups or heaping piles of free food assembled in a poorly monitored area, we rarely witness a group of people joined together by the common love of just being happy. These people roller blade for fuck's sake. Name me one person out of your circle of friends who roller blades. That's what I thought, no one. Sure, it's most likely a cultural thing, but still. 

But even more than that, these people don't bite off more than they can chew--a crippling and all-too-common habit we Americans go ape shit over: "What? A third job needed to pay for the car I can't afford (but match my sunglasses so its totally worth it), so that I can drive my kid to get that thing that he'll play with for two days and eventually craft into a weapon to beat his younger brother with, so that my Tommy is more popular than Patricia's gremlin-looking beast of a kid, Jacob (God, she's such a drunken nosey bitch. Which reminds me, I should call her.)...? SOCK IT TO ME, BABY!"

Things are smaller here: the portions, homes, cars, people, etc. For instance, Spanish restaurants don't offer (are you sitting down?) to-go bags. And as a result of such modesty, people are ingrained with contentment. Many of us will never have the pleasure of experiencing this phenomenon. True happiness could flog us like a spider monkey in heat, but we'd keep trudging along, hypnotized by the whorish power of the almighty dollar. But, for those of us willing to sift through the clutter and clean our foggy filters of the superficial, clandestine bullshit, maybe we can one day capture a glimpse of what the overall Spanish population experiences every day--raw, real happiness.

Holy shit, my brain hurts. Go Steelers!

"Just get a fucking fanny pack. Trust me, I saw the movie 'Taken'. You'll get pick-pocketed, kidnapped, and sold on the European sex trade and spend the rest of your life living in agony. Is that what you want?!"

Thanks, dad. 

Rick's a worrier. And the impetus for one of the most hideous purchases of my adult life. Behold... The Fanny Pack. Now, I'm no fashionista by any means. But I do know that wearing a fanny pack around the fashion-forward streets of Madrid, Spain will only exaggerate my sweet touristic charm.

"This one is sleek and skinny. You can wear it with almost anything!" said the overenthusiastic luggage
salesman several days prior to my departure. I replied with a sarcastic "Awesome." and begrudgingly bought the fanny pack along with a thick over-the-shoulder bag that has about a million zippers and is pickpocket-,water-, and atomic bomb-proof. I'm one monogrammed beret away from the Griswold family in 'National Lampoon's European Vacation'.

Within minutes of departing the plane, I was struck by the city's relentless beauty. Everyone--men, women, old people, dogs, etc.--and everything is overwhelmingly gorgeous. So much so that your eyes sting if you look at your surroundings for an extended period of time. Vibrant tradition and culture coat the city walls and the night air is crimson with vigor. If New York is dubbed "the city that never sleeps", then Madrid is its cracked-out insomniac older brother. Its cobblestone streets buzz until 6:00am, when everyone swarms los cafés and greets the sun with chocolate con churros--fried bread dipped in melted chocolate, a Spanish favorite. I'm convinced the people of Madrid are superhumans. They are incredibly astute, lively, and healthy people who live vivaciously with minimal sleep. They Rollerblade for crying out loud. And manage to do it all without a sporting a fanny pack. 


Hola! My name is Alex DiBucci and I'm painfully American.