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.