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.