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.