Holidaysick...

I have just returned from a wonderful weekend, hidden away from the outside world in Mora, Alentejo. The house we stayed in was wonderful, large and air conditioned with 4 double beds and a pull out sofa bed, so plenty of room for the seven of us plus the baby. The house had an amazing swimming pool and tennis court and we spent the whole weekend alternating between browning ourselves in the sun and then cooling off in the pool. I attempted one game of tennis with S but as soon as she was confronted by my formidable skills she felt a little embarrassed and claimed the heat was too strong for her. Entirely understandable in the circumstances.

We had some great meals and I increased me repertoire to include barbecuing now. I left the first one to R and he murdered the already quite dead meat so the second one I did to a slightly less crispy consistency. It was all good though and it was really nice to have everyone together and (more or less) relaxed. It also afforded me the opportunity to test out a little theory of mine. I don't think the circumstances were quite right, it being a holiday period, but I went for it nontheless.

There is undoubtedly a formula out there, somewhere, which will accurately predict the amount of time it takes for a group of Portuguese people to make a decision and act upon it. Between us, S and I, we do not have this problem - we're one Portugueezer and one Britlander and we decide things all the time in mere seconds, from dinner plans to what films to watch. (The latter here being less a joint decision and more a diktat from me.)

I am very much used to quite a regimented and ordered variety of relaxation. It's the same with going on a night out - we meet at this time, we drink here then, at this time we do that, etc. My holidays have always been so well scheduled and planned that there is no chance of wasting a second of fun!

I noticed how different things are here in the first morning: there's a consultation period, everybody slowly gathers in one area where all opinions are sought and evaluated. Everyone's feelings are taken into consideration. There is an informal (and silent) round of voting done mostly through special glances and raising of eyebrows and then this is evaluated. Any decisions that weren't popular are then discarded and the next round of deliberations take place. Any feelings that might have been hurt in the previous round are also placated here. And so on until a decision is reached diplomatically and through consensus and we can finally sit down and start breakfast.

When we have to leave the table it starts again.

I have of course known Portugueezers for many years now and grown accustomed to this decision-making process but this was an opportunity to see it in a large group which is always enlightening.

We were extremely lucky to have with us probably the calmest baby in the world. M is now, I think, about 3 months old and we barely heard a wink out of him. He seems to spend his day sleeping and eating and really, all things considered, what does he have to complain about?

It was sad to see the weekend come to an and, as I write now my office is filling up with the returning masses and it starts to feel like the end of summer. Soon things will have returned to normal and the old routine will start up again. The coming months will be quite busy and should this be, as I expect it, the end of summer then I can look back and be happy with it, it was my first in Portugal and my love for the place has grown and continues to grow. It is indescribably different to experience a place by living there as opposed to visiting it and now I am here for good settling back into the routine is almost comforting.

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A big sign that summer is coming to an end here, as it is everywhere, is the sudden appearance of all the adverts proclaiming that school is starting up again soon. I have never worked in the stationary trade, nor do I know anyone who has, but this period must be incredibly exciting for them. It's pretty much the only time of year that pencils and protractors are at the top of anyone's shopping list and I can imagine at stationers conferences they must talk with knowing nods about the 'Back to School' season targets.

Here in Portugal we have been presented with an advert that makes me chuckle every time I see it:



It can't just be me who thinks that this girl advertising a return to classes looks suspiciously old!

Alentejo...

I won't be updating over the weekend. Not that I usually do but now I have a reason so I might as well tell you about it.

S and I and a few friends are taking the cars, our books and enough food to invade Spain with and moving ourselves over to Alentejo for the weekend. Alentejo is a lovely region of Portugal which comprises the southern half of the country except for the Algarve. It's a very beautiful place with rolling plains, a breathtaking coast and so very interesting towns and villages along the way.

The region is also the butt of several Portuguese jokes due to the inhabitants' legendary slowness and dimness, in much the same way as the Irish are to the English, (the Portuguese are slow enough in general (physcically that is) so I found it difficult to imagine something slower but it's true!) my favourites include:

• How do you know when a worker has finished for the day in Alentejo? He takes his hands out of his pocket.
• Did you hear about the farmer from Alentejo who tried to teach his donkey to live without eating? He was so exited, but then it died.

I had one S's father told me too but I went and forgot it and S can't remember it (she is also useless at comedy, being a girl).

It's a shame that we plan on taking so much food with us really because one of the things that the region is really famed for is the food (which reminds me I really need to do a full post about Portuguese food soon), the wine and pork are especially delicious, but there is some reasoning behind our methods. The weekend will consist entirely of reading our books and lying by the swimming pool with the occasional break to grab another beer or put some more picanha on the barbecue. If it sounds idyllic that's because it will be. It's the perfect way to see out this hectic holiday season.

It's not yet the end of August, the temperature rarely drops below 26-27ºC and already the shops are full of winter clothes and it's pretty much officially the end of summer.

A blast from the past...

It has often been said (perhaps most often by me, but not exclusively) that one of the interesting things about Portugal, and indeed one of its great charms, is that in some very striking ways it reminds us of our country of origin but from a distant time.

My frequent refrain has been, "it's like Britain in the 50s/60s/70s" and comfortingly this sentiment has been expressed by friends and colleagues alike who have come to Lisbon from a variety of cities and countries. It was also echoed by Paul Theroux, in the book The Kingdom By The Sea, who says that certain countries exist in a certain time. If Britain and America are now then Japan is 5-10 years into the future and some countries inexplicably in the past.

This thought obviously only comes to me when confronted by certain situations - in many ways Portugal is an extremely advanced country, it leads Europe and possibly the world in things like renewable power and it's still a mystery to me how the metro system in such a hot country can consistently be so cool when London's is stifling in half the heat. But the thought does come, invariably, once or twice a day and today I have already reached my limit, but today i'll just tackle the one that comes up the most.

Spitting

In the UK spitting (the expulsion of saliva, possibly liberally mixed with phlegm from the nose, from the mouth) in public is exclusively the domain of 'yoofs' and professional footballers, two sections of society largely linked by haircuts and IQ if nothing else. It's not something socially acceptable and in fact is seen as something distinctly antisocial and threatening. Here in Portugal though barely a head is turned and seemingly the majority of people with grey hair will spend much of their daily constitutionals clearing all oral and nasal passageways and depositing the results spectacularly on the pavement.

It's quite disconcerting to see some, otherwise respectable looking, person engaged in such a disgusting habit and, startlingly, it's not limited to men. It is also fact that most of the elderly here are still dressed like I imagine people in black and white films to be dressed. The men in sharp suits with brightly polished shoes whilst the women are dressed like movie stars from the 50s complete with huge, insect like sunglasses, so to see them hawking up goo is quite a sight.

It all reminds me of the story I have heard many times since my childhood of when my grandma first got an electric fireplace fitted in her house (in what must've been the 1960s) and her father, my great-grandfather, had up until then only ever had coal fires and so my grandma had to patiently explain to him that this was one fireplace he was expressly forbidden from spitting into. A request, much to the annoyance and disgust of my grandma and mum, he would often ignore.

Portuguese 'utilities'...*UPDATE*

In a startling display of efficiency we had our gas switched back on at 21:30 last night...and the man who did it also flooded our kitchen!

Portuguese 'utilities'...

As I write this the shivering is finally subsiding. This morning I was forced to take a cold shower because we were without gas, as indeed was the entire building, and had been since the evening before. What had happened will probably never be discovered, all I can say is that when returned home with S, after our shopping, we found a fire engine parked in front of the apartment building with a few surly looking firemen wandering about and a couple of police officers wandering around trying to look like they were doing something.

On questioning no-one really seemed to know what was going on but whilst we patiently waited in the hallway that was filled with emergency personnel and a couple of confused looking electricians, shopping bags and all, it finally became clear - the electricians had been working and then smelt gas, they had rung the emergency services but now no-one really knew what to do. As a precaution(!) they switched the gas off and we were later told that it wouldn't be reconnected until some point today. We were told that it would be on again this afternoon, call me a cynic but I won't hold my breath...actually on second thoughts maybe that would be a good idea.

All this trouble with these services reminded me about a great blog entry I read a while back on the An Englishman In Lisbon blog here. This entry hilariously (and most importantly truthfully) describes the situation of electrical wiring in Portugal. S and I's flat for example has some beautiful, retro, light switches, which for some strange reason each have two switches, the second being entirely superfluous. We have ourselves suffered the tripped switches when we try to run the hairdryer and the microwave at the same time, and don't get me started on the basic two-pin plugs which give, according to S who I think is protesting too much, a 'satisfying crackle and flash' so you know when the plus is in.

Those are the dangers inside, outside we have to walk past installations like this on a regular basis:


It wouldn't be so bad, you could laugh at the absurdity of something like this still being allowed, if you hadn't seen one explode like I have. It happened early in the year when the weather was particularly bad. There was torrential rain and I had just dropped S off at the university. I was walking back down Avenida de Berna in Lisbon and the rain has turned the street into a river. It was obviously too much for one junction box which exploded in the street. Again the firemen looked on, surly and confused, it really doesn't fill me with confidence when I read "Bombieros Voluntarios" on their trucks, I want professionals!

Sandblasting in the sun...

Well the weekend has now arrived (for me anyway it began on Thursday afternoon when our office began being dismantled for the big move to Cais de Sodré) and so the only great decision to make is which beach to head to. The choices for us, having access to a car and not minding a bit of travel, come down to three:

• The Estoril Coast
• Costa de Caparica
• Guincho

Before I came to Portugal I was not a beach person at all, not that I have anything against the sun or the outdoors but my objections came down to two fundamental issues: I hate shorts, I hate wearing them and I hate seeing them, any man over the age of 12 in shorts looks a fool unless playing some form of sport, and in that case you'd better be a profession or you still look like a fool but now a sweaty fool; and, sand, I hate sand, I hate the fact that it gets everywhere, it sticks to you and you can feel it on you and in your clothes hours after you are no longer near any sand. That combined with the fact that at the beach not only are you supposed to expose your lower legs to the sand but first you must cover yourself with a sticky substance that attracts sand. Senseless!

Anyway, after a few sulks and strops, threats of physical violence and threats to embargo sex (all from both sides) S got her way and got me onto the beach. After all the fuss it wasn't as bad as I feared and there are indeed many plus points: I discovered that swimming in the sea is actually one of my favourite activities, a fact that S discovered to her embarrassment when she tried to get me out of the sea and I turned into a 5 year old.

So this weekend, as most, the choice comes down to 3. The current favourite is Estoril, not my first choice I have to admit, the main reason being is that the beaches there are so small that the people are packed in like sardines (another reason that I wouldn't admit to S is that Estoril is also lacking in the...ahem....young crowd that go to Caparica, the view is much better there from what I have seen). But for us the deciding factor for us today is, sadly, wind. Being located, as it is, on the edge of Europe, Portugual gets its fair share of wind which turn the beaches into a sandblasting experience. Guincho is famous for this and is in fact a bit of a surfing hotspot because of it. Usually Caparica is ok but last time I lost a layer of skin and today it seems pretty windy in town so it must be quite bad there. Estoril is relatively sheltered and plus there are so many people acting as windblocks that I think we'll be ok.

Off we go to Estoril and I will try and find a space for my towel and try and not to step on anyone.

Portuguese hair...

Prompted by my previous post in which I mentioned the local phenomenon of 'right-wing hair', and also my own impending need for a haircut, I have decided to concentrate today's post on the more general phenomenon of 'Portuguese Hair'.

As demonstrated previously, by the charming photo of Paulo Portas, right-wing hair is largely a matter of letting ones' hair grow to a reasonably long length before swinging it all over to one side. This is not to be confused with the comb-over (the traditional mask of baldness in the UK which is sadly going out of fashion since the days of Sir Bobby Charlton), as Portuguese men typically have strong and vibrant hair.

N.B. This article does refer primarily to Portuguese men but some aspects are applicable to men and women.

Neither should 'right-wing hair' be confused with the much more general (but sadly no longer ubiquitous) phenomenon of 'Portuguese hair'. 'Right-wing hair' is an extreme version of the general style. I first came across the subject in a purely theoretical manner when researching the term 'portugeezer' and mixed amongst the terms I came across 'Portuguese afro'. According to the Urban Dictionary this is defined as,

"Found on Portuguese males thick nappy like hair, that maintains the same style no matter what kind of hair cut you get. It tends to puff and curl back on the front."

After reading this definition the more I looked around the more I saw there to be a glimmer of truth behind the course generalisation. The style is particularly common in certain social strata here and living, as I do, in somewhat of a business district, near Saldanha, I see more than my fair share of it. Other places that I have found where this style is common would be around the ministries and parliament (can sometimes be confused with 'right-wing hair) and, of an evening, those bars and clubs frequented by those referred to (by some) as betas (who will later grow into tios/tias, they are all slightly mocking terms for a certain type of middle-class Portugueser who follow similar social conventions, shop at the same shops, attend the same bars and clubs, dress in a similar fashion etc.), often in and around Cascais/Estoril.

After a (very) quick trawl of the web I can provide you with something of a visual aid to help you get a better picture in your mind and also to illustrate some of the subtle differences:




We have here four shining examples, whilst different they are all united by a lustrous thickness of the hair (a quality I share with these men) and also a rather cavalier approach to parting. I don't know but I believe that the ultimate aim is for the hair not to look brushed but rather
sculpted from one piece. The added bonus of having such hair is that, unlike the hoi polloi who often attempt an imitation of their beloved Christiano Ronaldo (and who have been purposefully ignored in this examination of Portuguese society and culture), no additional products are needed to keep the hair in place. Countless money is saved on spray and gel.

So now you know, have fun spotting and for the real professionals see if you can tell at 100 paces the difference between 'right-wing hair' and 'Portuguese hair'.

When in Roma...

My nightly run through Lisbon (partly to keep fit and partly to avoid the traffic intent on running me over) usually takes me to one of the most popular area in Lisbon for that purpose, the university stadium. Lisbon University is situated largely in it's own little enclave, to the north of the city, along with a few autonomous faculties, in an area appropriately name Cidade Universitaria. In the centre of this are the various sport pitches, running tracks and other facilities that exist to remind students that man cannot live by books and pastais de nata alone.

As you can see from this shot it provides a nice little complex to run around and is a welcome retreat from the honking cars and unsure paving:


View Larger Map

Despite these advantages the main drawback for me and S was that getting there was both boring (running through Entrecampos and up Avenida Forças Armadas is hardly interesting) and knackering, with a pretty steep climb to make, not that I minded. Anyway after a bit of discussion we recently decided to vary the route of our run and I am so glad we did.

Rather than making our way to the university we have, of late, been exploring the area nearer to us, around Roma. This has only served to strengthen and deepen my love for the area in which we live. I've always known we were very lucky to live in this area, surrounded, as we are, by a host of cultural and architectural delights: Culturegest, Campo Pequeno, the Gulbenkian, not to mention being in walking distance of most Lisbon cinemas. On top of this there's a whole host of great cafes, restaurants and bars and I love the atmosphere which is lively but not too busy.

On our recent runs S and I have discovered a whole load of new places to try, cafes with beautiful esplanades, delicious looking restaurants and, my personal favourite, a cheesy looking bar called Cockpit which is alleged to be patronised largely by pilots and air crews. These next few weeks are going to be pretty busy.

The view from the streets...

I don't know when this finally came online, I saw the car a few weeks back, but finally Lisbon is on Google Street view so for those who want to see the streets I walk every day then give it a try.

It's just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right...

First things first, as should be apparent to those of you even slightly curious, I have a new blog that I will be writing in conjunction with this one. The link for this blog has been for the past few days located at the top right of this page but for those of you disinclined to turn your head lest you lose your place the link is also here:

Burn The Jukebox

This blog will continue to contain my musings on life in Lisbon and in general whereas the new blog will primarily be music related (and, as today's post shows, provide some film reviews). This will be largely music in general but also contain news and reviews of the 'scene' in Lisbon and Portugal.

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My post today concerns a little change I have noticed in Lisbon in the short time that I have been here.

As anyone who knows me well can confirm I have something of an obsession with the right-wing of politics. Not an agreement, I think that their ideas and policies are anti-social and just plain wrong, but it's rather like watching a car crash or those 'real FBI' shows about serial killers. I like to know what the enemy is thinking and despite it being often repulsive I just can't tear my attention away.

Now I reserve my real fascination for the extremes, the Daily Mail and Fox News provide me with hours of laughter mixed with horror, but there is a pervasive evil of the mainstream right-wing that is perhaps more alarming because anyone can dismiss cranks and loonies but when the arguments and the people who deliver them are seen as reasonable then that's when we start to have problems.

Here in Portugal society was summed up pretty well for me by S not long after I moved here. She said, (and here I paraphrase) "we're not a nation of extremes". Whilst being obviously a wide generalisation, I have begun to realise the truthfulness of this statement and therefore when elements of extremism do raise their heads it is done in a rather Portuguese fashion.

Now I will admit that I am not an expert on Portuguese politics, I am reading more and more and getting some impression of the players and systems but there will be plenty of people out there ready to correct me should I go too far, I would just remind them that these are purely my own impressions as an outsider. There exists here in Portugal a political party, the Centro Democrático e Social - Partido Popular (CDS-PP) which, is probably as far right as is acceptable in Portugal (a country which after the dictatorship largely shies away from the far right). Now I can't comment in too much detail about the policies of these guys, but what I can say is that they must have recently got rather a lot of funding because their adverts have shot up around Lisbon like I have never seen before.

Before I moved to Portugal political advertising had been the reserve of those late-night party political broadcasts on TV that were seemingly designed to make one reach for the remote as quickly as possible. Here though at every junction in the city and, in some areas, on 50% of the lampposts there is a political poster. I was originally under the impression that the parties bought lots of advertising space on these signposts but I recently discovered that they actually buy and erect the signposts themselves.

Usually the adverts on these signs spew the usual self regarding, idealistic political rubbish, or occasionally will attempt to tackle some immediate political problem (like the crisis or swine flu) with perky political rhetoric but the CDS-PP posters spew a different kind of political rubbish, not the sort that can be dismissed with a roll of the eyes and a sigh. It's the kind of lies that fill the Daily Mail on a daily basis but at least there one can choose to search for it for the laughs. It's quite different to have it pasted in foot high letters at every junction in town. The most popular bits of idiocy I have seen include (roughly translated from the Portuguese):

• Why do criminals have more rights than the police?
• Why save BPN (the national bank) when you allow small businesses to fail?
• Is it just to give the minimum income to those who don't want to work?

Now to those of us not crazy those questions, out of context, appear silly. Complex problems and issues reduced to talking points to create fear and resentment - a typical political tool you might say but not one I want to see on my way to the beach!

What Portugal needs is a return to honest politics and it could take the lead from a Brazilian politician I read about recently whose campaign slogan was disarmingly honest:

"Roubo, mas faço!" (I steal but I do!)

Despite all this there is one glimmer of hope - the right-wing here in Portugal, whilst perhaps benefiting from the Crisis and a general European disenchantment with the left, is at least easy to spot. There exists here such a thing as 'right-wing hair' perfectly demonstrated by the leader of the CDS-PP, Paulo Portas:



If you see this kind of hair, you'll know!

Raindrops keep falling on my head...

Today's post was going to be about Portuguese food - inspired by a rare disappointment in a restaurant on Wednesday night - but the pros and cons of food here is a massive subject and requires more thought. I will need to break it down and digest it properly. Instead I have a much more pressing and immediate situation to report.

As the temperature of Lisbon hovers around the 36-37ºC mark even walking along the streets can seem something of a chore but those of us who have lived here long enough know that there is at least one relief to be had from the baking heat - the gentle spray of liquid from the balconies above!

The first number of times this happens to you, as in most cities, you assume that it is something related to an air conditioning unit and you hope, as you feel the trickle roll down the back of your neck, that pigeons weren't using you for target practice. In Lisbon, however, you hope and pray for air conditioning drips because the alternative (at least in my eyes anyway) is almost as bad as the thought of pigeon shit.

As I have mentioned before, and as anyone who has been to Lisbon can confirm, Lisbon is very much a living city. By this I mean that the majority of spaces in and around the city are very much multi use. There are apartment blocks everywhere and most of these conform to the same rough design - with the verandas at the front all having the same handy drainpipe flowing straight onto the street.

In a style evocative of medieval waste disposal (throw it out of the window and hope no-one is passing below) the dregs of cleaning those apartments more often than not ends up dripping out of these spouts and onto the heads of those unlucky enough to be walking underneath. (We even have a device in our apartment to unblock the pipe when it gets blocked with...whatever.)

So bare in mind, here in Lisbon relief from the heat comes at a price!

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In a move which shows I am, at least in some ways, developing Portuguese traits yesterday, as the temperature reached 36ºC I bought a new jumper. (Well S bought it for me - she's obviously a driving influence.)

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I have, of late, begun watching an amazing Portuguese comedy show 'starring' a character called Bruno Aleixo. Here's one of his great bits of advice:




Roughly translated: "Men with earings: they're drug addicts!"

Lisbon: O mito é o nada que é tudo...

Lisbon is a city that survives on the myths it and its inhabitants create for it and despite some misgivings, in certain specific instances, it's an attitude that I have a lot of sympathy with.
That said I much prefer the gritty realism of a decaying city, where the myths are put into perspective by those who have to live there, day in, day out. Manchester had it in the pre-gentrified red brick factories around the north of the city and in the small 'satellite' towns like Bury, Bolton and Wigan where the population seems to be made up of pensioners and pregnant teenagers. Parts of London, where I lived, had it in the South East, around Peckham and Deptford where the art students haven't yet reached and where walking the streets at night still gives a rush of adrenaline...but then again this perhaps myth making of my own...it is my own though and it is based on experience.

If you know where to go in Lisbon that same gritty realism can still be found but it's quite off the beaten path. The city is chock full of Fado joints where you can hear the songs of saudades for a time or place that exists no longer or hear and read the stories times when Bairro Alto and Alfama were area full of prostitutes and their pimps. Even the main flea market, Feira da Ladra (Thieves Market), has a romanticised name - although in this case there is something of a truth to it (the edges are full of suspiciously new looking mobile phones and digital cameras and the central touristy bit is pretty low on bargains).

Nowadays in Bairro Alto and Alfama you are just as likely to see trendy refurbished apartments sold or rented to foreigners, for much more than the locals can afford, than you are old women hanging their washing out. This is of course a familiar story in so many cities but what makes it especially sad in the case of Lisbon is that firstly it is happening so late when compared to other European cities and secondly because Lisbon resisted this for so long it is a charm that it blindly hangs onto despite reality.

Not that I am criticising the areas for this change, change is important and change is good. One of the great things about Lisbon is that it is still alive but sometimes the feeling is that it is evolving despite itself. These areas have deservedly become now part of the tourist trail, they are beautiful and interesting and, in the case of Bairro Alto, lots of fun. But for a real taste of Lisbon as it is lived you have to take a little walk behind those areas.

Now, as ever, this whole post hasn't just been plucked from my brain at random, there is usually an incident or experience that sparks these long thoughts and this profession of love the dark underbelly of cities had been prompted by the imminent move of my office. We are now in the process of moving from one of my favourite areas, Avenida Almirante Reis (Anjos) to one of my least favourite, Cais de Sodre.

It is almost unheard of for anyone in this city to shun a river view but as part of my role as the eternal contrarian I am left somewhat bemused by them. Of course there is the theory (maybe it's fact, i don't know) that the sight of water has a soothing effect on the soul but in my honest opinion the view of the River Tagus from Lisbon isn't one of the great sights. It's a little too industrial and to be frank a little dirty. (This however is not true for the views of Lisbon across the water from Almada which are amazing) Anyway, what I am giving up for the privilege of seeing container ships on a daily basis is walk through one of the liveliest neighbourhoods in Lisbon.

It is no exaggeration to say that every day I smile on my way to work because of the pleasure of the sights of the city alive. It's also true that every day I walk past the same group of prostitutes every day to the point where we now smile and nod at each other and it's also true that more often than not I have to take a little skip over a dried pool of unexplained blood somewhere along the route. But it is making this route every day, seeing the same people, even the junkies bumming cigarettes outside Casa Santa Maria, going into the pastelarias, the tascas and even the supermarket that I feel part of the city. Every city has its museums and its monuments but only Lisbon has my whores and my junkies!

Portuguese builders/builders in Portugal...

The subject of today's post is builders. Well let me expand on that somewhat...by builders I mean all those engaged in manual work somehow and as the title of the post suggests a great many of those working here happen not to be Portuguese but more likely Brazilian, Eastern European or African.

Take my own example...below S and my lovely apartment, in one of the most beautiful (and surprisingly peaceful) areas of Lisbon there have been works taking place. The apartment black we live in is not new, it's one of those concrete jobbies put up sometime probably in the 1940s, but it does have its own charm - from the old creaking lifts with their manual doors to the old creaking porter of a similar vintage. Recently the apartment below us was bought and the new owners wished to refurbish it. That may be fair enough - I don't know but chances are that the previous owner was probably close to 100 and it hadn't had a lick of paint since the place was built - that is until whoever was in charge of the hiring managed to get hold of two guys whose only tools appear to be a hammer and a drill. Added to this is the fact that they apparently hate each other because they can't go more than half an hour without screaming at each other.

This combination of a lack of tools (and perhaps knowledge) with a complete inability to work well with each other means that the project of refurbishing the flat has been going on now for over 3 months. That is 3 months of banging, drilling and shouting from 8:30 to 19:30, Monday to Saturday (yes, Saturday!!!). I cannot begin to wonder what kind of palace would await me after 3 months of work (an estimated 1600 man hours for those who can imagine it) baring in mind my own experience of such works was when my old house had a new roof, central heating installed, double glazing put in and a damp proof course, all within 2 weeks. Yet it was only yesterday that they got delivery of the kitchen!

Anyway, after months of having our weekend peace disturbed enough was enough and last week S went to have a word with them. As a man I promised her any backup she needed, from the safety of our flat. To the builders' credit it was at least 30 minutes before they started up again but thanks to my love's training in the law she whisked out the right directive, gave a quick call to the local constabulary and shut that noisy operation down, all without me having to lift a finger! (For those of you in Lisbon faced with noisy neighbours I will post the law later and you can quote this at them, after an initial warning they face a €2500 fine.)

So after our successful confrontation with Portuguese builders it got me thinking. Coming from the UK I'm quite accustomed to health and safety procedures, things like safety barriers, warning signs etc... things that haven't quite made it to Portugal yet. When seeing building work in action here there are a number of points that it's hard to miss:

• Typically if there's a hole to be dug this will take 5-8 people - 1 to dig and 4-7 to stand outside the hole and advise how it is to be dug.
• Barriers/signs to protect workmen and the public are expensive and often get in the way (of people giving advice to the one man working) so why bother - of course the public won't come too close to your pickaxing/pneumatic drilling/welding.
• If you're digging a hole in the pavement don't worry, people are probably too busy avoiding the others to mind yours.
• Of course scaffolding is supposed to look 60 years old!
• Remember the one and only Portuguese Health and Safety rule - no smoking on the job (that's reserved for the 5 people outside the hole telling you how to dig).

The sight that really summed up the attitude to health and safety occurred last week on holiday. We were driving through the town and were on our way back to the house when the street was blocked by a pick up truck. (I will have to write another post about Portuguese parking, perhaps as no.2 in my series on driving.) Onto the back of this pickup truck was being loaded a fridge/freezer. As you can imagine this appliance was around 190cm tall and therefore the most sensible thing in the world would be for two people to put it on its side. But no! Of course not! Instead we watched with a mixture of amusement and horror as onto the back clambered a typical Portugeezer (all 165cm of him) and he held onto this thing as the truck trundled off over the hills at 40kmh...

...all I could think of was at least he's not smoking.

The things you see when you haven't got your gun.

Ferias do Verão...

Well, for me at least, the summer holidays are over. Just as Portugal is entering its yearly period of torpor (seemingly the whole country is ‘fechado’ for the month of August) I am starting back at work after two weeks spent reading, visiting the country and generally avoiding anything that might be construed as ‘useful’ or ‘improving’.

The holiday in fact started rather hectically, S and I had been invited to a barbeque thrown by our new good friends ‘the boys from Brazil’ (TBFB from now on) in their wonderful apartment near São João cemetery. TBFB are in rather a nifty band who are undergoing somewhat of a radical change. In an attempt to gain a larger audience they have begun to sing in English and they had enlisted my help to write some songs in English and develop an authentic English accent whilst singing them. I think on both counts we were much more successful than any could have imagined and as such we had become good friends. I had previously been to one of their barbeques which was mightily impressive. Their apartment is amazing with an absolutely amazing terrace at the back, complete with lemon trees, the fruit from which went into many a Caipiroska. F’s picanha skills are immense and so these parties are inevitably lots of fun.

The Friday in question (the 24^th) was particularly hectic, it being the last day of work and coming, as is typical, with that usual dragging feeling that anticipation of holidays brings. I was this night, however, due to provide the music at TBFB’s barbeque and so after many coffees and pick me ups I lugged my DJ gear over to the flat and proceeded to amaze all those gathered with my disk spinning skills. I slipped in a few Brazilian classics along with the typical indie fare and some unusual additions and I think I played the crowd pretty well. The night ended with some acoustic singalongs and invitations for TBFB to come and sample my famous Arroz de Pato (duck rice) on Tuesday.

Saturday, as has been the habit of the past couple of months, was the day devoted to the beach. We have become fans of the Costa da Caparica which is a bit of a change for S who was originally an Estoril girl. The beaches of the Costa are much better though, cleaner, bigger and less crowded (in fact a visit yesterday to a beach in Estoril to see friends showed just what a meat market it is, the bodies looked like a butcher’s shop). The big problem with the Costa is the journey although this problem is somewhat psychological – the trip takes you over the bridge but if timed well it really isn’t much longer than that to Estoril and it’s well worth the extra time. The beach this Saturday was fun but the weather wasn’t as warm as it had been and the sea especially was pretty chilly, I only took a couple of dips myself when usually you can’t get me out of there.

After the raucous nights out of previous weeks, combined with plans for the Sunday, meant that Saturday night was spent relatively quietly.

Sunday brought an overnight trip to Porto to see our friend X defend her thesis (that me and S had helped quite a bit on) at the University of Porto. At some point I will have to dedicate a separate post to the joys of Porto but here I will just say a few important things about Portugal’s second city.

I am in love with Porto, I think most cities have an essence that is immediately apparent to those visiting them (after living in a place for a while you begin to take some of that essence into yourself and give a little back to the communal essence) and the essence of Porto is one of relaxed self assurance, a ‘coolness’ if you will.

Porto is the essential counterpoint to Lisbon in the way that Manchester is to London in the UK (and so many other ‘second cities’ must be in their respective countries). The people are more friendly and outgoing (qualities that although not absent in Lisbon are so noticeably unorthodox that I have heard, on a number of occasions, people from Porto called rude) and there is an unselfconsciousness that is seen in the far greater freedom with which people act and dress. There is much more of an apparent and obvious alternative culture in Porto.

I often remark that the Portuguese, for all their charm, are in general still quite socially conservative, and this expresses itself perfectly in the way in which the youth dress. Here in Lisbon there is much more of a ‘middle of the road’ attitude where between the ages of 15-30 in most social groups people dress, if not identically, within certain social bounds. (The great example of this being that when the weather is cooler –Spring and Autumn – 90% of girls in that age group will be sporting the mysteriously ‘fashionable’ combo of skinny jeans and hiking boots.) This is not to say that Lisbon is not without it’s ‘fringe’ but it is to say that this is much smaller than you might experience in the UK and much less obvious than that in Porto. There is also a feeling that Porto is much more of a forward thinking city than Lisbon, something again linked to that ‘second city’ inferiority complex perhaps, but I digress…

I have much more to say about Porto, not least my addiction to their regional dish - the francesinha, but it will have to wait for a separate post. I will leave the subject of Porto by just saying that X’s defence went extremely well and we enjoyed our brief visit immensely. It was too short but I hope to visit Porto again soon.

Tuesday was spent cleaning the flat and preparing for the visit of TBFB who were going to be leaving for Brazil shortly and to whom I wanted to say goodbye. An entertaining night was had and my dish (Arroz de Pato) went down very well, as did S’s sangria, for which she is getting quite a reputation! TBFB will be moving to London soon so I have no doubt that our paths will cross again but it was quite sad to see them go. As a leaving gift we got a full rendition of the songs I had helped the guys perfect and I really feel quite proud of the work we’ve done together.

Wednesday was the day we left for our main holiday, a week in the countryside, in a tiny village called Alqueve which is half way between Coimbra and Serra de Estrela. It was a week with S’s family and we had an excellent time with trips in the battered 2CV that S’s uncle keeps there. We had a week of S’s mum’s amazing cooking as well a couple of pies from me which S loves and the others politely eat (a little exaggeration here, they all loved the cheese and onion one).

I discovered the thrill and joy of running in the mountains, which is ten times harder than the streets of Lisbon but infinitely more beautiful. I developed a little route which took me above the village (which is perched on the side of a steep, forested, hill) and then through the village, usually to the cheers of the villagers who seemed amused by the crazy foreigner. You have to bare in mind here that most of these villagers are over 60 (many over 80) and are fitter than anyone I've met before.

The week was very welcome but by the end I was glad to return to civilisation.

Back to the grindstone now though.