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'.