A weekend in Portugal

This weekend Jose and I went to Portugal. I like to think that Portugal is to Spain what Canada is to the U.S.: it is easy to cross the border, the people are fairly similar minus their weird way of talking, things are a bit less expensive and you might go for a vacation but you do NOT want to live there (because in the end they might be your neighbors but there is something just a little off about them). I had the sensation while in Portugal that I was still in Spain but a sort of twisted version of Spain where towels and linens are really cheap. In fact, oddly enough a lot of Spaniards travel to Portugal exclusively to buy these items. Anyway, Jose and I spent the two days at the beach. You might think ohh, aren't the beaches in the south of Spain (and Portugal) supposed to be sexy, full of the bronzed and beautiful? If this is your (mis)conception, I hate to burst your bubble. The several beaches I have visited have all been characterized by old men in banana hammocks and women who were either wearing inappropriately small bathing suits, or nothing at all. The majority had tanned themselves until their skin had the consistency of a leather bag. After giving these future skin cancer patients a run for their money in the sun, on Saturday night we went out to eat and then decided to walk through the town where we were staying. It just so happened to be the same weekend as their feria (what I would best describe as a state fair complete with rides, churros and music). I am sure that the idea of feria will come up again in the future so stay tuned, especially in April in Sevilla. Anywho, Jose and I wandered around a bit, passing by the rides (run by Spanish carnies) and the food (mostly fried but lacking in deep fried Reese's, dammit!) until we came upon a concert. Imagine, a Cuban boy band, belting out their songs while (what bordered on obscenely) grinding their pelvises (pelvi in plural?) all dressed in white a la Backstreet Boys. In the intermission between songs there was the standard, 'everyone raise your hands if this year you want love in your life.' Of course, I raised my hands. 'Everyone raise your hands if this year you want health.' I obediently raised my hands. 'Everyone raise your hands if you want to travel the world this year.' Okay, I thought, this is getting a bit ridiculous, what more are you going to ask me to commit to? Their final request was: "Al que le gusten los cubanos, que levante las manos" (If you like Cubans, raise your hands). Well, this caused a crisis for me. Can I admit as an American that I like Cubans? Does that make me a communist? What do I do? Is it rude if I don't raise my hands? Is everyone staring at me waiting for the American girl to make a decision? Ahhhhhhhhhh. I didn't have to think for long as I was saved by being handed a beer. Now that is something I can commit to.

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