June 04 Newsletter

In Recovery: Amie met Grace and I at the airport. They listened wide-eyed as I described my first arrival in Lisbon in 1967. The streets from the airport terminal all the way to the town were lined with welcoming crowds. I rode in an open top cavalcade as my arrival was broadcast live on television and radio, my music blaring from public sound systems, with everyone shouting, waving and singing in an amiable frenzy.

On this occasion our flight had been delayed because the airport had been closed for security as the England football team had been secretly flown in to train for the European cup. The whole city was keyed up in anticipation of the forthcoming matches and the accompanying influx of foreign visitors. The Portuguese are very warm, open and trusting people. The English have unfortunately over the years gained a reputation as trouble making lager louts and now, since the illegal war on Iraq, we were also associated with terrorist attacks. A lot has changed since the Sixties. This June, Lisbon was, as always, stunningly beautiful. Trees covered with purple blossom are everywhere you turn, the old stone buildings bathed in sunlight, chairs outside open front doors for passers-by to sit on.

Girls with a View: Amie was well researched. She knew every back street dive, scenic route and secret gastronomic delight in town. Managing as ever to look stylishly cosmopolitan on a student budget, Amie strode purposefully along with Grace and I scurrying behind her trying in vain to catch up on the steep hills that are a main feature of Lisbon. We had a lot of medicinal bar stops along the way.

Student Life: Amie took Grace and I to her student flat in the heart of Lisbon. Every building had a Portuguese flag flying proudly from the window. Hers was the only defiant St George’s Cross hanging among a sea of red and green. She took us through her strenuous study routine. Up at 8 and down to the square for coffee and pastries with her student friends. Then pop along the street to her university where they studied from 10am to 2.00pm. Then, grabbing some lunch on the way, they tumbled down into the tube station, where they boarded the coast train, having taking the precaution of wearing bikinis under their day wear. This train, packed with other young people of all shapes, sizes and colours stopped at each seaside village, and each day they chose a different beach on which to hang out and chill (her words not mine) and practice their Portuguese. You could also choose which coach to travel on, as each one had a different soundtrack playing from someone’s beat box. It was a real Beneton moment.

Sandy Shores: At the seaside Amie took command of our entertainment, as she swept us into beach cafes and restaurants, looking every inch and sounding every syllable like a second generation Girl From Ipanema. She gave Grace and I lessons in the language starting with a Bees lyric and then explaining the secret of an authentic Portuguese accent. Basically you have to pretend to be Sean Connery trying to speak Spanish. Try it - it works every time. Instead of saying "flip flops", add an undulating, nonchalant, wry, Scottish accent - and say "flipsh flahpsh". It works even better if you pose and turn into camera with a revolver in both hands a la James Bond although you do get some funny looks. What I forgot and Amie felt it unnecessary to remind me was that although the sun in Portugal is scorcho, the Atlantic sea is f-freezing and she failed to induce me into the sea. Though Grace did her bit for England and bravely waded in.

Girls Behaving Badly: One night we strolled down to the Gay Bar where Amie’s student flatmate was serving behind the bar. As the night wore on she became more and more generous with her cocktails. I feigned tiredness and was escorted home and put to bed after I had pinched some man’s bottom. My girls returned to the bar without me. I was awoken in the early hours by whispering at the bottom of the bed. "What’s going on?" "We just met a flasher", chimed Grace and Amie. Now I was fully awake. "Oh jeez! Are you hurt? Did he frighten you?" I suddenly felt fiercely protective of my gorgeous little girls who had been out all alone in the night. "Nah", said Grace, " he was standing in shadows. So Amie called him over into the street light and asked him in Portuguese for a good look at it." "Then Gracie started laughing and teasing, Teeny Weeny, Weeny." "Then we chased him down the alley to the main square waggling our pinkies at him - shouting Teeny, Weeny, Weeny." "He was petrified." "And traumatized with everyone looking at him with his bits hanging out." They fell about giggling all over my bed. Poor man. That will teach him to keep his sausage in his lunch box..

Peas In a Pod: The international TV crews had started arriving to cover the football. Grace recognized some of them. She introduced Amie to a good friend from a BBC team. Amie saw her chance and became an instant guide and interpreter. There shortly followed a mass exodus by the Portuguese from Lisbon as the footie fans flew into town. While Grace and I returned home to watch the fiasco that is called English football on the telly, Amie went to see the matches live with her BBC chums. No, I’m not miffed. Not really….