Out of Portugal

Portugal. I have always liked the sound and shape of that far-away land, from early on. Portugal remains singular in my mind for a fact that I never had any desire to visit any other country. My dear, mysterious Portugal. How be you?

Some Portuguese there have colorful fishing boats. I recall admiring their hulks from the moment I saw pictures. Grand forms, brilliant colors and exciting lines. Mouth-watering, attractive shapes, those crafts. Another feature I liked about Portugal is the odd architecture.

I am attracted to things like strange houses and working boats. Allow me those, a good pen and pads of paper, and then leave me be. I would stay happy all day.

Fortunately for these warm Portuguese people, I will never take the trip. By the second day of my stay, I am positive I would slip and grouse and thus spoil any future offers of friendship. Knowing only skimpy facts about Portugal, I must only imagine how that spoilage might take place.

I wager they don’t speak my language well in Portugal. My guess is that they eat lots of soups and cheeses. I can confidently construe a shortage of grits. My tongue never developed a taste for wine, fine or otherwise, so that would cause trouble. I do like seeing homes stacked up in curious ways. They can look delightful on paper, but such scenes mean noise and traffic, plus I lose my way easily. If I were to discover Gypsies staged nearby; I would report the entire bunch. Boat owners can act hostile toward outsiders; I am doubly troubled by foreign policemen. Are any of these locals fond of dog as a food source? I do not know the answer to that, but I fear to learn the outcome.

I conclude at this point by envisioning fruitless explanations told to swarthy, scowling men over many subjects, along with an inability to reach a ticket agent soon enough.

What, I now wonder, ever possessed me to want to come to this mad part of the world?