By the time that we made it into Lagos, I was starting to get over both my jet lag and initial culture shock. We'd spent a couple of days in Lisbon, enough that I wasn't a complete wreck from waking up at crazy hours and staring at the ceiling, and to have picked up a few choice words in Portuguese. Just the basics, really, but I think that, armed with a few key words, as well as a smattering of other essentials, I learned that you can make your way about with much pointing (at things you needed and wanted, not at people) and smiling.
Lagos, in comparison to Lisbon, is an easy town to visit. Everybody here speaks English. In fact, the chances of having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one are about as likely as having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one in Sydney. Everyone in Lagos is likely from somewhere else. Whether it be Europe, Latin America, Australia, Asia, or North America, they all have to communicate with one another, so they all do it in English. It very well may be one of the easiest places to visit in a non-English speaking country. I've had a harder time understanding southerners than I did people in Lagos. I was ashamed to discover how much more at ease I felt in these circumstances.
About 5 months before, I had been making schemes to do my first bit of traveling outside of the country. I had always felt a tug towards the Mediterranean region, but wasn't yet convinced that should be my first excursion outside of the Americas. At a rooftop party in Portland, I mentioned these thoughts to a good friend and seasoned traveler, Adam (yes this is his real last name) Nicewonger. He'd been around a good portion of the world, so I knew his easy-going style of experienced input would be valuable. Among his various travels, he'd spent a number of summer seasons (five, I believe) living in Lagos, DJing and working at the local hostel, and just living the beach life-style. During our discussions, he mentioned that he was planning a trip back to Lagos in September, but this time for only two weeks, and suggested that I make that my trip. Knowing that this kid would be one of the better travel companions you could ask for (easy-going, experienced over-seas, and entirely comfortable in Portugal), I figured it'd be a great option, and agreed.
Two weeks later, our friend Eric Leisy was on board as well.
Walking into Lagos with Adam is like walking into Jerusalem with Jesus. Not only does everybody love the guy, but boy are they excited that he's returned. Everyone seemed to not only know the kid, but to absolutely love him. I understood why he spent so many summer seasons there -- who wouldn't want that sort of ego boost? Adam's own words, after yet another adoring fan stopped him in the street ("You're the DJ from the Grand Cafe! I remember you!"), "It's easy to be a big fish in a small town." I've come to the conclusion that I could use a small town for a while...
Eric and I were welcomed into the fold like a pair of Adam's apostles (not the Judas-type, mind you), and quickly started making friends. We headed first to the local hostel, not to get a room there, but because the family that owned the hostel was putting us up in our own apartment that they also owned (and for ridiculously cheap because, yes, they love Adam). It ended up being in a three story building, using the top two floors. The second floor was still hostel-styled, with a number of bunk beds and the bathroom. The top floor, however, was the real winner. This is where we found our large kitchen and massive roof-top veranda with a good 300-degree view of Lagos. Centrally located and boasting a righteous view, it was absolutely ideal.
The majority of our 10 days in this little beach town were spent as thus: wake up sometime late morning; meander to the Odeon, a tiny little diner a few blocks from our apartment that's owned by an old American expat named Tom; wolf down some bacon, eggs and coffee; head to the beach where we often went for a 20- to 30-minute swim; pass out in the sand for a number of hours until it was time to leave (this was determined by how red I was, leading to the nickname, Evan "the litmus" Alexander); trudge back to the apartment for an hour-long nap; wake up and head to the hostel to use some wi-fi and possibly watch a flick with our fellow travelers; dinner at one local spot or another (details on the best of these to come); back to the apartment for a quick change or refreshment; then off to one or many of the local bars to reward ourselves for another hard day.
It was a stressful time.
Despite being heavily visited by younger tourists seeking the beautiful beaches and the plentiful bars, Lagos is a city rich in history. Having a southern location on the Portuguese coast, Lagos was perfectly situated in proximity to both Africa and the open seas to become Europe's first slave market. For some time occupied by the Moors, the architecture has a heavy Moorish influence, though a great portion of it was destroyed in an earthquake and tsunami in the mid-1700s. The majority of the streets are cobblestone, and I quickly became quite addicted to the sound of my flip flops on these. It was a sound that perfectly summed up Lagos in it's unhurried, patient cadence. It was clear that I wasn't the only one of this opinion, as, during a phone conversation with his girlfriend, Adam later told me that she made a comment about being able to hear it from the other end, and how much she missed the sound (they had spent a summer there together a year or two before).
We walked the great majority of the town-center, avoiding most of the more expensive tourist spots, and spent most of our time visiting only the places that one such as Adam could know about, after repeated summer months living there. Cashina de Petisco, a local favorite restaurant, made a mark on all of our taste buds. Owned and operated by Luis De Rosa, Cashina is a tiny little place that packs out quickly, and then boasts a line of patiently waiting diners that stretches down the street. The plates are substantial enough for easily two people, possibly three, and are of a quality that one might expect in one of the finer restaurants in Portland. And what do you pay for a plate large enough for three, of fine-dining-quality food? About 8 or 9 euro. Needless to say, we were there four times in our ten-day stay in Lagos, and always took home leftovers for the next night's meal. It was glorious.
The bars in Lagos are mostly of the dive sort, with the exception of those on the main tourist drag that were a little more upscale for the older tourist demographic. It was interesting being out at these places, as it seemed that most of the younger tourists were younger tourists -- kids in their late teens and early twenties that were on holiday or traveling with friends. They were a rowdy, bawdy bunch with a capacity for drinking that far out-did us geezers and, though we were out as late as all of them, we found ourselves often being by far the most sober in the bars.
Eric and I were welcomed into the fold like a pair of Adam's apostles (not the Judas-type, mind you), and quickly started making friends. We headed first to the local hostel, not to get a room there, but because the family that owned the hostel was putting us up in our own apartment that they also owned (and for ridiculously cheap because, yes, they love Adam). It ended up being in a three story building, using the top two floors. The second floor was still hostel-styled, with a number of bunk beds and the bathroom. The top floor, however, was the real winner. This is where we found our large kitchen and massive roof-top veranda with a good 300-degree view of Lagos. Centrally located and boasting a righteous view, it was absolutely ideal.
The majority of our 10 days in this little beach town were spent as thus: wake up sometime late morning; meander to the Odeon, a tiny little diner a few blocks from our apartment that's owned by an old American expat named Tom; wolf down some bacon, eggs and coffee; head to the beach where we often went for a 20- to 30-minute swim; pass out in the sand for a number of hours until it was time to leave (this was determined by how red I was, leading to the nickname, Evan "the litmus" Alexander); trudge back to the apartment for an hour-long nap; wake up and head to the hostel to use some wi-fi and possibly watch a flick with our fellow travelers; dinner at one local spot or another (details on the best of these to come); back to the apartment for a quick change or refreshment; then off to one or many of the local bars to reward ourselves for another hard day.
It was a stressful time.
Despite being heavily visited by younger tourists seeking the beautiful beaches and the plentiful bars, Lagos is a city rich in history. Having a southern location on the Portuguese coast, Lagos was perfectly situated in proximity to both Africa and the open seas to become Europe's first slave market. For some time occupied by the Moors, the architecture has a heavy Moorish influence, though a great portion of it was destroyed in an earthquake and tsunami in the mid-1700s. The majority of the streets are cobblestone, and I quickly became quite addicted to the sound of my flip flops on these. It was a sound that perfectly summed up Lagos in it's unhurried, patient cadence. It was clear that I wasn't the only one of this opinion, as, during a phone conversation with his girlfriend, Adam later told me that she made a comment about being able to hear it from the other end, and how much she missed the sound (they had spent a summer there together a year or two before).
We walked the great majority of the town-center, avoiding most of the more expensive tourist spots, and spent most of our time visiting only the places that one such as Adam could know about, after repeated summer months living there. Cashina de Petisco, a local favorite restaurant, made a mark on all of our taste buds. Owned and operated by Luis De Rosa, Cashina is a tiny little place that packs out quickly, and then boasts a line of patiently waiting diners that stretches down the street. The plates are substantial enough for easily two people, possibly three, and are of a quality that one might expect in one of the finer restaurants in Portland. And what do you pay for a plate large enough for three, of fine-dining-quality food? About 8 or 9 euro. Needless to say, we were there four times in our ten-day stay in Lagos, and always took home leftovers for the next night's meal. It was glorious.
The bars in Lagos are mostly of the dive sort, with the exception of those on the main tourist drag that were a little more upscale for the older tourist demographic. It was interesting being out at these places, as it seemed that most of the younger tourists were younger tourists -- kids in their late teens and early twenties that were on holiday or traveling with friends. They were a rowdy, bawdy bunch with a capacity for drinking that far out-did us geezers and, though we were out as late as all of them, we found ourselves often being by far the most sober in the bars.
Except, of course, for that one night... We'd been out to a few places and Eric was in rare form, buying drinks for Adam and myself, as well as some of our new friends. We were out fairly late and had ended the evening at a local club, the Grand Cafe, where Adam had DJed previous summers. I don't remember the exact time, but it was well after 2, and Eric decided it was time for him to go home, so he took off before Adam and I left. On a previous day Eric had lost his key to the apartment, a fact that none of us remembered at the time when Eric decided to walk back, and a fact that he quickly remembered when he got to the front door. It was one of the few times that it actually rained while we were in town, and Eric apparently decided that he wasn't going to sit out in the rain waiting an unknown amount of time for us to let him in, so he decided that the best available option was to climb to the second floor balcony. He never made it.
There are two things that you should know about Eric: He's not much of a drinker and he's not the biggest guy. Though he didn't break his neck attempting what he'd later call his "epic attempt to climb the balcony," he did find himself spending his first night with a bucket by his bed -- a bucket that saw a lot of action. And what often happens to someone when they're confronted with their first night being brilliantly sick from too much drink? They get emotional. And, like the good, experienced alcoholic friend I am, I did my best to talk Eric down, to console him, and let him know that'd all be ok. Adam apparently got sick of us acting like college freshmen girls and went and slept in the other room.
Eric didn't get that drunk again.
I quickly discovered that the concept of cutting someone off when they've had too much to drink doesn't exist in Lagos. Like much of Europe, I imagine, people are held responsible for their own actions and, if they drink too much, they're the ones to pay the consequences; not the bar. This was made painfully obvious one evening when Eric and I were walking to a particular bar to pay a visit to one of our new Aussie friends who was bartending. We were approached by a girl in the street who was already well past the point of being cut off in the states, who was "flyering" for the bar, or attempting to pull in people off the streets. Those doing the flyering are paid by the number of people they bring into the venue. Even though Eric and I were headed there anyway, we took pity on this drunken fool and told her she could get credit for us and order our first drinks. We moseyed up to the bar, led by the stumbling girl, and placed our orders, through her, for our drinks. The girl was so inebriated that she immediately forgot that she ordered my drink, so after the bartender brought me mine, she ordered another. The result was a second, unpaid for drink that the bartender literally forced this already saturated girl to guzzle. We turned away in shocked confusion and disgust at the point that he had his hand underneath the drink, pushing it against her mouth, literally forcing her to gulp it down.
They do things different in Lagos. I was told that if the bartenders don't drink with the patrons, they lose their job. Try pulling that off in America.
You never quite realize how small of a place the world is until you're standing in a bar in a little beach town in Portugal, and someone from home calls your name. It's a little surreal "bumping" into someone you know halfway around the world.
Kristen is someone who I met briefly one night at a show I was playing in Portland. We became friends on Facebook, but never had seen each other in person since that night. She was in a study abroad program in Seville, Spain, and the group that she was with had come into Lagos for the weekend, on a guided tour. Adam, Eric, and I were DJing downtempo at a restaurant/lounge called NaNaBah (I later found out the that the NaNa portion of the name was inspired by the classy nickname for a woman's genitalia, "poonani." Look, don't judge me, I didn't come up with the name, I'm just reporting it) and the tour group had come to the same restaurant for dinner. I suppose it doesn't seem like that great of a coincidence, but it was still one of those singular moments that you can never expect, and definitely adds perspective of the world that we live in.
There was a group of about 50 Americans, including Kristen, in the town that weekend, and they happened to be going to the club that we were playing at later that night, The Grand Cafe. Though the three of us play mainly various forms of house and electronic music, we were fully aware of the American taste for Top 40 tunes, so went prepared to play quite a bit of that (something I would have never done back in Portland, but I figured that I was just along for the ride). Though we were astonished about the positive reaction that some dub-step received as the last three tracks at the end of the night, our preparations to play Rihanna and the like were unfortunately well made. And the irony of playing such a set to an American crowd on our vacation in Europe was not at all lost on us. But it has to be said that Adam knows how to make a Top 40 crowd dance. Eric and I, for the most part, played what he told us to, when he told us to.
I quickly discovered that the concept of cutting someone off when they've had too much to drink doesn't exist in Lagos. Like much of Europe, I imagine, people are held responsible for their own actions and, if they drink too much, they're the ones to pay the consequences; not the bar. This was made painfully obvious one evening when Eric and I were walking to a particular bar to pay a visit to one of our new Aussie friends who was bartending. We were approached by a girl in the street who was already well past the point of being cut off in the states, who was "flyering" for the bar, or attempting to pull in people off the streets. Those doing the flyering are paid by the number of people they bring into the venue. Even though Eric and I were headed there anyway, we took pity on this drunken fool and told her she could get credit for us and order our first drinks. We moseyed up to the bar, led by the stumbling girl, and placed our orders, through her, for our drinks. The girl was so inebriated that she immediately forgot that she ordered my drink, so after the bartender brought me mine, she ordered another. The result was a second, unpaid for drink that the bartender literally forced this already saturated girl to guzzle. We turned away in shocked confusion and disgust at the point that he had his hand underneath the drink, pushing it against her mouth, literally forcing her to gulp it down.
They do things different in Lagos. I was told that if the bartenders don't drink with the patrons, they lose their job. Try pulling that off in America.
You never quite realize how small of a place the world is until you're standing in a bar in a little beach town in Portugal, and someone from home calls your name. It's a little surreal "bumping" into someone you know halfway around the world.
Kristen is someone who I met briefly one night at a show I was playing in Portland. We became friends on Facebook, but never had seen each other in person since that night. She was in a study abroad program in Seville, Spain, and the group that she was with had come into Lagos for the weekend, on a guided tour. Adam, Eric, and I were DJing downtempo at a restaurant/lounge called NaNaBah (I later found out the that the NaNa portion of the name was inspired by the classy nickname for a woman's genitalia, "poonani." Look, don't judge me, I didn't come up with the name, I'm just reporting it) and the tour group had come to the same restaurant for dinner. I suppose it doesn't seem like that great of a coincidence, but it was still one of those singular moments that you can never expect, and definitely adds perspective of the world that we live in.
There was a group of about 50 Americans, including Kristen, in the town that weekend, and they happened to be going to the club that we were playing at later that night, The Grand Cafe. Though the three of us play mainly various forms of house and electronic music, we were fully aware of the American taste for Top 40 tunes, so went prepared to play quite a bit of that (something I would have never done back in Portland, but I figured that I was just along for the ride). Though we were astonished about the positive reaction that some dub-step received as the last three tracks at the end of the night, our preparations to play Rihanna and the like were unfortunately well made. And the irony of playing such a set to an American crowd on our vacation in Europe was not at all lost on us. But it has to be said that Adam knows how to make a Top 40 crowd dance. Eric and I, for the most part, played what he told us to, when he told us to.
After the club closed at four, we loitered around a bit with the staff, some choice patrons, and the owner, Luis. More drinks were had, some jokes were made, and Eric got into a fight with the Duchess of Ireland. She was a bit intoxicated and had taken a liking to his hat. She was also fiesty.
After separating the two (it was more dangerous than separating fighting dogs), Eric, Adam, and I made our way back to the apartment, grabbed a couple of bottles of vino verde, and headed down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It was the most amazing thing I've seen and the hour or so wait on the beach was well worth it, though Eric was terribly disappointed to learn the next day that the little shrine of candles he had set up during that time was washed away by the tide. We never discovered why he had set up the shrine, and he had even forgotten the matches to light them, but at least the project kept him happily occupied for a time and took his mind off of the previous beating he received from a certain Duchess.
After leaving the beach, our stomachs demanded food, and luckily the Odeon was already open and Tom already had the grills going. Inside we discovered two of the bartenders from the Grand Cafe fabulously drunk, dueling with a mop and a pepper grinder. Tom never even batted an eye.
A few days later, we decided to make the best of our new-found friend in Seville, Kristen, and get out of town for a while. We rented a black little Peugot and headed east out of Portugal. Kristen met us in town at a beautiful cathedral and proceeded to give us the grand tour: the first stop, margaritas, followed quickly by tapas, and then dinner.
We later went into one of the bar districts along the Guadalquivir River to meet up with some of Adam's friends. As we walked, Kristen lamented at the fact that she had chosen to study abroad to spread her wings a bit, get out of her comfort zone, and experience a new culture but that she was surrounded by Americans, a great number of which had gone to her high school. As we walked, this point was made painfully clear by every group of people we passed all saying "hi" to Kristen, and at least one in the group having been from her high school. The bar we went to? Full of Americans. The Spanish, it seems, can't get away from us.
The remainder of our days in Lagos were spent enjoying the relaxing routine in which we had fallen, consisting mostly of the beach, food, drinks, more food, and relaxation. I started to come to the realization that, though I loved the style of life for a vacation, the idea of living in a town like Lagos, where, despite a constant influx of new people coming for holiday, nothing ever really changed. Though you have the opportunity to meet new people every single day, the experience is tempered with the knowledge that they'll just be leaving again within the next day or two. Any opportunity at making real connections is limited to the people who live in the town, and though the ones I met were wonderful people, there just wasn't large enough of a population to sate my desires for variety.
I learned a few things on the trip, the greatest of which not being Adam's ability to take a "no-wipe-er." No, the biggest, and probably most important lesson that I took from my trip was the knowledge that I'm just not nearly as comfortable in my own skin as I thought. I live in a town where, though there is the aforementioned variety that I crave, I still know that I can go to certain places and see people I know. This is my town -- I belong here, in Portland. I'm confident here, have a grasp of all the local customs and nuances, can find my way around in a pinch, and know that no matter how much of an outsider I sometimes feel, I'm still welcome here. What I discovered being in another country is that, in reality, I need that assurance. I need to know that I can make a joke and the subtleties of sarcasm won't be lost. I need to know that I won't say the wrong, stupid thing that just doesn't fit the culture. I need to know that the people around me, even if they aren't my friends, still in a strange way get me.
I learned this about myself in just under two weeks. And learning this doesn't mean to me that I need to stay home. What I actually learned is that I need to get out more, put myself in uncomfortable situations more, find myself feeling more awkward than is normal (I generally feel awkward enough), and need to realize that I'm not as comfortable with who I thought I was. Without this knowledge and the desire to seek these situations out, I'll only be a fraud, pretending to be comfortable with who I am, but knowing full well the truth.
A few days later, we decided to make the best of our new-found friend in Seville, Kristen, and get out of town for a while. We rented a black little Peugot and headed east out of Portugal. Kristen met us in town at a beautiful cathedral and proceeded to give us the grand tour: the first stop, margaritas, followed quickly by tapas, and then dinner.
We later went into one of the bar districts along the Guadalquivir River to meet up with some of Adam's friends. As we walked, Kristen lamented at the fact that she had chosen to study abroad to spread her wings a bit, get out of her comfort zone, and experience a new culture but that she was surrounded by Americans, a great number of which had gone to her high school. As we walked, this point was made painfully clear by every group of people we passed all saying "hi" to Kristen, and at least one in the group having been from her high school. The bar we went to? Full of Americans. The Spanish, it seems, can't get away from us.
The remainder of our days in Lagos were spent enjoying the relaxing routine in which we had fallen, consisting mostly of the beach, food, drinks, more food, and relaxation. I started to come to the realization that, though I loved the style of life for a vacation, the idea of living in a town like Lagos, where, despite a constant influx of new people coming for holiday, nothing ever really changed. Though you have the opportunity to meet new people every single day, the experience is tempered with the knowledge that they'll just be leaving again within the next day or two. Any opportunity at making real connections is limited to the people who live in the town, and though the ones I met were wonderful people, there just wasn't large enough of a population to sate my desires for variety.
I learned a few things on the trip, the greatest of which not being Adam's ability to take a "no-wipe-er." No, the biggest, and probably most important lesson that I took from my trip was the knowledge that I'm just not nearly as comfortable in my own skin as I thought. I live in a town where, though there is the aforementioned variety that I crave, I still know that I can go to certain places and see people I know. This is my town -- I belong here, in Portland. I'm confident here, have a grasp of all the local customs and nuances, can find my way around in a pinch, and know that no matter how much of an outsider I sometimes feel, I'm still welcome here. What I discovered being in another country is that, in reality, I need that assurance. I need to know that I can make a joke and the subtleties of sarcasm won't be lost. I need to know that I won't say the wrong, stupid thing that just doesn't fit the culture. I need to know that the people around me, even if they aren't my friends, still in a strange way get me.
I learned this about myself in just under two weeks. And learning this doesn't mean to me that I need to stay home. What I actually learned is that I need to get out more, put myself in uncomfortable situations more, find myself feeling more awkward than is normal (I generally feel awkward enough), and need to realize that I'm not as comfortable with who I thought I was. Without this knowledge and the desire to seek these situations out, I'll only be a fraud, pretending to be comfortable with who I am, but knowing full well the truth.
A few images from the trip...
The beaches
Making a mess at Cashina de Petisco
Adam giving me pointers on Top 40's at Grand Cafe
A Spanish dinner w/ Kristen in Seville
Surrounded by Americans (and one token Aussie) in a bar in Seville
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