e is away....: A Bed of Nails

Happy Fourth of July! Poor Frederick has never been in the US for this day, and has no idea of any of it: hot dogs, fireworks...nothing. Today we might try to find something vaguely American to do. Or we could just go into an English pub and scream IN YOUR FACE ENGLAND! (see trash talking section below).

Anyway, back to me and my problems. The inevitable has happened: both Thomas and I have sore backs. We are leaping around so much, and we do not have our normal pit crew of massage therapists and pilates instructors: people we see an embarrassing amount of in SF. So I went to the doctor and physiotherapist, both of whom were Dutch women. Now a lot has been written in this blog about the difference between Protestants and Catholics...garlic vs onions; butter vs olive oil; soft beds vs hard. But as anyone who has been to a doctor in France will tell you, the biggest difference lies in their reaction to pain. In France, with a sore back, one is given a pill fit for a horse....and then something really strong for the night. I believe the prescription states it should be swallowed with a nice Bordeaux. My lovely Dutch Protestant doctor prescribed tylenol (sigh), and gave me something like a muscle relaxant, for night. But she warned they are "very addictive" and I should " throw the extra ones away". ( HA!!!!..) Then the physiotherapist: She told me that I need to eat more alkaline, or less...lord only knows; and this is the best part- I should buy a thingie with nails on it and lie upon it. "Best thing for the back! "
Nails? I ask...but really I am laughing because I am sure that this time a camera crew will come out and say HAHAHA just giving you grief....little gullible California girl. There is no such thing as a bed of nails for the back. But she just keeps writing the name down for me.
Sure as hell you know we will buy one...Thomas is (predictably) very enthusiastic. My little Protestant- you could just see his mind at work: Oh please Santa Please !!! bring me a bed of nails!!

So there you have it-if your back goes out on vacation: do not ask where the doctor went to medical school. Ask if they believe in transubstantiation.

We went on a really long drive to the edge of Europe, to the southern tip of Portugal: a place called Sagres. It is where one can surf...though it is a sort of forlorn place, not at all like a happy go lucky surf town. It has a fortress that used to be a sailing academy hundreds of years ago (see below). I believe all the great Portuguese sailors were there, including a visit by Christopher Columbus..and yes I know he was was not Portuguese. It is spectacular. And of course I thought of my father and how he would have loved it: all that maritime history, all those dangerous rocks, all that untamed ocean leading away from home.

It was really windy, so we didn't stay too long, but skedaddled to a nice dinner of chicken piri piri and plenty of beer. Thomas had this long discussion with the waiter about substituting french fries with rice. On and on it went..rice and fries? no thank you. just rice. yes just aroz. yes....thank you. no french fries at all. right none. thank you. Obrigado. ....the waiter is writing things down....crossing things out....all good. And then out come two huge plates of chicken and fries, no rice. We were laughing: it is like when one tries to put Parmesan on top of pasta con vongole. Sorry little tourists: chicken piri piri goes with fries. ( a bit like the time I asked old Italian B friend if I could have a cappuccino after lunch. And he said, yes you can have one, but the waiter will sing the Star Spangled banner when he brings it).

Speaking of bitter disappointment.....by now you may have heard Spain beat Italy by a resounding 4-0 in the finals. It is hard to know whom to root for: the team that beat you, so you can say you were beaten by the best? or the sour grapes version...I'll call it the Schadenfreude path- the path that makes you root for the enemy of your enemy. But here is the thing: I do not know anything about soccer, and even I can see Spain is such a ridiculously good team. Their two best players did not play (injured), and another-who is so good he would be the most insanely good player ever on a US team..a man whose last name is very close to the word goal in German...he only went in after they were ahead 2-0 and with 20 minutes left he scored with his first touch. So as I told Gianluca, what are you going to do? They are beyond the pale.
What I find most amusing is how easily the Spaniards could figure out the Italians, whereas the Germans are so flummoxed. You can just see their confusion: all those knee bends, all those vegetables, all that organizational prowess and they are consistently beaten by these long haired beauties who are given massages before penalty kicks.

Fortress at Sagres

Little Chapel to visit before your journey.

Stretching on a 500 year old canon

But in light of my love of all things (except soccer) Italian...I changed my home answering machine to reflect the German defeat. I also did it to show the Italians how smack talking is done: how one must flap ones lips a bit before, and then Man Up and do something humiliating if one loses. It is an American tradition of course...the art of trash talk. I mean, think of the giants we have in this area: that guy Bill Johnson who won the down hill ski race (first ever for an American) after doing nothing but saying he would win beforehand; Mohammad Ali; Babe Ruth pointing to where his home run would be... the glorious list goes on and on. So on this fourth of July, don't let anyone tell you we are number two.

Finally, someone asked about the level of chic here, and the word is: low. We are in an enclave of almost all English and German golfers. Lawn mowers and pool cleaners are the sounds of Portugal from my bedroom. But Thomas and I get into the spirit of it: We are presently driving around in a 10 year old white mercedes of Claus' with approximately 12 miles on it (they keep it here), and we look like Florida retirees. (see photo of me in hat below) . Unlike Sardinia, where one is dressed up all the time, here any old paper bag will do. Best of all, if your body mass index is anywhere below pretty f ing fat...you are a goddess among the golf crowd. I don't mean to brag, but I have options.

Finally, Finally in other big news, we bought new lounge chairs for around the pool. I cannot tell you what a subversive act that is: E likes things to stay the way they are. But Thomas and I do not want to sit straight up while by the pool anymore (I am not making this up) so we did it. I will let you know what happens when the parents get here. But before they arrive we have to turn off the air conditioning (protestants hate it) and get rid of the garlic.

Maybe we will bury it, like a dead body.