(or, The Best Sex I Had Last Year)
When I bought my old house, she had no telephone line, which is quite normal for old houses in this country. Throughout rural portugal you will still see crusty signs that advertise a phone service in a local café or general store. Not so long ago, no one had a phone, and then suddenly mobile phones appeared, and the humble landline simply passed into obscurity. The technology skipped a generation.
And that’s fine if your locale has a nice robust mobile signal floating about. Mine doesn’t, which means to make or receive communications I had to walk up the mountain and stand on one leg. Which would have been complicated had I severed a limb with the chainsaw.
I explained this situation to Portugal Telecom in December 2007, in the hope that they would come the next day and fix me up with a telephone service. The next day, they did not. I continued to call them daily to remind them, and to also remind them that I was using a rival telecommunication company’s mobile network to do so. The more they put me off, the more money I would spend with vodafone. But they didn’t care.
After the first couple of months I decided to use a different tactic. I didn’t really need to explain that I was a foreigner but I pointed out that as an Australian-type foreigner almost everyone I knew was a very expensive phone call away. And how we Australians like to jibber-jabber. What a good client I would be! A big spender! But this didn’t impress them either.
Next, I tried begging. Then I tried being a pest. I tried being nice and developing a ‘customer service relationship’. At this point I had a breakthrough of sorts. They told me they were thinking about connecting the phone. I asked if they would call me back when they had thought about it and I was told “we are not allowed to call our clients”. Um, hello? Trying to do business, and you cannot call your clients? A telecommunications company who cannot call their clients. Nice strategy. Don’t think it will catch on somehow.
It was, at least, an original angle on the “don’t call us, we’ll call you” attitude traditional taken by producers towards actors. And I knew what that meant. It meant that our phoney relationship was over.
Several months later I received a letter from PT informing me that they had finished thinking about connnecting me and had decided not to. It was too hard. Too expensive. But you know, time had passed and I had moved on. I wasn’t hurt. I felt no desire to respond. I mean, I couldn’t exactly call them on my home phone or anything. They made it easy for me to walk away.
Just now I’m remembering something quite funny about dealing with Portugal Telecom. Everytime you call up they want you to provide a phone number. “That’s exactly the reason for my call” I would say, (for which they had no automated response). Brazil, anyone?
So my life continued on its uninterrupted way, free from birthday wishes, announcements of births and deaths, random calls from mother at 8am on a Sunday. In fact, as I didn’t have a TV or radio at this time either, my life trickled over without so much a squeak from the outside world, unless I dared to venture down to the tiny town for a newspaper or session at the espaço internet. Even then, the modern world would come to me only in strictly measured doses. And it’s amazing how few letters you receive when you send none yourself. And no pigeons arrived either (note huge gap in the market there, entepreneurs…).
Occasionally people from modern life would come to visit, because even though my existence had diminished to a barely detectable vibration, other people’s lives continued with the same rampant tramping zeitgeist as ever. I would be horrified by visitors who incessantly sent and received text messages and had separation anxiety from facebook after an hour. They scoffed at the absence of hotspots. Like, at the fonte. At the depositos do lixo. In the forest. Nothing. No signal. Zip. Tch. Toh. Gr. Humph. Who were these people, I wondered, and what planet were they from?
Then, out of the blue, an incredibly good-looking guy with an 8 metre pole arrived and asked where would I like it. It was now December 2008, and I was making an on-the-spot decision about where to fit an ugly eyesore into my grandiose house plans. Up went the pole, and we fixed a date to run the cables.
I almost forgot to tell you about the sex. We were discussing a potential pole site down in the garden. I was standing on a wall that drops off a few metres to the little road below, and my neighbour was passing by, checking out me-and-hunkyportugueseguy. I wobbled, and considering that this was in pre-vertigo days, I think we’ll have to say I swooned, and Senhor Telefone reached out and grabbed me. And pulled me swiftly towards him. To him. At him. Oomph. My neighbour reacted just as I did, with a shriek of surprise and delight. And then it was over. But the moment was good and I definitely felt the earth move.
He came back to fix the line rather inconveniently as my sister and brother-in-law arrived for a visit. Rather more inconveniently for my sister who wanted to take a shower but found that the up-the-pole position gave the techo a perfect view of her less-suntanned bits. I argued on the side of the techo installing my much needed phone, but she got wise and covered the window with a piece of cardboard. The details one remembers of a good day. We sat around in high anticipation of connecting to the world, but as it goes in Portugal things don’t happen in the pre-estimated time. We were waiting for three days.
Mario, or Paulo? I can´t even remember his name, how superficial of me.
Maybe it was during this time that they decided I should start a blog. All I know is it wasn’t my idea and after a year of seclusion the last thing on my mind was revealing my every waking thought to the universe, especially if my thoughts were locked in the tedium of choosing toilet appliances. I was excited enough just to have a telephone line to telephone people on, but in a matter of minutes I would have email rushing at me, a world of information and news available, a facebook account where long lost friends could be found again and then in a month or two, I would be out there living nude in blogland. OK not nude, but sometimes feeling exposed nonetheless.
At first, I confess, I found the contrast a bit extreme, but after few weeks I felt comfy in my little global village. I was mollycoddled by the fresh warmth of friends and family. While I watched my life from another (quieter) era slip away, and the irritating interruptions of random communication began creeping in, I also realised anew just how important friends are.
And starting the blog only reinforced this. I expected the internet to be full of weirdos, and I can confirm that it is, but a few of them are now my friends, and if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
A year on, and more than 60,000 visits later, I’d like to thank a few people. Foremost, a gargantuan thank you to Fairy and Med for taking it on and keeping me going. About 6 months into it tinyartdirector and I realized there wasn’t going to be any largesse of riches coming our way but we had created quite a nice cuddly monster which other people liked as well, so we’d better keep at it.
Big massive thanks also to Isabel (weirdo) for her constant ideas and feedback. Dee (weirdo in spain) and all the other hilarious women who have tuned in and encouraged. Non-scalable Derek (not that weird) and a variety of other cheerful blokes who’ve gotten into the building bits without being patronizing fools (I will try to actually build something this year, promise) and to all the Portuguese; the porties and the tugas who’ve made me feel welcome even though I can whinge like a pom and can’t write in their language, yet. Thanks peeps. Thanks.
Oh and I should thanks my pets, Mao and Wookie, for being themselves and keeping me warm in the winter. Onya, fellas 
Ironic (or just stupidly shitful) that my phone line/internet connection died around the time of the one year anniversary of the first post. And I´m still not reconnected after months and innumerable chats with the good people at 16200. Shout out to Anna, Alvaro, Fernando, Patricia, Maria, Nuno… quite a lot of people there to answer the phones but no one to come and actually fix the line. And Portugal Telecom still don’t call their clients. What’s that all about?
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Dear Sir/ Madam
We would like to explain Emma’s protracted absence this month, and hope for your understanding on this matter.
To start with, Emma had a cold. We cannot provide a doctor’s certificate but as we are recovering from the worst winter on record I’m sure you appreciate that a few sick days are to be expected.
We believe the cold was brought on by stress, first initiated when Emma’s old but faithful ibook refused to start up. Thus began a search for the nearest apple repairer which led to the fateful trip to Coimbra.
On the way home was when the accident occurred. In a setting of rain, congested traffic and roadworks, the driver in front braked suddenly and in reacting, Emma’s vehicle slid into oncoming traffic and collided with the another vehicle. Yes, yes, all her fault, technically. Fortunately, no excess of speed was involved, and Wookie simply slipped from the passenger’s seat onto the floor.
In service of expediency, Emma admitted fault and she and the other driver got all amicable together. It was then that Emma had the dumb idea of calling the cops. In the meantime, Emma was experiencing shock and some confusion regarding the circumstances of the accident. She stood staring at the large amount of debris on the road, particularly at a broken number plate that did not belong either to her vehicle nor to the other driver. The quantity of broken plastic and glass was most bewildering, especially the Fiat badge on a busted front grill and a discarded bumper bar. A road worker approached Emma and taking her by the shoulders, guided her back off the road. “This is the seventh accident here today. They only just finished sweeping the road after the last one,” he said.
Then Emma realized how the accident had happened. The road was as slippery as an ex-prime minister at a tribunal hearing, covered in a fine and compromising layer of dirt and oiliness. She had unwittingly ventured into an accident black spot. Bummer.
The coppers arrived. They didn´t help. They were mean, in a bad mood, and I´ve met some surly pigs in my life. Egyptian police for example; you have to carry cigarettes for them to calm them down. I encountered Turkish police after being sprung kissing in a public place, and even though I had apparently broken the law and they took us down to the station, there were quite ok, possibly a bit embarrassed as I kept asking them what they were doing at a remote lookout at midnight… was there a murderer?
But here goes the porty policia; after I so rudely interrupted their card game or something… They asked me to explain the circumstances, then banana 1 walked away, just as I started to speak. Banana 2 was not interested in looking at the scale of the debris left by other vehicles or speaking to the roadworkers on the scene. They wouldn’t even look me in the eye. B2 shouted. I replied, I´m foreign, not deaf. They made derisive remarks like “we. don’t. speak. engrish”. They accused me of excessive speed (based on what?). If they were so keen to do their job, the opportunity was there eating a doggie chew on my front seat – Wookie should have been in a box. But I surmise that these gents were as adequate at policing as they were at being decent.
But it´s just bad police PR: this behaviour I think is so very unportuguese. The other driver was embarrassed for them and within a few minutes of the police’s arrival apologised to me on their behalf. After several attempts, and despite me not holding the right bit of insurance paper, the other driver convinced me not to involve them.
Driving past the location a week later, the traffic was diverted and the same stretch of road is closed, like it was all some b-grade conspiracy movie about an hysterical blonde journalist.
Now car-less and computer-less I decide the time is right to chop off the dog’s nuts. Wookie becomes tomato-less. On a previous visit home (during houseminding) I met another 6 or 7 little wookie-poodles who may, any day, be abruptly given a new home in the wild. There are other male dogs in the village to father future furry tragedies, but at least I and mine will not be a part of it. So then, a couple of days leave-of-absence were spent passing the bag of frozen peas to the dog. I am secretly hoping that the desire to chase sheep and chickens was sexual, and has also therefore been neutered.
Speaking of home, houseminding bliss in the Ribatejo came to an end and I had to move back to the village. Nastiness awaited; my entire house went mouldy while I was away. The walls had mould, the toaster had mould, the picture frames had mould. Not just a few days were spent cleaning, scrubbing, washing, drying, painting and moving stuff in and out.
And just when I almost had the house habitable again, a film crew wanted to move me out again! They came to shoot an episode of House Hunters International, a cable show about foreigners and real estate. Naturally, with drama/disaster in my aura I took the whole filming thing like a visit from demons-past. Not only that they wanted me to re-live the whole house buying catastrophe but the ghost takes the form of the film industry and this time I am to be the instrument and not the musician, or even the composer. Warm props. Actors. Talent. Yuck.
Of course it wasn’t so bad. In fact, the crew were so adorable (hi to chris, davide & jeff, we are still missing you) that it made me want to be back in the business. They reminded me of some of the great people I worked with, and particularly of the world-wise, liberal, sharp and simpatico men the film industry has in its employ. As for the action, Mao stole the show by hiding in the stone oven just as I was trying to act out ´getting a feel for living here´ and poked him with a bread paddle. He flew out, towards camera, quite literally like a bat out of hell. Soory for the heart attack davide, but god I hope you got the shot.
Meanwhile the car is fixed and my 4 week shitfight to get a new mac is finally over (just cut to the chase and buy it from fnac, portuguese mac-people, and don’t be seduced by the price of the mac mini, as it’s a hassle and a half. The piece work then becomes cable wrangling and more whatnot. And how much is this non-mac keyboard shitting me? Just buy the macbook next time. Just buy the macbook. Just… Grr) Another few days spent unpacking boxes and searching for items lost (if filming is tolerable then try moving house and filming on the same day). But now there’s the internet connection problem. Apparently the phone line also went mouldy and PT hasn’t fixed it yet and nor do they seem interested in doing so. Usual game. It’s been said before, but when it comes to modern life, Portugal is a pain in the arse. They have the technology, they just don’t know how to work it.
Now if all that isn’t enough of an excuse, I also slipped off to Stockholm for the easter weekend to do another day’s shoot (again, super nice crew, Izzy Paul and Ray), and to hang out with some sorely missed Swedish friends. If I really could relive the house purchase, I would take a tin shed there rather than a stone chateau here anyday. Sorry tugas, but Sweden is truly utopian.
The only bad thing about going away is what I come back to. Not only did Mao abscond for 4 days of the 5, he also to broke a toe. But Wookie and I are back on track after a few months where there was no love left to lose. There’s a whole lotta brown furry love going on at my place.
So while I am not exactly online, I am at least trying to be. Standby for more, if you please.
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I hope you noticed the cafes where I shot the coffee post. They are my favourite cafes of Lisbon. All old, full of history and intrigue.
Café Versailles. avenida da república 15, at sardanha. Café meia de leite €1.20
Surely the grandest dame of them all, the Versailles is pure blue-rinse glamour. Mirrored, chandeliered and bejewelled, and with a pastelaria counter running the entire length of the interior, well… ’tis positively palacial. Good place to take visiting royals.
Padaria Sao Roque, rua dom pedro v, between sao roque and principe real. Bica 55c:
Say you’re down on Avenida Liberdade, at Restauradores, hungry and needing coffee. You could take the Elevador da Gloria up to Bairro Alto. At the top you take a few pics at the big lookout, keep walking up the road, past some antique shops. Cross the road, on a little corner of a laneway called rua da rosa is this little character-filled gem. Their bread, pastries and baked savouries are great, but you might have to divert your eyes from the confectionery delight of the interior design to order. Some seriously nice tiles with your bica.
Leitaria A Camponeza, rua dos sapateiros, baixa. Cafés garoto & carioca 55c:
This blue-tiled marvel is hard to miss on time-warp classic rua sapateiros, through the archway off Praça Dom Pedro IV (Rossio).
It has a lovely art nouveau interior. Opened in 1908. Somewhere to stop after visiting the art nouveau peep show place a few doors up.
A Brasileira, rua garret 120, chiado. Um Abatando €1.80
No doubt the most touristy on this list, and possibly the most expensive coffee in Portugal, the Brasileira is nonetheless a landmark with a fabulously neo-baroque ceiling. I know the Brasileiras in Porto and Braga and they are also standouts for interior design and bespoke furniture.
Confeitaria Naçional, praça da figueira 18B/C. Um Galão €1.10
I don’t go to Lisbon without visiting the Naçional. Spectacular design inside and out but more importantly the most mouth-watering window selection of pastries in the country. No, make that the world. If heaven is like this I’d better start saying my prayers.
Café Martinho Da Arcada, praça do comerçio. Um Bica/italiana/cortado 75c
The Martinho is homage to the idea that a café is far more than a place that serves coffee. If you are drinking coffee in Lisbon, you should have already met the poet Fernando Pessoa. Here he is at the Martinho, where coffee is poetry.
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