Holly Winter: Living the Life of Holly: #131 As Good As It Gets

Living the Life of Holly
because life happens one column at a time

Column # 131 As Good As It Gets?

I've dreamed of going to Portugal my whole life. But. So far the country is not living up to my expectations.... I try everything to make it better from speaking in tongues to lying.

Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
As Good As It Gets?

“No.” Cool-guy said, as soon as he stepped into the room. “No way.”

I laughed. “It worked for Lucy and Ricky on the ‘I Love Lucy Show.’ Maybe it would be fun.”

He turned to me. “How do you say ‘no way' in Portuguese?”

“I’m glad you’ve asked...I’ve been practicing my Portuguese. Ready? Abrigado means thank you. There. That’s all I know.”

The maid looked at me blankly.

“See if you can explain the problem to her.” He said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t understand English. Maybe she speaks Spanish.”

We were exhausted. We had met up earlier that day in London and flown together to Faro, Portugal. We had so much fun driving around the countryside that it had taken us hours to make it to our final destination in Lagos.

I turned to the maid. “Hablas Espanol?” (Do you speak Spanish?)

“Claro.” She smiled. (Of course.)

“Vamos a necesitar un cuarto con una cama grande. Es muy importante a mi novio.” (We’re going to need a room with one large bed. It’s really important to my boyfriend.)

She started giggling. “No hay problema.” (No problem.)

I laughed. “Muchas gracias.” (Thanks so much.)

Cool-guy cut in. “Did you tell her we needed a BIG bed? I’m tall.” He held his hand up over his head. “I’m tall.”

The maid lost herself in a series of little giggles.

“Cama. Is that how you say bed?” Cool-guy asked me.

“Yeah….”

“Uno grande cama. Muy, muy grande, por favor… por favor.” He said. (A bed big. Very, very big, please… please.)

The maid giggled us to the front desk.

“I didn’t come all the way to Europe to sleep in my own bed.” Cool-guy explained to the manager. “Do you have a room without single beds? We would like one large bed.”

“No me gusta Americanos.” The manager muttered under his breath as he undid our paperwork. (I don’t like Americans.)

I pretended not to understand.

He gave us a key to another room. “Now you will have another room that you will not like. I hope it makes you most unhappy.”

I laughed. He was a carbon copy of Steve Martin. It was hard to take anything he said seriously. I wondered if he hated Americans because they laughed at him for resembling a famous comedian.

“It has one big bed?” Cool-guy checked.

“Yes.” Sour-manager frowned.

“Sweet.”

Maybe he would lighten up when he saw I could speak another language. “Con permiso, puedo preguntar un pregunta mas?” (With your permission, may I ask one more question?)

“Yes.” Sour-manager sighed. “Ask in English.”

“Thank you.” I tried not to laugh. “You are so kind. Is there an internet connection in our room?”

“No.”

“Will I be able to use the phone from my room to hook up to the internet?”

“No.” He said as he turned to do some paperwork. “You are not in America now. We do not have digital phones.”

“I need to connect my computer to the internet.”

He half turned back to me. “I DON’T CARE.”

Cool-guy stared at the man. He had expected more from the best hotel in town. “You don’t care? We are paying…”

I swear. This guy WAS Steve Martin. “Ok.” I was trying to think one step ahead of him. “I understand. Will there be someone here tomorrow who will care?”

“No.”

I laughed. This guy was growing on me. “Is there someone in the hotel I can pay to help me hook up my computer?”

“No.”

I leaned against the counter. “I’m a travel writer. I want to write about my stay in this hotel and send in my report to the New York Times.”

Cool-guy stared at me as if I were an undercover agent working for the KGB.

“I DON”T CARE.” Sour-manager turned his back to us.

Cool-guy turned to him. “You don’t care? You don’t care about the New York Times?”

I laughed. “Is there some place I can go where they WILL care?”

His back spoke. “Go into town. Maybe somebody there will care.”

“Thanks for your help. You are so kind.” I said as I pulled a shocked Cool-guy out onto the street.

“I normally travel to Asia.” He said. “If you had a problem with your computer there, they would KILL to help you solve it.”

“I liked that Steve Martin guy. He was so… sour. He must balance out the real Steve Martin. I’m glad we came to Portugal. Now I understand opposites.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Cool-guy said. “Let’s see how you feel about him when you can’t post your columns. What if the New York Times stops publishing you because you can’t meet your deadline?”

“Oh. I’m sure someone else would pick me up.” I laughed.

Though we were walking around the center of town, we couldn’t hide from that relentless wind. We held each other to stay warm as we walked. We stumbled into the first crowded restaurant we could find.

“The food has to be good here, right?” I said as we passed all the locals eating heaps of food on large platters.

The restaurant was too bright. We sat in a darkened corner. “It’ll be more romantic.” Cool-guy assured me.

The waitress wasn’t so sure. “It is better in the light.”

“We like the dark.” I smiled.

“But you can not see your food here.”

“We like it here.” Cool-guy smiled.

“I’ll bring you a candle.” The waitress shrugged. “To help you celebrate.”

I leaned over to Cool-guy. “What are we celebrating?”

“Getting service without an argument.” He said, and ordered two fish dinners.

Our fish arrived.

I cut a small piece from the pool of butter that it was soaking in and popped it into my mouth.

“Let me guess.” Cool-guy cringed. “It tastes like butter.”

“Nope. It tastes like lamb. Tough and chewy, old lamb.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “I love Portugal. The wind. The highways that end abruptly. Sour hotel managers. And fish that tastes like lamb.”

I laughed. “Sweet Cool-guy, maybe tomorrow you can go surfing.”

The waitress overheard us. “There is no surfing. The wind is blowing out to sea, so the waves are going out to sea. You can’t surf. The waves are no good.”

“Thanks.” I laughed.

Cool-guy worked on his meal. “I don’t think this is fish. I think it’s dehydrated dog meat.”

“Strange that the butter adds no flavor, isn’t it?”

“If I were home, I’d spit this out and refuse to pay.”

“Honey. I’m glad your travel manners are intact.”

“It has nothing to do with manners.” He said. “I have a feeling this bite right here may be as good as it gets, in Portugal.”

Comment on this column in The Forum

Send Holly your comments. Tell her what you really think! Your comments might be published on her website, or in her weekly Yahoo Group e-mail. Send Comments

Wanna vote for your favorite column? Fan's favorite column picks will be added to the Fan's Favorite Five page. Send your pick for your favorite here. Fan's Favorite Column Pick

Don't miss out! Sign up to receive a free copy of Holly's column via e-mail each week, click HERE to send a blank e-mail request. (All e-mail addresses are private... NEVER, EVER shared.)

bravenet.com