Faro

After forgetting a map and stubbornly refusing to go back to the hostel I am fruitlessly searching for an internet cafe. I follow road signs for the Centro but to no avail, passing an old lady with a brunette perm who has paused from walking her two dogs to stare closely at lingerie in a sex shop. She hears me and spins, embarrassed, then scolds her dogs as if they had led her unto temptation.

Then I here the sweet sound of Mick Jagger and see the blue flash of police lights. This irresistable combination is a parade called Fiera do Lokos. It is aptly named, dancers, jugglers, fire-breathers and a group of colourfully bewigged lunatics march through town on a wave of chaos, led by a moustache twirling director with a loud hailer. Occassionally the madness concertates for a few minutes at roundabouts or in a square but the procession continues for hours, touring in circles through narrow streets.

At the last of these concentrations of chaos, three platinum blondes join the crowd. As I snap pictures, trying to look professional, one says in accentless English "Do you want some of yourself?". Crestfallen that I have been clocked as a Briton abroad without even opening my mouth I mumble a sulky "No, thanks". The girls, Olga, Iva and Iveta, are Russian but have lived in London long enough to say to me "You have English written across your forehead". With the parade disapating we head for a club. Several do not meet the high Russian standards, even one with a genuine Russian doorman. In fairness, they contained either a few lecherous old men or a horde of underage drinkers (May the two never meet).

A satisfactory club was eventually settled upon, where the three beautiful Russians inevitably attracted alot of attention, among the almost exclusively dark haired clentele. I could feel a not inconsiderable resentment emanating from the male half of the room but no-one tried a single drunken one liner. I guess this could be another bad sign, because if the men of Portugal are not tempted to use their knowledge of English now, how likely are they to want to talk to some silly bloke on the train?