A Portuguese Moment...

Yesterday, I encountered a… well, what can I call it? Let’s just say, I came face to face with a Portuguese Moment.

‘What is a Portuguese Moment?’ I hear you ask.

Well, a Portuguese Moment, to me at least, is simply something that happens and makes me think: ‘Yes, I really am in Portugal.’ That’s what a Portuguese Moment is to me.

So back to yesterday: yesterday was Friday and I had a busy schedule planned for the morning. I wanted to catch the train to Olhão – the 9:27am, to be exact. Once there, I wanted to nip to the cobblers, pick up a pair of boots that I’d dropped off a couple of weeks ago, then walk back to Fuseta, hopefully to arrive before midday to pick up some pies I’d ordered from Bart – Bart, the Algarve Pie Guy. This meant that I was on a tight schedule without much room for error.

Yes, that was the plan but it didn’t start well. The 9:27am was late, as per usual on a weekend. So, was that my Portuguese Moment? Well, I suppose it was a small one, but not the one I’m talking about here. So, let’s continue.

When I reached the cobbler’s, I found that my boots weren’t ready. The cobbler was in hospital apparently with ‘stones in the pancreas’ according to his wife, which is not something I’ve heard of before, but it certainly doesn’t sound pleasant. Then his wife added:

´I need to catch up. I will mend your boots next week.’

Blimey, my lovely boots in the hands of the cobbler’s wife? I really hope she knows what she’s doing, that she’s actually a cobbler, too… I’ll find out next week, I suppose, when I pick them up. But once again, this isn’t the Portuguese Moment I’m writing about today.

No, for that we need to take a step back to my train journey into Olhão.

To be honest, the journey itself was uneventful. I’d bought my ticket in Fuseta (amazingly, the ticket office was actually open), so that wasn’t a problem. The train was rather full and I stood all the way, but that wasn’t really a problem either. In fact, since time was of the essence, standing by the door would mean that I was the first off the train and would be heading for the cobblers before I could say: ‘Where are my boots?’ – or so I thought, anyway.

The train pulled into the station and my hand hovered over the button that would open the door. Outside, I could see that the platform was heaving, people already crowding the area that they thought would allow them to get on the train first. Unfortunately, myself and several others had to get off the train before they could get on. Some people aren’t very bright.

The train stopped, I pushed the button, the doors opened and I got off, pushing my way through the crowded masses to head for the exit. One lady wasn’t too happy, but then I, and the people following me, weren’t too happy either. Surely getting off the train should be easier than this, shouldn’t it?

As I said, I jostled my way through and headed for the exit. Now, this is where things began to get interesting.

First off, let me paint a picture. In Olhão, the train doesn’t stop outside the station building. It stops a bit further along the platform. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe because the platform by the station building isn’t suitable for getting on and off the train. Is this right or wrong? I have no idea, but it would explain ‘as obras’ (the works) that are happening there now.

The platform that sits in front of the station building has now been split in two – lengthways. As you come out of the ticket office, you’re faced with a set of railings that run for maybe forty metres along the platform, dividing it in two. The part of the platform nearest to the ticket office is the same level as the ticket office floor. The part on the other side of the railings, next to the track, is maybe eight inches higher. Why is it higher? To allow easier access to trains? To allow access for wheelchairs and prams? To be honest, I’m not too sure, but I presume it was done for a reason. There again, this is Portugal. Maybe it was done just so they could spend some EU funds…

So, anyway, yesterday, I stepped off the train, pushed my way through the opposing crowd, and headed for the exit via the lower segment of platform, the one closest to the ticket office. Behind me, I could sense other passengers following. I pushed my way through the masses and really didn’t notice what was in front of me, until I very nearly walked into a red plastic barrier that had been set up to stop anyone using this lower part of the platform. Bloody hell. Beyond it was a hole in the ground and a couple of blokes standing around it, peering down, having a look at whatever. Workmen the world over seem to have a canny ability to look as though they’re doing something without doing anything at all.

Anyway, bollocks. This meant that I had no option. I turned around and headed back the way I’d come. As I did so, I giggled. Right before me was a metaphor for humanity and its sheep-like tendencies. Everyone had followed me off the train and through the crowd. They hadn’t looked ahead, they hadn’t seen the problem, they’d simply followed me. I’d reached the barrier and then I’d had to turn around. On my return, I was passing people who would shortly encounter the same problem I had. I looked over my shoulder and watched as the man behind me realised there was a barrier in the way. I saw him sigh, shake his head, and follow me back the other way. Then the lady behind him followed suit, then the next person and then the next… People were walking towards the exit, towards the barrier, realising that there was no way to exit that way and then having to retrace their steps, just as I had. It was like we were doing the conga, only there was no music, just a series of sighs, grunts and groans. Was I the Messiah? Or Forrest Gump? Was I leading the way? It certainly felt like it. Like I said, it made me giggle.

I continued with a smile on my face, rounded the end of the railings, and moved on to the upper part of the platform, hoping to get to the exit that way, with my followers behind me.
Then I stopped smiling and giggling for a moment. And why? Because in front of me was another barrier.

Eh?!

Yes, this was my Portuguese Moment. The lower part of the platform had a barrier across it because a couple of workmen had dug a hole and it was obviously too dangerous to allow the general public to go that way. As an alternative, I’d tried the upper part of the platform and found that that had been cordoned off, too. Why? Because some bloke was painting the pillars that support the station’s roof.

Interesting. One platform, split into two lengthways, and both parts were cordoned off.

How on earth were we meant to get to the exit? A refrain from The Eagles’ Hotel California came to mind, something about being able to check out but never being able to leave.

So yes, this was my Portuguese Moment. Two sets of people working, doing their job, with no concern for the railway’s customers or each other. Nothing made sense. What the hell was I supposed to do?

To be honest, I simply thought: ‘This is bollocks,’ and pushed past the barrier on the upper segment of the platform and headed for the exit. The guy painting the pillars looked indignant. How dare we push through his barrier?! But I suppose the fact that maybe fifty or sixty people were heading his way behind me deterred him from making a scene, although, as I said, he did look rather indignant.

Next to me, on the lower part of the platform, one of the passengers, a youngish bloke decided that he didn’t care if there was a red, plastic barrier in front of him, and he certainly wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. He pushed part of the barrier aside and squeezed his way through. One of the workmen peering into the hole turned around and said something that I presume was fairly abusive, pointing at the barrier. The man pushing his way through turned, gesticulated and said something back that I presume was equally abusive.

Both barriers were now being circumvented by crowds of people. The workers weren’t happy, but the passengers leaving the train seemed to be enjoying their minor rebellion. Many were smiling and laughing. I was too, now.

I carried on past the painter and, soon enough, was making my way towards the cobbler’s.

Yes, that was my Portuguese Moment. One platform, split in two, both parts blocked by workmen whom, I presume, had simply been given a job and no direction as to how to cater for the paying public.

Fortunately, despite the problems, I managed to leave the station, get to the cobbler’s (although that turned out to be a futile journey, as I said), walk back to Fuseta and pick up my pies, and all before the bells struck midday.

And this is where I had my British Moment.

At Bart’s, I found Nigel also collecting his pies. This led to an afternoon of beer, banter and bollocks, but that’s a whole ‘nother story which I may tell, or there again, I may not.

Suffice to say, my head really hurts this morning.