The Good, the Bad and the Sad…

It’s Tuesday. It’s the night before my first Portuguese language test.

Yes, as I said before, I’m doing the government-run language course, trying to do my best to learn a bit of Portuguese. It’s about time, I hear you say, and yes, you’re bloody right.

But I wish that I’d done it last year. Last year there were no tests apparently, or so Henry has told me – simply attend and pass. But things are changing in Portugal.

Chega is on the rise, insisting that immigrants integrate and that’s fair enough, even though trying to learn Portuguese whilst living in Fuzeta means that you are on a hiding to nothing. When I told our teacher where I lived (in perfect Portuguese, obviously) her eyes went wide and she stifled a laugh. The inference? You will never understand the locals… and she’s right. What I learn in class is like anathema to the local people here, lovely as they are. And so, I truly believe that even after studying for a year, I will still be reliant on the English language.

Anyway, that aside, that wasn’t what I was going to write about today – well, it was, sort of. I was going to write about the good, the bad and the sad (ugly?) side of being here in Portugal, all of which hit me today.

First off, I wasn’t going to go out this evening, honest. As I said, it’s Tuesday night, the night before my language test, and I’ve already sorted my evening: revise, eat something early and go to bed, mainly so that I can wake up refreshed tomorrow. Then maybe I can prove to myself that I’m actually learning something.

But it wasn’t to be. Nigel messaged me, told me that he was down at ‘Shack One’ with Max, and that Bart, the Algarve Pie Guy and his entourage (well, wife and family friend), Adele and Janet would be arriving soon.

Bloody hell. I suppose if I had a backbone, I wouldn’t have gone, but… a beer with friends? That’s what I love the most…

So yes, I headed down to ‘Shack One’.

There I found four of them (Janet was yet to arrive). I offered a round, bought a round and sat down to enjoy.

Nigel then told me about the fact that he had yet another car problem.

To be honest, he doesn’t seem to have had the best of luck with cars, but that’s another story. This time (well, the other day), he’d come down to Fuzeta for a beer, left his car overnight (Ubers here are cheap enough to allow him to behave when he has a beer – ie not drive home – though obviously, many other car owners don’t bother to take his lead), then he’d come back down to pick it up and found a huge oil slick underneath.

Bloody hell. What to do?

He’d then headed up to Alfandanga and managed to find someone – from the petrol station, or the car accessory shop there? To be honest, I’m not too sure.

Whoever it was had come down, checked the car, told him that it was simply a displaced oil filter, sorted it out and then gone to leave. Surely, they’d want payment? No. They’d wanted nothing. Nigel offered them €20. They weren’t happy. €10 would be more than enough, apparently, and really not necessary. Nigel insisted – two helpful men had come down to Fuzeta, sorted his problem and saved him a lot of trouble. They deserved payment. Eventually, grudgingly, they’d excepted.

And that’s the Portugal I know, that’s the good, and I bloody love it. People want to help you.

So anyway, down at ‘Shack One’, we had a few beers, enjoyed the evening and then went home before it all went too mad. Max made his own way homeward, Bart and Adele went back to check on Poppy, their dog, Nigel got a lift with Janet, and I headed home.

At this point, I had a choice: go home and stay home, or head up to Nanobrew for a quick beer. Well, since I’d already had a few beers, the latter option was obviously the way to go, so that’s what I did – only to find that it was closed. Bloody hell. I was so looking forward to a glass of Fuzcitra… then I had a long hard look at myself. It was Tuesday after all. Nanobrew is always closed on a Tuesday. I think that this is another case of living here and having no idea what day it is. So strange. We all struggle to know which day we’re enjoying – or maybe it’s just me… I think I thought it was Sunday, despite it being Tuesday and despite me knowing that I had my Portuguese test the next day. Bloody hell…

Anyway, at this point I now had just one choice: head home and watch a film. So, that’s what I did. I headed home.

On the way, I met Pedro, but this is the sad (the ugly?) part of living here in Portugal, so let me come back to that later. Let’s head to the bad first.

After meeting Pedro I headed home, but meeting him meant that I wasn’t going to stay home. I needed to head out and write – about him and his family and their problems.

I walked in through my front door, simply collected my laptop and headed back out to ‘Shack Two’ to write about my encounter with Pedro.

I stepped out and found that drops of rain were the order of the day. Bloody hell… but I could take it.

Anyway, I was headed towards ‘Shack Two’, when I ran into a local bloke that I sort of know. Normally he ignores me. But today, he crossed the road to talk to me, or rather, he staggered. Bloody hell, he was pissed. To help certain people who maybe know who this was, we know him as the ‘Octopus’ man.

He staggered over, a big smile on his face and said something in Portuguese. I gathered that he was asking about a bar that I knew to be closed. I told him so and then he began speaking English. I’d never heard him speak English before – maybe that’s what alcohol does to you. I told him that ‘O Pescador’ was open:

‘You and I go! I pay!’

I had to refuse him. Normally he wouldn’t say boo to me, and I really wanted to write. I apologised and said that I was off to ‘Shack Two’. Then came the magic words:

‘F*%k you then!’

‘Nice!’ I thought, as he stormed up the road. Well, that was the bad, or maybe the bad is the ugly, too. Who knows?

Still, I made it to ‘Shack Two’ without getting too wet, and without feeling too depressed that I’d been told to ‘F*%k off’.

And now I’m sitting here, and bloody hell, it’s pouring. Did I bring a coat? Did I bring an umbrella? Of course not. Blimey, I’m going to get soaked… still, Portugal needs the water, so I can’t complain.

But now I need to go back to my conversation with Pedro.

His family live at the top of my street. He’s a fisherman. He’s a lovely guy. Every time I see him, he says hello. He has a dog that he obviously loves, but more importantly, he has a daughter that he also loves and he is so proud of her. To be honest, I love the way he is.

I first spoke to him a few years ago. He told me that the house next to mine used to belong to his grandmother, and the next one to that belonged to his uncle. It seemed that I’d moved into a street that belonged to families that had been here for generations – and they’d still accepted me.

Anyway, tonight, I was heading home and Pedro was outside his Mum’s apartment (in the same street). We saw each other, smiled, shook hands, and I asked him how he was, and then he told me about his mother. She wasn’t good apparently, had a heart problem. But the more I talked to him, the more I thought that maybe she’d had a stroke and that it wasn’t simply a heart problem – and yes, she had.

Bloody hell, that was close to home. My dad has just had two strokes.

Pedro then explained how it was affecting his Mum and yes, it was the same as Dad: speech, mobility, motor skills… Mmm… And then he told me:

‘We have no medical support, we have to look after her, no occupational therapist, no physiotherapist, no speech therapist… ‘

Bloody hell, man, that’s hard.

I know that back in the UK, Dad is getting all of this. I know that maybe Dad will have to pay for it eventually, but only because he has the money. In the meantime, he pays nothing, it’s all free, whereas Pedro’s Mum, from what he said, was receiving nothing.

And that is the sad truth (the ugly truth?) here in Portugal. My treatment for heart problems has been beyond exemplary, but I’ve also heard that if it’s not a life-threatening condition, things aren’t so great.

I’m still trying to work out, as I get older, where is the better place to be: here? The UK? Somewhere else?

This is the sad (ugly?) side of Portugal. If something is life-threatening, you get great service. I was looked after superbly. But anything else? Don’t hold your breath.

Yes, if it’s not life threatening, simply cross your fingers, or be fortunate enough to have decent health insurance.