23 Aug 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

08/23 Algarve, Portugal

Thank God everyday was a sunny beach day.  I began the day with some hair of the dog in a small grass shack that hugged the sand leading toward the water, just like yesterday.  I struck up a conversation with a young lady who had given me a strange gesture after a fly had landed on her shoulder.  We all look from different angles don’t we?  She was disgusted with the idea that the fly was attracted to something on her body.  I on the other hand would be more concerned with what the fly might have brought to me.  It’s a wonderful world that has more than one color.  My two Swedish sisters would pull me into the cold water when they felt up for a swim.  Now, I’m not exaggerating but one of these young ladies was the poster child for large nipples.  When she came out of that cold water they stood at attention like little soldiers.  It was like seeing a pair of UFOs.  You just couldn’t avoid spending the next hour staring at the space where you had seen them last.  I could say they were incredible but it would be more accurate in stating how popular she had become with the young men of the hostel.  Later in the day a young Australians that levitated towards our group and asked if I’d like to pitch in on the rental of a boat.  Let’s do it! It would be a great opportunity to explore the coves.  We both felt as if we were ten-years-old again and that new discoveries awaited us.  We chased schools of fish and even managed to capture a pelican within one of the larger caves.  Some of these caves were larger than entire football fields.  They were spectacular.  I was dam quick to catch that pelican, I have to admit.  I gave him a couple of pets to calm him down and then let him go.

I started out with shrimp cocktails followed by a few martinis.  At that night’s soccer game I met another pair of young ladies, one was Welsh and the other I think was Persian.  I never did find out where the Persian was originally from but I did learn she had schooled outside of London and was extremely intelligent.  She would continually steer the conversation from a casual subjects to something sexual.  In concert she would move her chair closer and closer to mine and then she use her feet.  Question marks and exclamation points would be administered by her hand under the table.  Initially I was focused on keeping a straight face in order not to give anybody else at our table any indication of what was going on underneath it.  Then as if everything suddenly stopped, my eyes met the eyes of a young lady I had noticed on the beach earlier in the day and I found myself captivated.  Every once in a while our eyes would lock and we would catch each other smiling.  It was a bit of an awkward situation.  She was sitting in the company of three guys and as far as I knew one could be her boyfriend, or even worse, her husband.  I found myself concentrating more on keeping up with their conversation rather than ones circulating our table.  “What does ERA stand for?” one of the three guys questioned.  I explained how it was calculated introducing myself into their conversation.  My shifting of focus put me in dutch with the Persian.  She was moving way too fast and I hardly knew her.  That night again escalated into a frenzy.  Wood was gathered and a large ten foot tall man was constructed on the backside of the soccer field.  The group danced around chanting and then he was torched in ceremony.  It was quite a spectacle.

Rhythms of distortion, dancing above the flame,
changing, behind the scenery, which never stays the same

It’s inconsistency still dancing, as if it were the wind,
moving apart, the pieces, I once spent time to mend

Yet it still keeps flowing, upward, again and again
until all, is turned to aches, for it’s the flame that brings the end