Page 71 - Wake Up and do Your Thing

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
You could watch TV in the tabernas, treat yourself to an espresso in the village cafe and buy a lottery ticket from a wheelchair-bound man in the square. No matter where you looked, there was something waiting around every corner and behind every front door.
On my third day I made my way to the “Hole-in-the- Wall” to send a birthday card to my mother. Inside, a tall aristocratic looking Englishman man was signing for a package. "At last," said the lady in charge in very broken English. "Today is your day of lucky, Senhor Tomaz." (In Portuguese h is pronounced like y—Senyor.)
“Thank you, Donna Casilda. Your English gets more exquisite by the day.”
A short, chunky man in a pork-pie hat plonked a case of beer on a shelf and spoke to me. I didn’t understand.
“I want to send a postcard to England,” I said.
The Englishman translated, “Senhor Viera,” but Donna Casilda was there in a flash.
“My husband, no English,” she said flirting with the Englishman as he left. Then to me, she said, “Postcard to England eight escudos."
When I stepped outside a few minutes later, the Englishman was leaning into the trunk of an impressive dark blue vintage Oldsmobile. I came alongside. He'd opened the package and was shuffling through a bunch of vinyl records. After a few moments he unfurled himself
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