Page 75 - Wake Up and do Your Thing

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
around the corner, we found common ground and were soon chatting like friends. His dry wit drew me in, and the theatrical timbre of his voice unlocked stories of shared sentiments. It was a unique connection: me, fifteen years younger, immediately feeling comfortable enough to open up about my life while he spoke fondly of how a chance wrong turn brought him here six years ago and how he fell in love and married a local girl called Daniela. They have a daughter called Lara.
Over the next couple of hours, he told me about his passion for jazz and how he’d made a living in London photographing jazz musicians. A dozen or so people drifted in, hung around long enough to finish one round then left. I knew enough about jazz to recognize Miles Davis, Charlie Parker and Cannonball Adderley, but it was clear that the people who dropped in didn’t. They expected something they could dance and party to.
I had a hunch that the eclectic collection of rock, blues, early psychedelic folk and pop music I’d brought along for my now-not-happening disco would be the perfect addition to Thomas’s club. I proposed an ambitious deal. I’d DJ at the club for one week with a mix of his music and mine and if the club filled up he’d give me a job for the season.
The gamble paid off; word spread quickly and soon we were welcoming, not only tourists, expats and the Portuguese smart set but models, missionaries, mercenaries, movie stars, musicians and pilgrims from all over the world.
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