Someone is waiting
I was back at the airport after a whirlwind three-week
visit back home, cramming in trips to see family and friends in various parts
of the country, as if I hadn’t done enough travelling in the previous nine
months. At least this time I didn’t have to lug my huge suitcase round with me
everywhere. The break from travelling had also given me a chance to sort out
most of my travel plans for the final two-ish months of my travels. I only
needed to stay with a dozen more gays to get me to the magical number of 80,
which meant that I would have more free time to explore some of Europe on my
own. I already had a number of offers from friends, friends of friends and
people I had met earlier in my travels so had a rough idea of where I would be
and when for the first few weeks after setting back off. Knowing that I would
reach my target was warmly satisfying. I couldn’t have done it without the
network of amazing & hospitable friends I’m fortunate enough to have.
As I made my way to the departure gate I reflected
back on how I had felt leaving at the start of my trip. I felt different this
time, I felt more like I was just going on holiday. Maybe it was because I was
only going to be away for a couple of months instead of nine, maybe it was
because I was going to be in Europe so knew I would only ever be a few hours
away from home, maybe it was because I had become a lot more confident over the
last nine months of travelling. Maybe it was because I hadn’t done a days work
in nearly a year so I was feeling very relaxed. Maybe it was because I’d
already had a gin at the airport (yes, it was still morning but I had it with
orange juice to make it breakfasty). Whatever the reason it was time to get on
with it and I boarded the plane.
My first stop on the European leg of my trip was a
town called Tavira on the Algarve, a short drive from Faro where I would be
flying into. A friend of mine, Timmy, had moved over there a few years ago and
had agreed to host me. I had been over to visit him a few times before in the
past but hadn’t been to his new place yet. It had been a while since I had last
seen him so I was looking forward to a good catch up, undoubtedly over a glass
or two of the local vinho. I hadn’t
plucked up the courage to tell him his number yet. He would be Gay 69. A London
friend of mine had commented that had they been one of the gays they would have
only done it if they were Gay 1, Gay 80 or Gay 69 as they are the numbers that
people will remember.
The flight over was uneventful and we landed on time
and I had a text from Timmy saying he was here and waiting for me outside the
terminal. I stood at the carousel in Faro watching as other passengers collected
their luggage and headed for the exit, a small knot of anxiety developing as
new cases stopped appearing on the belt despite the fact mine wasn’t there. I
suppose it had to happen at some point. That perennial travel problem of the
lost suitcase. I guess I had done fairly well making it through nine months of
global travel with barely a delay, nearly missed flight or losing anything (except
maybe my dignity on a few drunken nights out). Fairly soon the number of cases
matched the number of people waiting by the belt. One case. One person, me. The
one case was mine. I must have watched it go round a good half dozen times
before I realised it was mine. I had been to Faro to see Timmy on a few
occasions and I had always had a small suitcase with me and that is what I had
been waiting for, not the large suitcase of clothes that would get me through
the final couple of months. Thankfully there was nobody left to hear me exclaim
"oh that's my case" or see me red faced collecting it a good few
minutes after everyone else had left.
I collected my case and made my way out into the
Portuguese sun. I could see Timmy waiting for me. I apologised for the delay, mumbling
something about waiting for my suitcase. On the drive from the airport to his
we caught up on the gossip about mutual friends from back home, I gave him a
condensed version of my travels to date and he filled me in on what had been
happening in his life since I last saw him. It was getting close to lunchtime
by the time we arrived back at his so after a brief tour of his new place we
headed into town for some lunch. We had lunch at a little café he suggested,
sitting outside in the sun. Timmy took care of ordering for us both. His
Portuguese had really improved since my last visit. I was limited to “obrigado”
which I said as often as I could, making me seem over-polite.
After lunch and a little stroll around town we headed
back to the house. Timmy gave me a quick tour of the house but then had some
work calls to do so he left me to it. I had a little siesta and then took a
book and sat out by his pool reading for a while. Timmy was doing a conference
call from the side of the pool. I could see why he had swapped London life for
this. I stayed out reading until the sun started to go down, making it a little
chilly to stay outside in just a t-shirt and shorts. I went in to get changed
into some jeans. When I came back downstairs Philip, a friend of Timmy’s who I
knew from London, had joined us. We had a catch up and then they let me in on
the plans for the evening. Another friend of Timmy’s, Paulo, had offered to
cook dinner for us all so we would be heading there. Before we set off for
Paulo’s Timmy explained that Paulo was deaf but could lip-read although he didn’t
speak much English. I was certain he spoke more English than I did
Portuguese.
The three of us headed out and drove over to Paulo’s
for dinner. Having arrived and being welcomed in, Timmy did the introductions. I
smiled, said hola and held out my hand ready for a handshake. I got a hug and a
kiss on each cheek. A couple of attempts at my name and we settled on me being
called “Crease” for the evening. I’d been called worse I guess. Very soon I had
a glass of wine in my hand and we attempted a conversation, via Timmy. I felt
like I was at the UN, having a translator by my side. It made the whole process
quite lengthy so I spent periods just looking at Paulo and smiling (which was
fine as he is very easy on the eye) whilst Timmy translated what I had just
said.
We were invited to take our seats at the table while
Paulo made his way into the kitchen to bring out the starter. He returned
carrying a couple of bowls, steam gently rising from them, and placed one at
either end of the table. They contained hot water with a slice of lemon
floating in it. I looked at it and said “The soup looks a bit thin”. Timmy
didn’t translate my attempt at a joke for Paulo who headed back to the kitchen,
returning moments later with a plate piled high with prawns. We set about
demolishing them. I’m pretty easy-going with food, kidneys being about the only
thing I would struggle to eat, but if something on my plate still has its eyes and
is looking up at me I feel a little uneasy. I shelled quite a few prawns in one
go and put the heads out of sight. It took us quite a while to get through the
prawn mountain but pretty soon the plate was just a pile of prawn heads. The
main course was fish, complete with head and flat black eye staring up at me. I
moved the piece of lemon garnishing the meal over the eye but could feel the
fish looking at me through it. Dessert was a bannoffee pie, which had no head
or eyes.
Conversation after dinner was interesting. It was like
playing a game of bilingual charades. A mix of English, Portuguese and mimed
actions helping us to converse. We seemed to do ok. From the mimes I gathered
that Paulo worked as a photographer and he showed me some of his work. It was
very impressive. I really did need to sort myself out with a photography course
when I got back so I could move my digital SLR off “automatic” mode. It was
soon time for us to head back. I managed to thank Paulo for dinner in
Portuguese, even managing a muito obrigado rather than just an obrigado.
Another big hug and kiss on both cheeks followed but this time I was prepared
for it. Once back at Timmy’s I did my goodnights in English and made my way up
to my room. It had been a great first day back on my travels.
“Someone is waiting”
Lyrics from Someone is waiting from the musical Company
