I’ve had a lot of time to write on buses in this past week. But, a lot of time does not necessarily equate to a lot of output. Instead, I simply chilled and slept as I travelled from Murcia to Madrid and then onwards into Portugal and Eurovision.
I write this from a small terrace outside a tiny supermarket at the top of a hill in Lisbon. I’m drinking a can of Sagres, a treat having just walked up a monster of a mountain lugging my current life possessions as I go. Yes, it’s been over a month now that I’ve been living out of a suitcase. Mad-dog woman has yet to vacate the villa in Spain. It’s making me resilient but possibly a bit homesick.
This little terrace is great though. I’m sat with old men who are chatting amongst themselves. Their skins are all sun-weathered and they are all smoking the dregs of roll-ups. They’ve been puffing on the same butt for twenty minutes at least.
From across the road, I can hear a woman singing. The houses here are stunning, painted in beautiful pastel shades or artistically tiled. And I suspect this isn’t even a posh area. They all have ornate iron balconies and some sport flower baskets. Is this the famed Fado that the woman sings? It sounds sad enough; as if she mourns for a lost lover from her past. The men stamp their smokes out and clap as is customary when she finishes.
Tonight I head to the first Eurovision semi-final. Current betting suggests we might all be heading to Cyprus next year. Every now and then, a fan of the contest, draped in the flag of their country walks by. It feels odd – two strong cultures clashing and not entirely meeting. I’m sure that the city of Lisbon welcomes the extra fame and tourism that the contest will bring. Fans of Eurovision could do well to take a minute to sit and watch the world go by.