Portugal, I love you. But I don't want to die here.

Diogo recommends “deserted beach,” but after my Lagos adventure, I wanted the closest thing possible. I take the ferry to Faro beach. It's a 35-minute ride. No problem. It's pretty damned empty. And gorgeous, of course. It's chilly, until you lie still in the sun. The water is cold. I get a tan. OK. On the way there, I meet the two girls from my room who don't really want to talk to me. They're fine, just into doing their own thing, I guess. So I sit next to them on the ferry and read my book. I guess this would be awkward if I gave a shit about talking to them. But I don't. When I am returning from the beach, they get on the same ferry. Once again, we don't really talk other than “oh, hi again.” The ferry docks, and I walk a small distance behind them, so as to not have a conversation with them, and to NOT not have a conversation with them. I had just been thinking to myself about my impending birthday. I had a great idea, and I was just kindof thinking that I was really happy with my life. That I felt really great. That I had so much to look forward to. This has been the shittiest of shitty years, and for a number of months, without getting too deep or depressing, I was really doubtful that I had anything left to really look forward to. So I was just pontificating, reflecting, looking at the ground to make sure I didn't trip over any cobblestones. I hear a car horn honk, and one of the girls stops short and says “Oh,” rather softly. It was her “oh,” not the little honk that stopped me in my tracks. IT WAS THE FUCKING TRAIN. Going at top speed. No barrier arm. No flashing lights. No repetitive ding-dong-ding-ing that tells you TO FUCKING STOP WALKING. The car horn was, in fact, the train that would have hit me had these girls not given me pause. I know that in America, we have warnings on shampoo bottles, instructions on cigarrette packs and eggs for chrissake. But there was no warning whatsoever that this train was about to run my ass over. It really freaked me the fuck out, and I quietly walked back with these girls who were like “it's fine, you would've seen it,” but I don't think I would have. My knees were wobbly for the next hour. I thanked these girls for saving my life. They didn't really seem to give a shit about that either. I immediately get on the computer and email a certain someone and tell him I want him to have everything I own should I meet my untimely death. And then I see Evelyn, the girl I hung out with in Granada!! Small world, and it's pretty much the only thing that made me feel a little better.