The Hillbilly Viking

Although we didn’t technically plan it this way, our trip to Portugal coincided with our wedding anniversary. And like a lot of older couples who are still very much in love and physically vibrant, we decided to commemorate the occasion by getting naked…and then paying a stranger to touch us.

There really is no difference between getting a massage at home vs. getting one on vacation (it’s definitely not 50% better as the price would indicate!), but it just seems way more decadent. Strutting shamelessly from your room to the spa in your fluffy, hotel robe and matching slippers, clutching a mimosa, is way more Audrey Hepburn than at home, where my trip to the masseuse (located between the Hardees and the pawn shop) is made in a tired, Honda minivan while accidentally sipping the last, melted inch of a fountain drink I bought at the Circle K the day before and forgot in the cupholder.

And after yesterday’s island excursion, we definitely earned a bit of tension release. Our day started out early trying to track down an organic farmer who raises goats presumably as happy as the local cows but without the benefit of Big Bovine’s PR machine. He’s forged a business model of letting you play with the baby goats for a spell and also enjoying an organic, farm breakfast he prepares on site. Perhaps it’s the other way around. Regardless, I prayed there would be extensive hand-washing between the two activities. The venture is called Typical Breakfast & Goats, and Google Maps said it was not too far up the road and open for business. Google Maps blatantly lied on both accounts!

We never had breakfast. We never saw goats. And the “road” we ended up on was an axle-deep, marriage-testing, Rubicon of volcanic mud and cow shit that made me second-guess not buying the emergency roadside assistance insurance from the rental car agency. And even though a Renault stuck in cow shit is probably considered a total loss on principle alone, the insurance would have probably got us a ride back to the hotel at least.

Fortunately, my extensive Mario Cart experience allowed us to narrowly escape that manure-scented, gauntlet of Google misinformation. Feeling invincible, I stupidly pointed the Renault (whose smell now matched its performance) back toward the chaos that is downtown Ponta Delgada. I knew of an Irish Pub there run by ex-pats, I knew I had earned a double shot of Jameson (as Patty medically required one at this point), and I knew I was probably going to grind off the Renault’s side mirrors on the criminally narrow streets of Ponta Delgada just to get one. Fortunately, I did purchase that insurance.

Sad thing is, the pub was closed too. I don’t know why. It was lunch time. It shouldn’t have been. Maybe the Irish ex-pats were out with organic goat-boy attending a “Let’s Fuck-up Mark’s Day” convention. I don’t know, but I do know I was pretty much ready to hurl myself into a volcano at that point.

It started to rain as I steered the now smeary, shit-covered Renault up and over the rim of the arguably dormant volcano that makes up the entire northwest end of Sao Miguel. According to some roadside plaques, it hasn’t erupted since the 1400’s, but based on the morning we were having, I kept checking my phone. The rain turned into a freezing typhoon, which would normally seem like a sign of the apocalypse, you know, occurring in the belly of a volcano and all, but at this point, I was just calling it Thursday. After some quick, drive-by tourism from the “safety” of our Renault, we made our way back out of the volcano and ended up at a seaside town drinking scotch and finally enjoying our 3pm breakfast.

That’s when I booked the massages.