Fear and loathing in Cascais

******* DISCLAIMER: I am writing this tale overtly dramatized, the only way this horror tale should be told. It does not, in any way, reflect my attitude against Cascais. Yesterday was more of an adventure than a horror novel, but, in light of the situation, I have decided this dramatized version is the only way this tale should be written.*********

We hopped a train. Danny and I had been wanting to go to the beach. I even wore my swimsuit under my clothing, so that I could peel my jeans off and step into the salt water. We spoke the only Portuguese we knew, and bought a ticket to Cascais, a small beach area West of Lisbon. "Perfect," we thought, but little could we imagine the tracks that lay ahead. On the semi-peaceful train ride, filled with accordion players and gypsies, we tried to get a grip. Though, the hold seemed too far away to grasp. It started with the lightning, and followed with tiny drops of rain. Each drop of water seemed to push our swimming hopes further out into the sea, until they were swimming with the unclassified species of fish and eels. It was hopeless. We could get off at the next stop, and turn around with no tan mark on our body displaying no sign of soaked up enjoyment. But no, twenty minutes had passed, and we weren't about to turn around. "We aren't cowards," we said to ourselves, and decided to bare the remainder of the trip.

The train came to a halt, with a loud screech from the water laying on the tracks. Heading to what we thought was our beach, we were directed into a large mall-complex similar to the ones in the United States. We both screamed out in contempt. We didn't come to Portugal to eat greasy pizza and play tennis games in game stop, but we thought this could be different. We thought we could find salvation. On the side of the building we read "Fascismo" and "fascista" scribbled in grafiti type. These words acted as reminders of what we were entering: a commercialized resort inferno. There were more than nine levels to this hell, and we had merely scratched the first. The mall was filled with Game Stops and overly fancy McDonalds. We even thought we could save ourselves with a movie at the cinema, but our choices were limited to Scary Movie and Night at the Museum 2. What horrors! The mall even ruined Kabops for us. "How is this possible?" we thought. Our precious saucy love, left us with a bitter cucumber sauce aftertaste for hours and hours after the meal. "We have to get out of here," I heard Danny whisper. At this point in our journey, he couldn't find the energy to talk. A six story fascisma mart takes a lot out of a tired tourist.

We needed fresh air, a place to forget about the mall. We needed our beach. Walking along, we could only see resturaunts and hotels in the shape of boats. We were out of our element. We couldn't afford a 30 euro pizza. We wouldn't pay for a 30 dollar pizza. The beach was five paces to the east, and twenty north we thought, but we walked for hours. Almost simultaneously, in fatigued voices, we gasped: "Where is the infamous Cascais beach filled with free bike rides and wind surfing?" but we got no answer from the place around us. We only found a cold indifference to our bewilderment. We found it, after heaving and sweating. It was a small strip, hardly worth our time. The sand was soggy from the earlier storm, and there wasn't a single person under the tiny umbrellas. This was the KO in the match against Cascais. They had won battle. We couldn't even stand up enough from the last punch to look for the bike stand. We crawled back to the train with a look of sheer embarrassment on our faces.

I am dedicating this story to Cascais and it's people. You win. I might go back to you on the sunniest of days, and try again, but I will come more prepared. I will pack the punches with bagged lunches and pre-read weather forcasts lodged into my temples. I will retaliate, and when I do. You'll be sorry.