Is Killing Someone Easier in a Foreign Country? (non-political)

[neonlyte]

I'm often asked why I live in a foreign country. Answer: It's easier to ignore those who irritate. (It's also easier to be an irritant - but I try not to be, and its a different topic)

Caught the ferry to Lisbon before lunch, had a nice walk, bought some rye flour - if anyone wants my recipe for yeast free sour dough rye bread, just ask. I ate lunch in one of the capitals oldest restaurants, Cafe Nicola. They serve the second best beef in Portugal, the best is served in a small restaurant in Tras-as-Montes, the chef used be Francois Mitterand's personal cook. He keeps Aberdeen Agnus cattle out back, and grills your beef on an open fire. I digress...

Cafe a Nicloa was pretty full - I got shoved in a corner on a table for one, ordered my meal and a half bottle of red wine, and started reading the newspaper. A couple of metres from me were a man and woman, she was English, he may have been Portuguese. Whether she had a particularly loud voice, or I was simply being nosy, I heard every word of her conversation over a leisurely lunch. I never heard a word the man said, and he was sitting closer to me.

I thought they were talking about business, she kept mentioning 'the opposition', then it became clear, she was talking about her family. The jist of the one sided conversation was this: Her elderly mother is supposedly losing her marbles, said daughter (estimated age 50) not only wants her out of the way, by also wants all her possessions. The opposition is her brother (younger) and his wife. She spent the entire lunch explaining to her lover how she was going to acquire the property and assets. I know this because she kept reassuring him 'it would only be another two years before she would move to Portugal - once her youngest son was packed off to university. Apparently, before her Mother started 'going doto', she agreed to buy homes for both of the womans sons. Now she claimed she couldn't remember (so the woman says). Her plan was to have Mother moved to a nursing home and get her to sign a Power of Attorney allowing the daughter to deal with her affairs. She was going to strip the house and sell off the antique furniture, and some 'rather valuable' paintings, she'd leave the chattals for her brother and his wife.

This would be executed through a dawn raid the day after her Mother went into the nursing home and before her brother could react. They'd leave at six (her and her two sons) be there by eight and have the valuables in storage by lunchtime. She had everything worked out with a removal company. She'd already had the house valued (£1.25 million) and agents were quietly sounding out cash purchasers, the sale could be completed in a month, 'or maybe less, if they were lucky'.

She didn't expect her Mother to 'last a year' in the nursing home, and as far as 'the opposition' was concerned, they could sue her, if they could scrape together the money for a lawyer.

Of course, she's never going to get away with it. A lawyer will take it on without fee, for a percentage, but it made my blood boil to here her callous disregard for her mother and brother.

On the adjoining table, was an elderly well dressed Portuguese woman, 70ish. When the couple left, she looked at me and shook her head in disbelief. She clearly understood enough English to get the gist of what was being planned. I made a reconcilatory jesture and and we toasted our good fortune, across the divide, by raising our glasses.


----


This came after an highly amusing ferry journey where a four year old girl entertained the passengers with a complete description of her entire wardrobe, followed by a question session as to what colour a particular gament was. I got told off for not speaking properly! It was delightful, sweet and innocent, as only the most serious four year-olds can be.

Other news, the metro link between down-town and the ferry might open this year after five years to build a three kilometre section at a cost of €160 million - 85% paid by the EU. It will kill the shops down-town, many have already closed and the area is being turned over to tourists. I don't mind the tourists too much - though some (like above) I'd happily kill - and I don't mind the proliferation of street sellers, they add character, to an extent. What I do mind are the so called artists peddling their little paintings. There was a stall today selling hand tinted prints of early twentieth century shops. They were nice enough as little momentos, but they would have been nicer if they'd been of Lisbon, rather than Paris. You don't get too many 'Boulangeries' in Lisbon, and I definitely don't remember when they replaced the castle with Sacre Coeur. I suppose with cheap flights, (mine cost £4.99 + tax) people actually go away so often, since it's cheaper than staying in England, that they don't actually know, or care particularly, where they are.

 

[CharleyH]

lol - What an interesting story. I do think killing someone is easier in a foreign country, especially those from back home - it's easier to see the obnoxious cultural idiosyncracies in a foreign country (some thatwe, ourselves own). What a wonderful serial killer mystery such a story would make.

I, on the other hand, had a wonderful day. We decided that today would be the day to finally tour a port winery and we hadn't eaten on the Porto side of the Douro river, yet. We wandered little streets and alleys and up and down A LOT OF STAIRS watching seaguls simply sit and float downstream and small dogs wander aimlessly, or with aim depending on the perspective. I remember my brother telling me not to go to Rome since I am allergic to cats and seeing the amount of scruffy, unleashed dogs and dancing around all the "merda" on the rivers boardwalk, I wondered if one should come to Portugal if they don't like dogs or ... merda? Or, for that matter ... little old ladies feeding pigeons, but I think the latter is a more a character trait of little old ladies everywhere than it is a trait of little old Portuguese women.

Anyhow, we looked at a lot of architecture today, a few old churches and discussed why Porto had constructed a rather modern looking concrete bridge to sit between two older steel ones, one of which was deigned by Eiffel. It's rather an eye sore, I thought, and then Lauren gave me the lowdown on the fact that it had originally had a much more appealing design, but Government being cheap, went for the cheapest design.

We ate at one of the many restaurants lining the Douro, at a place called Avo Maria that maintained the old exposed granite walls from when this side of the river had been more of a merchant port than a tourist trap. Lauren had Hake and I tried out the Sea Bass, which to my dismay and shock (lol - like I have said I am sure, most NA fish comes pre-filletted) came with its eyes staring up a me and I am certain someone had plucked it from the ocean only recently. Our waiter, who indeed looked like a short Robert DeNiro, happened to catch my expression (I do have an aversion to eating things that stare at me) and very sweetly returned to the table and fileted it for me. I left a generous tip for the trouble. One thing Canadians are not are cheap tourists and tippers. (I think this is reserved for the Brits lol)

We walked across one of the bridges and went to the port wine cellar called 'Calem'. Surprisingly (to me) most port wineries are British and even more surprising was that once Calem is finished with their tawny barrels (after 100 years), they are sold to Glenfiddich to age their scotch. It was a short tour, but fascinating. What surprises me still is that all the vineyards continue to be run in the manner and style from hundreds of years ago (aside from bare feet crushing the grapes). We were told that Mick Jagger had been there last summer and was given a 1962 port, and while we all wonderd why we were not given one, we soon realized that it was not a vintage port, though one might think so. Anyhow, we had a tasting at the end, of four different ports and let me tell you these wineries are not as chincy as I recall them being during a wine tour in California. First of all we got REAL glass to drink out of (as opposed to plastic party glasses) and second, we got a full glass and not a sip.

We met a pleasant, older British couple who knew that being Canadian, I MUST "know" where Stratford was and we chit chatted away about the Portuguese experience as we slowly got tipsy. Afterwards we took some pics along the river than shooted up the slope of Porto in an outdoor elevator, which took us back to downtown . We fought and pushed our way through the swarm of people looking for post-Christmas sales on Santa Catarina and headed to the most famous cafe (well, can barely find a seat cafe) in Porto called the Majestic. The decor really looks like something off the Titanic and what makes it more so is that the servers seem to wear white Navel officer jackets. I had a cafe cheio (tall espresso) and Lauren a pingo (espresso with a dash of milk) in the Majestic and then we went to Pastelaria Império and bought the best "rissols" (a breaded potato dumpling filled with veal) in Porto and headed home on the tram line or better and simply known as the Metro.

Anyhow, such was our day.

 

[gauchecritic]

Neon, I can easily imagine reading that account in The Observer or Grauniad, you really should have a column in one of the toff papers.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

I don't mind the tourists too much - though some (like above) I'd happily kill - and I don't mind the proliferation of street sellers, they add character, to an extent. What I do mind are the so called artists peddling their little paintings. There was a stall today selling hand tinted prints of early twentieth century shops. They were nice enough as little momentos, but they would have been nicer if they'd been of Lisbon, rather than Paris. You don't get too many 'Boulangeries' in Lisbon, and I definitely don't remember when they replaced the castle with Sacre Coeur. I suppose with cheap flights, (mine cost £4.99 + tax) people actually go away so often, since it's cheaper than staying in England, that they don't actually know, or care particularly, where they are.

I felt the same thing yesterday when Charley and I entered one of those postcard & souvenirs shops at Porto's Ribeira. We were looking for little somethings to send her grandmother, and everyone knows grandmothers have a thing for embroideries. Except I started noticing that almost every piece of cloth in the shop was made in Madeira...

 

[neonlyte]

Nicely done CharleyH. It fascinates me how we see ourselves clearer when we live overseas, and, as you say, not just from observing our compatriots.

The Port lodges are great fun, scarcely a better place to spend a lazy afternoon. The Brit's (ref. Dicken's) used to drink port by the flaggon, rather than daintily sip from glasses. We finshed a bottle of 1960 Ferreira at Christmas given to us as a wedding gift thirty odd years ago. We only opened it because the wax seal had cracked and the cork didn't appear to be too sound - well, that was the excuse - it was so different from any other Port I'd ever drunk that even I began to appreciate why people pay so much for a bottle.

The Majestic sounds like a Porto version of Cafe Nicola, though none beat the antiquated charm of the Belem Patisserie where Pastais de Nata were invented. They have seating for six hundred in a maze of rooms tiled with delicate hand painted blue and white mosaics and serve tens of thousands of Pastais each day. It's a small custard tart in a rich flaky pasty, I'll take you there when you come down to Lisbon.

Lauren - didn't Guimares used to be the 'lace capital' of Portugal? Or have I got that wrong. Used to be that all the ladies on the ferry crocheted during the crossing to Lisbon, since they introduced the fast ferries, they barely have time to get their crochet out

Gauche: but then I'd have to write to order.

 

[SeaCat]

One of the most memmorable moments I have ever had while in a foreign country came about as a result of me playing tourist. I had gone back to Germany in 1989 to visit with family.

During this visit, in late December, I visited with my family members a shop in the area of Tittisee. Dressed in boots, Jeans, a nylon Bomber Jacket and a Sweatshirt with Cape Cod on it I looked like an American even though I was speaking German.

While there we ran into a very rude and imperious American couple. They approached me and a rather loud argument ensued. They disliked me treating the Germans, (Whom we had defeated don't you know,) as equals. They hated me speaking their barbaric language. They claimed I was not fit to wear anything showing I was American. The argument ended with them retreating rapidly while I threw both my jacket and shirt after them.

Then came the amazing part.

The owners of the shop invited my family and myself back into their living area. Over coffee here I learned that the husband had been not only a soldier in the old German Army but in the New German Army as well. His son also served. He commended me on my ideas but recomended that I cool my temper. (Now where had I heard that before? ) He then went into one of the other rooms and came out with his arms loaded with clothing.

Several hours later I walked out of there wearing my jeans and boots, as well as a beautiful North Sea Fishermans Sweater, a dark brown leather Long Coat and a German Army Forage Wool Forage Cap.

I still have the sweater and the coat. (I have no idea where the cap went but will one day replace it.)

Cat

 

[neonlyte]

That's a great tale SeaCat! I never cease to be amazed by the willingness of strangers to play both devil and angel.

I used to hitch rides across Europe when I was a lot younger - it's probably when I fell in love with Europe and travelling. Good experiences and bad.

One of the worse was being driven into woods in northern Germany by a couple of guys who I'm sure were about to rob me and my girlfriend, and possibly more. We were saved by a forestry worker who chased them off and then drove us, on his tractor-trailer back to civilisation. We couldn't speak a word of each others languages, but boy did we communicate.

Unfortunately, all the bad experiences I've had travelling have been in Germany, ranging from the above to being harranged on a bus in Dresden (scene of the worse UK bombing in WW2) and robbed on another occassion in Frankfurt. Yet I have some great memories of Germany and good friends there.

Another time, the same girl and I got stuck trying to get a lift out of small French village, no one was interested. The little old lady outside whose house we were hitching a ride brought us coffee and biscuits. When it was clear we were not getting a lift that night, she instisted on putting us up, cooked us dinner, gave us a bed and breakfast. I made a point of keeping in touch with her over several years, until she passed away, even taking my new wife to meet her several years later. She treated me like a member of the family.

France, for me, is about the most eclectic place to travel. Everywhere is different yet the same, I love the Gaullish indifference, the shrug of the shoulders, the unwillingness to even begin to understand my poor French, and the extraordinary kindness that always rises to the surface no matter how indifferent they pretend to be.

 

[CharleyH]

the Belem Patisserie where Pastais de Nata were invented. They have seating for six hundred in a maze of rooms tiled with delicate hand painted blue and white mosaics and serve tens of thousands of Pastais each day. It's a small custard tart in a rich flaky pasty, I'll take you there when you come down to Lisbon.

Oh, I know what it is! Mmmm ... The reason for nun's having nothing better to to with their eggs. lol - DELICIOUS!

 

[CharleyH]

One of the most memmorable moments I have ever had while in a foreign country came about as a result of me playing tourist. I had gone back to Germany in 1989 to visit with family.

During this visit, in late December, I visited with my family members a shop in the area of Tittisee. Dressed in boots, Jeans, a nylon Bomber Jacket and a Sweatshirt with Cape Cod on it I looked like an American even though I was speaking German.

While there we ran into a very rude and imperious American couple. They approached me and a rather loud argument ensued. They disliked me treating the Germans, (Whom we had defeated don't you know,) as equals. They hated me speaking their barbaric language. They claimed I was not fit to wear anything showing I was American. The argument ended with them retreating rapidly while I threw both my jacket and shirt after them.

Then came the amazing part.

The owners of the shop invited my family and myself back into their living area. Over coffee here I learned that the husband had been not only a soldier in the old German Army but in the New German Army as well. His son also served. He commended me on my ideas but recomended that I cool my temper. (Now where had I heard that before? ) He then went into one of the other rooms and came out with his arms loaded with clothing.

Several hours later I walked out of there wearing my jeans and boots, as well as a beautiful North Sea Fishermans Sweater, a dark brown leather Long Coat and a German Army Forage Wool Forage Cap.

I still have the sweater and the coat. (I have no idea where the cap went but will one day replace it.)

Cat

I think Europeans, as said before, are much more welcoming. My brother and his girlfriend LOVED Germany, and even though there was some black Jewishness in their mix? The Germans loved them, too.

 

[CharleyH]

France, for me, is about the most eclectic place to travel. Everywhere is different yet the same, I love the Gaullish indifference, the shrug of the shoulders, the unwillingness to even begin to understand my poor French, and the extraordinary kindness that always rises to the surface no matter how indifferent they pretend to be.

I heard Paris was a dive and a nightmare from both my brother and another friend who claimed pick pockets ran rampant there (my brother did not have the same dilemma mind you, but then, as the tree-hugging pot smokers they were at the time, he and his GF LOVED Amsterdam, so may not have really noticed the pick pockets in Paris.