Sunday, July 01, 2007

Sonho Português

Recommended by our taxi driver and the proprietor of the Apartment building in which we were staying, the Marina Vilamoura could only underwhelm us our first evening in Portugal. Our journey was uneventful; we landed ahead of schedule and found our Apartment easily, so perhaps rows of restaurants, clothes shops and bars, all aimed at tourists, were not exotic enough to meet any expectations we had formed.

The Marina did look very nice, certainly, with rows of expensive yachts bobbing and listing, each one the same white, each named after the boss’s daughter, but as the third restaurant pimp pushed their advertisement into our hands we were feeling less comfortable and more frustrated. It was this frustration perhaps, coupled with the knowledge we had to work the following day shifting a container load of furniture up seven floors, which gave me my dream.

I did not expect to sleep well as it was. My bed was only a base on legs, without a headboard or footboard, so it felt incomplete and short. My pillow was firm and unresponsive to the demands of my head. The bedspread was lovingly made though with three covers, a sheet and two blankets, professionally laid, their edges tucked beneath the mattress. Later I found the sheet to be too light however, but with a blanket it quickly became altogether too warm exasperating any discomfort. These issues I felt I could overcome through plain exhaustion but when my own mind tricks me out of sleep there is no correct recourse.

The journey there was draining, as was the anxiety of being in a new place, so, at a few minutes after eleven, I was out cold. The first time I woke it was still dark outside. Waking felt something like having crossed a large chasm so I decided it must be two or three in the morning. Maybe even four. Beneath the more obvious external clatter of chugging cars and backyard mongrels my ears began to adjust to new noises. At first there was the chime of metal shuddering after a thump into a wall and then the strain of wood under weight. I heard then the voice of a woman agreeing empathically with her companion. Upstairs, right above my room, sexual congress was in session. My watch said it was twelve o’ clock.

Another hour later I woke, again convinced I had been asleep much longer than actual. This time however I was still connected to a dream I was having. In this dream I was convinced I was not sleeping properly, and that my improper slumber was having an effect on our workload for the following day in that it would increase exponentially with every unlawful Z. So, in accordance with dream logic, I positioned and repositioned myself until the ether expressed satisfaction at a pose. As well as my adopted position being incredibly uncomfortable, the idea of more work was distressing me in my dopey state. Consequently I found it very difficult to find consistent rest that night, instead waking at odd times to find a new crook for my elbow or knot for my legs. When I woke for good around seven I felt a nausea which would stay with me until deep into the afternoon.


  1. Try sitting in an office eight and a half hours a day.

    Some people always find something to complain about.

  2. Is it irony?
    I don't know. Perhaps it's cosmic irony. God, or whatever, is messing with my life to create ironic settings.
    That bastard has it out for me.
    It's a true-life story anyways. I really did dream that shit and suffered accordingly.