“Fuck this stupid ass machine.”
My feet sloppily kicked a rusty old Marlboro cigarette dispenser as I muttered under beer-drenched breath. By then, I had been consumed by joyous Latin salsa for hours — a far cry from the longing acoustic Fado that soundtracked Lisbon by day. Between pumping live brass, liquid flowing hips and…
Following a few blissful weeks of drinking more cheap spirit mixers than water and eating nothing but pastries from some of Europe’s finest bakeries and hostel breakfast tables, I’ve come down with an inevitable bout of sore throat and laziness. I’m sitting in the hostel common room playing Jenga while the sun beams onto Lisbon’s…