When I looked in the mirror this morning, my hair looked back and said "you need a haircut". Getting a fresh cut is like playing roulette–you never know what type of barbershop you'll walk into. There are 3 types. Here are all 3 types in order of increasing boujee-ness : (1) the type where they shampoo your hair with soothing warm water (2) the type where they shampoo AND massage your scalp with soothing warm water (3) the type where there's a creepy, abandoned massage chair in their dark basement.
After the haircut, the barber put wax in my hair and styled it like I was a bad guy in a You Don't Mess with the Zohan sequel. Don't worry, a shower returned it back to my normal, bad-guy-in-a-Holes-sequel-look.
With my new haircut and some new roommates in tow, I ventured out to a restaurant recommended by a food tour guide I met on my first night in Lisbon. The great food of Alcantra 50 was outshined by its owners, a cute elderly couple made up of a husband who offered wine recommendations based on our food order and a wife who encouraged us to visit their son's surf shop on a nearby island. It was unfathomably wholesome and delicious, mostly.
After learning I was from New York, the husband excitedly told us he'd been there, too. On September 10th, 2001. Yes. On the eve of 9/11, he flew to Detroit and was supposed to fly home to Portugal on the day of the attacks, but all planes were grounded and so he was stuck in America. "Uhh, cool" we collectively responded.
Back at the hostel, I was hell-bent on convincing this guy to play some guitar for the room. It took every ounce of persuasion I could muster and right at the moment I had broken him down, you can hear someone say “ugh its so cringe, oh my god” to which you can hear me utter my most menacing “shhh!” imaginable, but it’s too late. The guitar man had stopped. You can hear my absolute devastation at this disappointing resolution to my quest.
