An observation, before I launch into a description of Lagos, Portugal, one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in my 21 years:

Shorts are a fashion faux pas in Spain. I could have told you this before I got here, but now that springtime in Sevilla has arrived, I’ve given up my ongoing endeavor to be fashionably correct in Europe.

Last week it got up to almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit here. I, like any marginally sane person, decided the time was nigh to bare a little thigh, but Spaniards dress like they’re traveling to the Iditarod until mid-July. What’s worse is the way people stare when you wander around in shorts here, as if you were meandering the city in nothing but a pair of nipple tassels. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exactly have the body of a Victoria’s Secret model; people aren’t staring because there’s any novelty to my body shape. And I’m not busting out the Daisy Dukes. I just think it’s high time the locals put away their leather jackets, scarves and boots. I know the summer gets a trillion times nastier than this, but c’mon. Does anyone really need so many layers when you could possibly cook an egg over easy on the sidewalk? Survey says no.

I don’t know how to transition from that into my recap of Lagos, so I’m not going to. I went to Lagos this weekend; it was beautiful.

In April I was lucky enough to see two cities in Portugal, Lisbon and now Lagos, and I’ve got to say; Portugal is a pretty great country. I hope to one day return. Lisbon was urban and quirky, with castles and history alongside a young downtown scene and the backdrop of the river. Lagos was a small beach town with an enormous expat community, and my God it was breathtaking. Six of us decided to take the bus from Sevilla to Lagos — a nauseating six-hour ride, although by car the cities are only about two hours away — and book a hostel together. Coincidentally, we chose to go the same weekend as 500 other students from Sevilla. That mass of humanity went with a student travel agency that organizes different trips, complete with bOoZe CrUiSeS and PrIVaTe PArTIeeZzzzz. We went the frugal route and forfeited the booze cruise, although it wasn’t exactly a dry weekend.

We camped out most of our time at a beach about five minutes from our hostel, tanning and eating grocery store goodies including (but not limited to) sandwiches with wheat bread — a novelty on this side of the Atlantic — and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Also on this side of the Atlantic, I realized it was the first time I swam in that particular body of water. Another notch on my beach belt. We did a little bit of swimming from our beach to another one nearby, going through a grotto or two and avoiding any fatal injuries by rocks. I can’t emphasize how much I loved it… all of it. I reflected not long ago about my striking similarities to my mother and our mutual interest in wine. This weekend I had the same sort of reflection about my likeness to my father. He’s a restless beachgoer, constantly asking Who wants to go for a walk? Who wants to go swimming? Who wants to check out the coral reef? and tirelessly commenting on how amazing the water is, how blue it is, how cool the rocks look, how nice the sand is… this weekend I was something of a Greg 2.0. Imploring anyone in our group to go swimming with me (despite the water being extremity-numbingly cold). Getting restless an hour after laying out and seeing who was ready for a walk. I also pushed hard for a boat tour of the grottos, and I’m infinitely glad we decided to do it. There was a bit of a communication barrier with our Portuguese boat driver, and one or two close encounters when he almost smashed us into a fellow boat and then into the inside wall of a grotto, but I can’t complain too much. I eventually got off the boat intact.

In summary, if you ever find yourself bored in southern Europe, hop a bus to Lagos and it shan’t disappoint. I’m a complete beach fiend, and I’m beyond pleased that Lagos was my one beach trip in this short time abroad. As a rule I become excessively emotional while traveling, always thinking something along the lines of, “Oh my God this is my life? I’m on a beach in Portugal??” Not to sound all Academy Awards, but I’m indescribably grateful to be here, although I still can’t quite grasp that I even am here.

In other news, this depressing new blog countdown has rudely announced that I fly home in 10 days, 8 hours and 37 minutes. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths.