Von Tramp Family and the Kitchen Sink

We went to the Algarve this past weekend. You’re thinking sun, beach, surfers, bikinis, bare essentials and just enjoy life, aren’t you? Well not quite, at least not when you’re travelling with my family. And the cat. You see, we do not only think about taking all plus the kitchen sink, but we actually take the kitchen sink and everything else that could possibly go with it. And by ‘we’ I mean my family. I take absolutely no part in this whole travelling like wandering-street-tramp-thing; bags a go go, Tupperwares of food – because you know, nowhere else sells food if it’s not near your house – a hundred different plastic bags of differing sizes and contents…Really, my childhood has traumatized me because this was what it was like travelling with my mother. And bless her shin-high cotton socks, she believed and still does, in an outdoorsy kind of life – but this healthy outlook on life no doubt, inevitably and painfully, means taking with you the kitchen sink and looking like the Von Tramp Family who’s out for a weekend breather.

The worst thing about this is that my aunt went to work and had left me in charge of getting last minute things, like the fridge things and the Tuperwares and a few other bits and bobs. Leaving me with a list (which I misplaced) and leaving me with my rising dread and filling up yet more plastic bags. I did tell her at one point she was not allowed to ring me if it meant adding more items onto the ‘To Take’ list. With the stress upon me I loaded the car trying hard not to think about the unloading if and when we arrived at our destination. And perhaps the icing on this Von Tramp trip was that we were taking the cat. Cat, not car. This meant litter box, blankets, defrosting fish in one of the umpteen plastic carrier bags…really, when I have children, they are each taking their own little rucksack full of whatever they may need along the trip – none of this multi tasking mummy with hundreds of spare nappies, wet wipes and Kleenex in her (might I add, already very full just with me) handbag; each child will carry their own wet wipes, emergency underwear etc – it’s how to keep the troops hassle free and clean.

The cat was a Saint. She sat and dribbled on my sweat pants the whole trip there, whilst we acted like crazy people and spoke in that stupid voice people reserve just for animals and which they probably tune out from the word Go.

Going to the South of any (hot) country inevitably means tourists, expats and a live scroll through the catalogue that is Caravans and Motor Homes from passed decades to the very present, very now and actual Mercedes ones. Mercedes, indeed. Hey, look, they recession is hitting everyone…first it was the Smart car they added onto their fleet and now Motor Homes – nothing to be ashamed of…everyone’s gotta grit their teeth and make a living! Passing that slight hiccup in the car industry we are now faced with the fact that all tourists are English tourists. Really, it was like a breath of fresh GB-number-plate-air from home. The English go wherever there is one more day a year than the UK that is scheduled to be sunny and allow a BBQ. Other than by the red fading tan lines criss-crossing their bodies that they insist on exposing till the dying day of the sun – be it evening or winter, you can spot them a mile off; they are the ones that buy huge quantities of ice, and bacon and bread for the morning after. The Brits like to gravitate towards all things slightly hotter than home as well as gravitating dangerously to the extreme right hand side-come-ditch of the road when driving. They make such an effort to drive so very not on the left or the centre of the road that without having seen the number plate, a Brit can be spotted by being the one shaving the flora by the roadside.

All things painfully expat aside, there were walks along the beach, drives along the coastline, lunch straight from the sea and coffee with rent-a-cat. We went to have coffee down an uninhabited, rocky road that would have spelt ones death had it been in London, but since was not, did not. It had a surfer’s gypsy van gracing its U-turn, with music and surf boards poking out the back as a very hench, tonk, toned woman painted the paneling of the back doors an-in-your-face, impossible to miss pistachio green. It’s the thing to do when you have a surfer’s gypsy van, didn’tcha know? Before we could order the IV of coffee – yes it tends to be that strong – I clapped eyes on the most gorgeous, softest, ball of fur. Clearly not talking about a Portuguese surfer dude as amount of general bodily hair allowed is strictly specified before taking on such a ‘cool’, water based sport. No, my eyes had landed upon the shiniest looking grey coat this side of Feline Fetish and before the poor thing knew what had hit him I was in his face making all sorts of stupid cooing noises and beckoning him over to where we were sat. The poor cat came running when I called, thinking it was food I offered. He soon realized that I am the sporter of the Famous Lap cats talk about worldwide, thinking it just a myth: the Magic Lap, the Comforting Lap and the Better-than-Food Lap. Soon he was purring away and digging his claws into my fleece whilst burying his head in the crook of my elbow. I love cats, I do, but I must admit, I felt thoroughly used. I mean, he jumped on top of me, had the time of his life for 45 minutes, never made eye contact with me and suddenly, just like that, decided he was done. He was so soft, but I felt so used.

All in all, even with my trauma of travelling like Tramp Bag Family and the worrying about the cat possibly frothing at the mouth and hyperventilating all the way south and the stress of unpacking the brimming car, the weekend was wonderful. I loved the fact that in November you can still walk along the beach and not be carted off to A&E with pneumonia; I loved staying in the little cottage with low ceilings and insects at every turn…yes, my nervous system did suffer ever so slightly with the centipedes, the woodlice that have clearly fallen into a nuclear plant since I was a little girl as they now have pincers on their behinds! As if they weren’t horrific enough before…and sharing a hot, steamy shower with a spider is not my idea of anything, not to mention having to sleep with socks so as to not step on creepy crawlies in the dead of night. This weekend reminded me how much I like to sleep in socks, if nothing else.

Leaving Lisbon was a blood pressure riser, the weekend kept it at a steady pace – but all improved with breakfast in the sun, windswept beaches and nights filled with real, actual, sleep. In between all this I taught the one eyed cat how to hunt all things insect; she did me proud and played football with a rolled up something or other and then saved me from a near death by flattening another. Though now she’s decided she’s done with humans and has refused all company for the past 24 hrs…Mythical Lap Overload? I think so.

It was a wonderful weekend, really. Well OK, the only thing I would have changed would have been to have only taken my handbag as luggage. Do not be fooled, a lady’s handbag holds all.