By Alexe Mericle

While spending a year teaching in France, I spent my Spring Break in Morocco, Spain and Portugal with my 3 friends Ballgame, Klob, and Shnel. The story picks up on the docks of Tangier, ready to take the ferry back to Europe.

The four of us were furious at the fact that the ferry was three hours late. Being that we were no longer in Morocco, and there was a readily available supply of cold beer, we decided to consume as many as possible in the time it took to cross the Strait of Gibraltar. 20 beers and 30 minutes later, we were being stared at by fellow passengers and saluted by an impressed crew as we disembarked back on the European continent. The four of us spent our last night together bar-hopping in Tarifa, Spain arguing over whether or not we could check-off Africa as being visited. Technically, we were on a separate landmass which is called Africa, but the truth is, Morocco was actually on the Eurail pass until March of this year. And even though we explored the Sahara, and meandered through some open-air markets which would have the FDA up in arms, you can't check it off the list. But it's a damn good start. The following morning, Ballgame and Shnel left for Alicante leaving yours truly with the person who knows me best on this earth. The reason for this split had been entirely selfish. Portugal was the only country on the Western European mainland that I had not visited. It's also one of the least frequented by tourists. Yes I wanted to complete the map, but I also believed I would have a unique story to tell since not many travelers make it this far out of the way. Klob and I have also had a European honeymoon planned for the past four years, but due to extenuating circumstances have never been able to find a suitable time. We had heard from Ballgame and Shnel - who had visited in February - that Lagos is a nice, touristy, beach town - perfect for some R & R. Plus I was taking an extra time off of school, so this was going to be a week of pure serenity. The bus from Tarifa brought us into Lagos around night fall which made it difficult navigating the maze that is downtown. While hopelessly studying map, a nice lady of about 30 offered to take us to a hostel she knew. Michelle told us she had come to Lagos on vacation for a couple of days...10 years ago! I suddenly had a petrifying thought: This will be me. Lost in life, guiding tourists on the Algarve coast of Portugal, about ready to hit the town for the 3650th night in a row. It rattled me enough to the point where I was considering taking the next available flight out of Lisbon International heading to Des Moines, donning whatever shirt and tie I could scrounge from my dad's closet, and begging at the feet of any and all executives at 801 Grand.

Michelle led us to a place called The Rising Cock. Awesome! If I were 19, and thought life really happened like in American Pie (three years into a cold streak which lasted my high school career, it finally dawned on me that maybe life doesn't quite occur like in American Pie. Boy was that a tough pill to swallow) The Rising Cock even had those T-shirts that say, "What happens here, stays here!" What happens after spending nine hours on a bus is, you're exhausted and don't feel like participating in whatever shenanigans may be happening at a place whose name is loaded with sexual innuendos. The following morning, Mama (a Portuguese lady who had lived in Boston for 20 years and was much too sweet to be owning/runing an establishment called The Rising Cock) made us a batch of crepes which we shared with some girls who were enthralled with the fact that Klob and I were teachers. I was proud that I was able to say, "I'm a teacher," and not, "I'm just here to get crazy and use my Rising Cock!" like some of the other guests. After a relaxing day which consisted of laying on the beach, Entourage episodes, and an all you can eat Sushi menu, we were ready to try out Eddie's, a watering hole we had heard about. If there's one thing I trust about Ballgame and Shnel above all others, it's where to go to "get your drink on." A+ fellas. It was small, lively, there were bar seats available, and best yet, the beers were half the price they are in France. Two hours passed way too quickly, so we made a mental note that we should make Eddies our nightly home for the rest of our sojourn.

Ballgame and Shnel recommended staying at a place which was hard to find, hence why we were lost on the first night. I had stumbled upon it during an evening stroll however, so we moved out of The Rising Cock and into a guest house owned by Madame Zelinda. The view from Zelinda's deck was amazing. You could see the entire town, the harbor, and the grottos which extended out to sea. And here in lies the charm of Lagos; it's so quaint and soothing, that all of your troubles are carried away by the receding tide. The fact that I don't have a job when I come home was no big deal to me. Hell, you could have told me that every future World Series would be played between the Cardinals and Yankees, and I wouldn't have cared. I would have just gazed out at the Atlantic and been at peace. After a day at the beach, and a couple of hours looking out on Zelinda's porch, Klob and I were ready to return to Eddie's for a night of Champion's League action. Being as this was Klob's first experience with Europe's preeminent competition, I am pleased that I was there when he first saw "the light" which is real football. After five hours worth of Portugal's delicious, national beer Super Bock, the night turns into a haze of beautiful bartenderettes, a trip down Memory Lane listening to tunes blaring out of a CD player, raiding Zelinda's fridge, and an attempted drunk dial of my brother.

It's no secret I love geeking out. I find some of the most archaic, boring, and trivial things fascinating. I actually like museums, my all-time favorite being the Museum of Maps and Globes in Vienna. I hold grudges against those who fill out the Sudoku on the airline magazines because then I can't complete them. And don't even get me started on baseball statistics. So while we were deep in the Algarve (the Southern coastal region of Portugal) I wanted to check out a neighboring village of Lagos called Sagres which also happens to be the southwestern most point of Europe. It is also where Prince Henry the Navigator founded his school of sailing which instructed among others, Bartholomew Dias and Ferdinand Magellan. The former is the first to sail around the Cape of Good Hope, the ladder the first to have his fleet circumnavigate the globe. Both are Man-Crushes of mine. When I become giddy over things like this, Klob's face glosses over, he smiles and nods absentmindedly, then switches the subject to something important like upcoming senate elections or the current state of Hawkeye football. I'm also a horrible salesman, usually preferring to let the whatever I wish to see/do sell itself. I don't work for ESPN, who needs all that stupid hype anyways? I'm excited, I know that I'm going to enjoy myself - good enough for me. So shaking off the massive hangover, I dragged a kicking and screaming Klob onto the bus headed for Sagres.

An hour later, we were walking around the grounds of the fort and school. In term's of infrastructure, it was nothing special. But the location was astounding. Set on a cliff 131 feet above the ocean, Prince Henry didn't need a fort. A couple of cannon would do the trick. If you're looking North back towards the mainland, the sea starts at 2:30 and swings all the way around to 11:30. This was a naturally impregnable defense. The Atlantic, which looked as smooth as glass in the distance, was hurling 20 foot waves against the the jagged rocks 13 stories below. Nobody could land here. It made for an ideal spot to found a school which the Portuguese used to rule the high seas for the greater part of 300 years. It was also decidedly European, meaning it was rugged and natural. The walkways were trampled dirt, there were no over-zealous rangers, and no fences to keep you from plunging to a watery grave. It's ironic that in the U.S. which prizes liberty above all else, there are only rules to hamstring your visit to a national park . You can't do this, you can't do that, and in the end, you don't really experience what you came to enjoy. Sure you saw, but you also witnessed the enormous human footprint and all the augmentations we make in order to make things "better." This outrageous level of political correctness and safety hasn't made it's mark on Europe yet - thank God.

So we took advantage by climbing down the cliffs a little ways to better view the thundering surf. We also played on the cannon and climbed to the top of the observation deck before making the four mile hike to the Cape of St. Vincent and the light house which marks the true southwesterly point of Europe. Standing there, it was easy to understand how people thought they had reached the edge of the world. On the cape, the Atlantic sweeps from 3:00 all the way to 1:00, and the flat, blue, behemoth gives you the impression that were you to sail off into the horizon, you would indeed fall off the map. It must have taken a boat load of courage to set sail, knowing you would probably never come back.

When we returned, I spent another hour on Zelinda's deck watching the ocean turn from blue, to purple, to black as dusk fell on Lagos. Usually, I prefer the mountains to the sea. But if you plan on visiting the Algarve, let me know. I'll be sure to come meet up with you for a couple of days... only to come home 10 years later.