Tippling Through Lisbon in My Lounge Wear

Our journey to Portugal began with the most innocuous question.

“Where did you get those pajamas?” It was Paul asking the question and we were on the plane from Seattle to London.

“They aren’t pajamas,” I was indignant. “They are lounge wear. They will be very comfortable on the plane.” I held up my leg and pulled the fabric up to my knee. “See, no seams, soft lining. Perfect.” I reached out my toe and kicked him gently. “You are so silly. They are not pajamas.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled and settled his glasses on his nose. It was to be his most frequent comment of the next twenty-four hours–and more.

It was an uneventful journey, but seeing how we were sitting in row 52, it took us ages to get off the plane and into the main center of Heathrow Airport. We looked at our watches. We had twenty minutes to get across the airport and get on the plane to Lisbon. I shouldered my backpack and looked grimly at Paul. “Ready?” He nodded. We began to skirt around the edges trying to get around the Seattle crowd that had flown with us. Every time I managed to inch forward, an older lady with hair that looked like George Washington’s, shuffled in front of me. She was really shuffling–her heels never left the floor. I looked at Paul and the woman’s husband was blocking his progress. Fuming, I bounced behind them on my tip toes like Mohammed Ali psyched for a fight. “Come on,” I urged silently. When they broke left for the escalator, Paul threw his head right towards the elevator.

From there we climbed more stairs, took more elevators and finally arrived at Terminal 5. Terminal 5 in Heathrow is the gateway to Europe, and with the right timing, you could fly right through. This is where I prepared myself. My new favorite TV show, Border Security, Australia, had taught me how to sail through Passport Control without being pulled out of line for an inspection. I steeled myself. I did not know where Paul was, but it was every person for herself now. Don’t be too friendly; don’t stare; don’t look away; don’t tremble, don’t cut lines, and above all–don’t bring fruit. The sniffer dogs will get you every time. I passed.

I turned around and looked for Paul. He too, watched a lot of Border Security, and he had survived the non-inspection. So had shuffling George Washington and her silent husband. We jostled in line to get on the plane. “Paul, I don’t think our bags are going to make it.” I scanned the row of suitcases riding up the ramp of the plane outside the window. I did not see any robin egg blue bags. I began to worry.

The pilot and the stewardesses were obnoxiously cheerful.

“We’ll just go once or twice around the hole and then we’ll be on the way,” the pilot said with a note of satisfaction in his voice.

“What hole?” I hurumphed.

“Hmm. I think it is the city,” Paul said not looking up from his book.

Two stewardesses pulled their cart up to us after we had cleared the hole’s airspace.

I’m starving,” I whispered. “What the best sandwich?”

“Oh, darling, you’re peckish,” the blonde one cooed. “You might fancy a Jolly Hog Sausage Bap.”

I looked at her blankly. “A sausage sandwich?”

“Yes, with ketchup and brown sauce.” Her eyes were merry as she returned my gaze.

“I think I’m going to just get a cocktail,” I announced weakly. I was still pondering the origins of brown sauce. “Do you have an apperol spritz?”

“Orange?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Madge, will you go to the back and get a bottle opener from my purse? 22A fancies a tipple.”

“Tipple?” I squeaked.

“You did say a spritz?” I nodded. “Yes, it’s definitely a simple tipple once we get the bottle opener.” She expertly flipped the lid off the bottle and handed me a cup of ice. “Here you go, dearie.” She looked at Paul. “You want a tipple too?” I turned to look out the window. I have a history of not being able to control my giggles.

“Glass of wine, please.”

“Why didn’t you order a tipple?” I swirled my orange drink in my glass.

“Please.”

I smiled at him and placed an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “We can discuss this later, okay?” I saw his eyes blaze with recognition. First, I must search Google for the murky origins of the word tipple. Perhaps it was a British Airways pun. Or not.

“Hmm.”

We got to Lisbon, fought a crowd of welcomers and searched for our bags. Paul checked the airtag. There they sat, the robin egg blue beauties, on the runaway in Heathrow. We were stuck with the clothes on our backs and whatever we could snuff up in our backpacks. It was a disaster: we each had one pair of underwear, one pair of socks, and the pants and shirt we were wearing.

“Paul…” I wailed.

“Hmm,” he responded with raised eyebrows.

“You are right,” I pouted. “Lounge wear is just another name for pajamas. What am I going to do?”

“Hmm,” was Paul’s careful response.

I’ll tell you what we did. We filed a claim with British Airways and, as I read the paperwork, I saw that I could claim up to $1000 in toiletries, clothes, shoes, and meals until our bags arrived.

The next day I hit Portugal’s main shopping district, Rua Agusta, and proudly marched through the stores wearing my cozy, no-seam, flannel pajamas. It was hot, the crowds were dense, and my thighs drowned in the flannel garb. I couldn’t manage to max out my British Airways claim, but I did buy some Portugal-only clothes for the beach while also scoring four sweaters for the upcoming Olympia winter. I failed in one capacity: I could not find Paul his favorite “whitie tighties” that seem reserved for men over age sixty. In our case, he was ahead of his time, I guess.

I tossed my overflowing bags under a table graced with a crisp white table cloth and pulled my sticky shirt off my skin.

“Sangria, please, white.” I huffed. Oh dear, that was rude. “Por Favor,” I waved. The waiter nodded his head knowingly. I don’t often have a drink on my own. My grandmother would have called me a hussy, but Paul had a different reason.

About ten years ago, we were in wine country in California. Paul had a headache and I was starving. I ended up sitting at a bar at a country club eating a French dip sandwich and arguing with the bartender about the need to recognize the designated hitter as an approved position. I guess I raised my voice because I was politely escorted from the building because of “non-member entry.” I should go back. I’d taunt him with Edgar Martinez’s acceptance into Coopertown.

So here I am in Portugal a decade later sitting in my pajamas at a ritzy restaurant on Rua das Portas de Santo Antao. The sangria arrived, and I knew instantly mine was better. I make it every year on the first ninety degree day in Olympia. I lifted my finger for one more glass, and I debated with myself whether or not to tell him a glut of brandy would bring out the fruit flavor. I smiled and kept silent. I’ve grown in ten years and I am pretty sure my pajamas would not support my cause.