Salema Jeans rolled up, white t-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses. This is my life, and funny to say, I never thought I could love a beach so much. All the sitting around, the doing of nothing in the face of endless surf and sand. The gulls calling, the waves rolling and rolling, the blue sky stretching south to Africa and beyond, I am pleasantly surprised at how easily I've slouched into this existence. We left Lagos after two nights there and headed west to Salema, a tiny little village along the southern coast of Portugal, in the Algarve region, a place we like to think of as heaven. There is really nothing to do here besides get up in the morning and see what the fishermen have brought in (crates full of octopus and some sailfish-looking things so far, the octopus caught in big clay jars), and then retreat to our terrace to have a lazy breakfast and then work that off by sitting and staring out to sea for hours on end. Wonderful. We're renting a room from an old couple whose years must surely be measured in epochs rather than years. They know full well we speak no Portuguese (though I must say my efforts are valiant at least--I'm sure I've had at least a few coherent 'conversations' so far), yet they continue to prattle on and on and on in their native tongues, mostly just pleased for the interested-looking sounding boards. They're charming, though I'm suspecting they're not actually a couple and the old gent has designs on my lovely wife. She let him know she had collected a couple of nice shells, and the next morning the table on our terrace was full of new shells, and the collection kept growing. He's taking full advantage of the two-cheek-kiss custom as well. I've got youth on him, but who knows, she may fall for his location. The food continues to amaze. My favorite meal here has been a pan-cooked flounder, 'One of the best fish in the sea' says our waiter of the last 3 nights, a swaggering Portuguese who has been very helpful and friendly, who told us of his time spent as a child fishing for flounder, as he was too poor to afford a football or other toy. I didn't really get the whole gist of his story, but the fish was excellent. The flounder was broad and flat, presented whole, golden-brown, the moist fish flaking easily from the skeleton and offering a firm, buttery, completely delicious meal. Cathy's gone for the gold bream twice, a meatier fish, absorbing the charbroil flavor nicely, falling apart in the mouth. And last night we had the best calamari either of us has tasted ever--a whole different texture than we've experienced before. Now, we find ourselves in the city of Faro, en route to Sevilla, Spain. In this city, storks nest in the highest towers of all churches and official buildings, soaring overhead and casting pteradactyl-sized shadows across our paths at regular intervals. Fantastic. It's a nice city, and though our growing fondness for Portugal tempts us to stay, we already extended our time in Salema by a day, thereby decreasing our time in Sevilla. Time is growing short--we're down to a single measly WEEK already!--so on we go. We leave here with a wonderful feeling, knowing that we have loved it well and given a few selected sites their due. Next entry will come from Spain, where I hope my language skills will prove more usable.