Blue Dress Hot Mess

Sitting stationary on the tarmac of Faro airport for an hour and a half is an uninviting prospect. Not only that, but it is a very dull way to end what has been the wildest 10 days of European holiday. Perhaps the airline knew we needed a break – more time to recuperate before we reenter the real world. The bubble we have inhabited has been bumped around, but it has floated in the sky very happily. We flew to Madrid; a 4am start, Uber, express, plane from Stanstead. We had landed by lunch time, made friends with a taxi driver, and realised two things which would prove central to our 3 night holiday: the first – we don’t speak Spanish, the second – we appeared to be living in the dodgiest area of the city. Yes, it was central – only ten minutes’ walk from the Plaza Mayor as we had been helpfully informed by our Air BnB host – but it was far from posh. No where near the Spanish equivalent of Westminster. In fact, the police shut our road down for hours on our final night as a result of what I understood to be a drugs bust (but remember point number 1, our inadequate Spanish. She could have said burglary).

Escaping our living conditions as much as possible meant we saw a lot of Madrid. It is fun pretending to be tourists, committing to being tourists, and acting like tourists. The Royal Palace, Collections, and nice man who played the Harry Potter theme tune on wine glasses, were all glorious. As was the market, the shopping, and – undeniably – the tapas. The Prado hungover edition, however, is not such a happy story. Overwhelming at the best of times – by which I mean those sunny, sunny days when one’s head is fog-free and one’s world isn’t spinning – the Prado simply made me feel sick. Admittedly, even from beneath the haze of headache, the art was breath-taking. But few people like having their breath taken away for such a long time, and even fewer would choose it when each breath is accompanied by a hearty taste of last night’s cocktails. It was because of my lack of breath that I agreed to Lime Scooter home: a mistake I can tell you now. The cobbles of Madrid do not lend themselves to an inexperienced Scoot-er, and I lasted all of 3 minutes (still a hefty €3) before disembarking (gracefully), and walking home alone, leaving the boys to scoot merrily away.

We were fought by bouncers, plyed with free shots, mugged, merry. We were tourists – three boys, one girl – in Madrid in mid-September. We were a Lads and Lass Holiday, and, with the addition of a very over-sized fake leather jacket I purchased at a second-hand shop because I’d seen one in Vogue in August, we were the happiest, drunkest, and arguably silliest band of merry men to have ever tasted the Madrid version of Baileys (yum).

Perhaps that’s why we thought we’d just pop over to Portugal, multiply our numbers, and learn two new things: the first, we don’t speak Portuguese. The second, red-heads require Factor 50.

Sunburn or a hangover – I’m not sure which is worse. The combination, I can assure you, is far from pleasant. I stumbled out of bed, winced at the bathroom light (who on earth chose to install a sun in a Portuguese basement bathroom?), and decided the only way to feel like I might in fact be a clean and functional young lady was to have a shower. I was wrong. Perhaps I was right on one front – cleanliness. But I definitely failed the functionality test. I howled, literally, like a wolf as soon as the water hit my burning scalp. Howled again as it flowed over my shoulders, yelped as it fell onto my stomach, and very nearly wept as it slapped my bikini line (a place I always seem to miss when applying the Factor 30).

I have a braid! I got drunk, paid €10, chose blue, gold, and pink, sat in a chair for 10 minutes (swaying slightly), got a braid, then went and got two cocktails to celebrate. Perhaps that’s how it should be done aged 20. I have never had a braid before (I wasn’t allowed them – too expensive for something I’d have to have cut out in time for school next week, too appealing as a nesting place for nits etc etc). But now here I am, aged 20 and two months, going on lads trips to Portugal and claiming my own hair style one braid at a time. (I only have one, but I intend to have another next summer if I’m so inclined. I might have grown out of it by then, you never know).

It is now two weeks later. The sun burn has faded and left behind no hint of a tan. It is raining, and I have a cold. The only rays of sunshine come from the photo of us in Madrid and one of me on a beach in Portugal which beam down at me from my university bedroom wall. Oh well, at least I still have my braid.