We eventually mosey back down to the restaurant for more bevies and to hang with our bartender friends who like to give away beer.
And then here is where things to start to get blurry~
Marina leaves us to go check on the status of the boat. Soon enough, we hear loud yelling in a thick accent that can only belong to our little Ruska. Lana and I go over and see Marina arguing with a “boat official”, telling her she will call the American Embassy.
The girl walks off and Marina informs both of us that from this point on we don’t speak any Spanish and to let her handle it. We nod. Never argue with a Russian. The line is forming for the 7pm boarding so we jump in too. Soon the girl comes back and singles us out, and her and Marina start arguing again, creating quite a scene. Lana and I are horrified at the turn of events, and in our wine-logged brains can think of nary a solution. The lady keeps informing Marina that she is calling the police, to which Marina tells her to go ahead, and that she is calling the American Embassy. The situation continues to escalate, people are staring in bewilderment, and I have visions of us spending the night on the sand.
The girl leaves again “to get the police” (honestly! we’ve PAID for this ticket! It’s not like we’re trying to get something for free…) and our bartender friend scoops us up and takes us over to another boat. We walk right on, not even showing them our tickets. It was SO easy. Too easy. And just like that – we were on our way back to Vigo.
We arrive and naturally are hungry. We find a cute terrace to dine (love European terraces!) and what else? Promptly order a bottle of wine. This meal was just to whet our appetite. Real dinner comes later.
I ask the waiter how much a bottle of Albarino will be, since I don’t see prices listed on the menu. He tells me 12 Euros, and brings us a bottle. You can’t put much past me – I look at the bottle and see he has actually brought us a Ribeira. Albarino’s cheap whore of a sister. Not as good. But I have a high threshold of tolerance so I don’t complain. We drink up, knowing full well he cannot charge us 12 Euros for this. Well wouldn’t you know that little scamp brought out our bill and it was 12 Euros for the wine. I call him over to dispute my point, of which he knows nothing about wine and gets the manager. Great. I’m THAT girl. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like they were trying to take advantage of dumb Americans.
The manager comes over and I politely inform him that the waiter told us it was 12 for an Albarino, but he brought us a Ribeiro, which I know for a fact is not as expensive, thank you Monsterville and all your amazing wine classes. The manager proceeded to argue with me about every.single.point. I addressed until I got so exasperated I just asked for the bill. I didn’t care anymore, we’ll just fucking pay it. THEN he wouldn’t give me the bill! What the hell is going on here? I’m telling you we will pay! Give me the bill. Marina then pulls out her phone and informs him she is calling the American Embassy.
Eventually, he walks back into the restaurant, knocks 5 Euros off, and brings the bill back. Was all of that worth 5 Euros? Course not. But the point was, he assumed that I don’t know wine. You may be able to weasel money out of me for a lot of things, but wine? Don’t even try, sir. And that was MY point. Also, this entire altercation took place in Spanish. Boom.
We bounced back gracefully from this evening and had a civilized dinner together.
No. We didn’t.
Marina and I carried on to Real Dinner, where we ordered another bottle of wine and ended the night crying together in the park next to the restaurant. Lana wasn’t interested in eating and instead went home and dialed a couple of exes. It’s clear we shouldn’t be left alone.
Marina and I come back to the hotel drunk and exhausted, and she declares she is going downstairs for more wine. I take this opportunity to strip off all my clothes and throw myself on the bed. Marina comes back as I’m passing out, and I overhear her set two bottles of wine on the counter.
“The manager wanted 24 Euros for these. I said one. We settled on six.”
Then the manager knocks on the door because the girls are being too loud.
“Erin, crouch behind the wall.” Because I’m naked. Not, “put some clothes on.” Crouch. I do this without question. Then he leaves and I go to sleep.
Portugal in the morning.