Really, it is. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the wind isn't howling too bad, and the temperature is a perfect (for me) 13C (55F). As I was walking to O Saco to get some groceries, I saw all sorts of wild flowers, including daisies and masses of some pretty yellow ones. I have no idea what they are-- buttercups?-- but they simply shout "Spring is coming!" I love Spring.

I went to O Saco instead of Jumbo. Psychologically, I'm just not up for it. Furthermore, I simply don't have that kind of time today. In addition to the twenty minutes to walk to the store, there is no possible way to get out of that place in less than an hour. First off, there's the sheer size of the damn place. On Monday, for example, I needed catfood, milk and CocaCola. All are located in different parts of the store. The catfood, for example, is located in the far back corner, behind the bacalau counter. The soda is on the opposite end of the store, toward the front. Once you factor in maneuvering around all the idiots who have no idea what they're doing and therefore choose to stand stock still in the middle of an aisle, or abandon their carts between aisles so they can wander aimlessly around unfettered, you're talking fifteen minutes to collect three things.

Then, of course, you see other things along the way that you don't need right now, but will soon, and as long as you've dragged yourself to Jumbo, you might just as well save yourself a trip later on. Never works, mind you, but it may allow you to substitute O Saco, for example, for Jumbo later in the week.

So, let's say you're booking along, and reach the checkouts in half an hour. There are tons of checkouts. Billions of them. Looks good, until you realize that 90 percent of them are reserved for some reason or another. There's a couple for Jumbo card holders, and ones for people who are paying with their Jumbo credit card. There are ones for babes in arms, and for home delivery. Sidenote: I tried to get a Jumbo loyalty card for the express purpose of getting to use the special checkouts. I was refused because I don't have an official residency card-- which take years to get-- and even though I had other proof of residence (our lease, utility bills), I might just be a tourist, so forget it.

So there you are, desperately trying to steer your shopping trolley with it's one or more wonky wheels through a sea of other, dysfunctional carts and their owners. You notice that there is ONE line open for those with thirteen items or less, and that line stretches well into the frozen food section. (Which, by the way, made it rather challenging to grab your milk.)

The special checkouts are well signposted, but you don't need to look real closely at them, since these are the ones with the shortest queues. The only checkouts YOU qualify for have the long, long lines of customers behind them, each with one or more fully loaded shopping carts. Chances are, they are staffed by the slowest, stupidest employees on staff. If your IQ stretches to double digits and you get a job at Jumbo, you've just guaranteed yourself a nice, cushy job at the Jumbo Credit Card Only line.

So you pick yourself out a likely looking line. You try to pick one with a cashier that looks relatively bright and speedy. (Key word: Relatively.) It doesn't matter, though, because whichever one you pick will be the slowest damn line there, even if it wasn't to start with.

To be fair, it isn't just the cashiers. A hefty proportion of the customers are none too bright themselves. For example, let's look at last Monday. I'd made it to the checkout in half an hour. Not bad. I was familar with the checkout girl as well. She must have pissed somebody off in the management, because she seems pretty intelligent, has full use of her faculties and is blessed with common sense. She's probably a student, I would imagine. At the head of the line was a well dressed, sensible looking woman with a full, but not teetering, cart.

My, how appearances are deceiving, aren't they? She'd take two or three things out of the cart, put them on the conveyer belt, then stare vacantly at item number four while the cashier waited, empty handed, for some more stuff to scan. It's a good thing you don't have to pack your own groceries at Jumbo, or we'd still all be there. Then, of course, she had to pay by check. Which this particular cashier can handle, luckily for us all, since the customer couldn't. The poor cashier had to tell her how to write it, including telling her how to void the first check she managed to screw up. Hello? Who in the hell manages to make it to fifty without knowing how to write a check? How did you manage to get so fat living under that rock for such a long time?

Here are the best uses I've found for all that Portuguese I've been studying so far: (1) trying to figure out all the useful idioms for "bitch" and "complete idiot" being muttered by the customers ahead of me in line, and (2) reading trashy women's magazines with the noble intent of avoiding bashing someone over the head repeatedly with a bottle of wine. (It was on sale. It would have been worth it.)

Forty minutes later, I was wheeling my cart to the taxi rank.

I didn't buy the magazine, as I'd finished reading it.

We had to go out last night.

We didn't particularly want to, but it was Landlady1's birthday. She's an owner of the pub: you show some respect and affection.

And she is a very sweet person. We'd like her even if she wasn't part owner of our favorite pub. She came in, had a drink and chatted for a while, and left with Landlord1 to go to dinner. We stayed and played a few games of darts and hung out with some friends. Miss Kitty was telling me about her trip when a big, beefy fellow planted himself between us and asked us what he should have to drink. Miss Kitty asked him what type of thing he liked to drink. "I like anything!" he boomed. "Anything that makes me DRUNK!"

He told us his name was Olaf, and that he is Swedish. We all made small talk for a while. He looked pretty disappointed when I informed him that I was married. Tough luck, Olaf. Miss Kitty asked him if he was here on holiday. "No, no," says Olaf. "We are here to golf." Because golf is not frivolous. It is not some mere holiday. Golf is a serious thing.

Then somebody on my other side asked me something, and as I turned to respond I noticed another big, beefy guy with an eensy-weensy camera held to his face. It was pointed at me. I was asking why he was taking my picture when two meaty hands grabbed my shoulders and suddenly I was cheek-to-cheek with Olaf. The other Swede took our picture before I knew what was happening, and that was that.

I imagine I will soon be famous in Sweden as "that babe Olaf managed to pick up when he was in Portugal." When he shows his friends the picture, though, I doubt he'll mention that the man sitting next to me is my husband.

But if I were you, Olaf, I'd make sure to mention just how gorgeous, sexy, intelligent and incredibly witty that woman is.

I'd hate to have to come to Sweden to set things straight.