Clumsily I slipped out of bed and picked my way to the bathroom, over a winding wacky trail of discarded clothes and underwear.
It had been a very good night.
We’d spent the evening at the magnificent Alfandega event centre, a converted custom house right on the Porto waterfront. What an incredible building! Built in 1869 to process customs and trade of the city’s prize export product – magnificent Douro Port – the centre is strong, solid, and timeless.
On the night we visited its imposing stone structure was softened by the fading light of the day and imbued with drama by clever lighting. Out on the forecourt, riverside was this apostrophe in bronze.
There was a certain amount of drama in the Destinology Travel Bloggy Awards too, with squeals of delight not only from the winners, (no not me!) but also from the unwashed masses who were being skill-fully seduced by Douro wine.
I know we took a taxi back to the hotel. I just don’t remember doing so.
Hardly surprising then that as I made my way to the bathroom the next morning my eyes felt dry, leached of all liquid. I don’t understand that. How can you drink so much liquid and be dehydrated the next day?
I peeled open a new packet of contact lenses and slipped them in but still felt as if everything was blurry. I blinked. Once, twice. Three thousand times!
Oh well that’ll learn me, I muttered as we made our way down to the hotel buffet breakfast. Over breakfast I tried numerous times to re-wet my lenses by blinking furiously. My Englishman thought I was being overly seductive, albeit in a very obvious way.
I was blinking like a teenager dressed to kill in blue eye shadow and false eyelashes!
My Englishman just rolled his eyes. And didn’t mention the war – on sobriety – the night before.
It was a quiet breakfast as I employed the last few unsozzled brain cells trying to decipher what My Englishman was saying, and mentally counting down the minutes until I could run to the bathroom and drag out the splinters from my eyes, re-wet them and hopefully see again.
Before too long, I was there at the basin. Still seeing double. Still feeling as if I had glass in my eyes (and a wrecking ball in my head). I reached up to pull out my lens. It was stubborn. I dragged it out of my eye and examined its blue sphere on my finger.
It was bluer than usual.
It was thicker than usual.
It was plural.
I’d put in the day’s contact lenses over the top of yesterday’s lenses. The ones I’d slept in.
Yeah, it was a bloody good night, that Awards night in Porto.