Soccer shorts. This was the simple suggestion from my son Michael for his 25th birthday gift. I was on my way to Spain, Morocco, and Portugal. How hard could it be to fulfill his request in countries where futbol is a religion? HARD! I made the mistake of booking myself on a sixteen day bus tour of the three countries—that grand goof is a story for another time. Suffice to say that touring with a group does not leave much time for shopping for atypical souvenirs—castanets, jewelry, rugs, yes—but not soccer shorts. As in the US, jerseys hang in many store windows, but sports bottoms do not. I tried to find the gift at every pre-arranged stop in our first country, Spain, with no success.
We went on to Morocco. One night, the local guide pointed to a sports shop from the tour bus, assuring me they would have the shorts: “I don’t see it. Is it near Air Moroc?” “Yes,” he said confidently. A taxi driver took me to the shop the following morning. The windows were painted white; the store was closed forever. The driver took me to another venue but they had only jerseys. Understanding my disappointment, the driver suggested that he drive slowly down the original street while he watched one side and I the other for another sports shop. Ignoring that the tour bus could leave Marrakech without me, I agreed with his plan. Success! I had green Team Moroc shorts and met my tour group before they departed for Casablanca. The cab driver helped me out of his car, gave me a hug, a kiss on each cheek, and an invitation to return to Marrakech. I accept!
A few days later we were back in Spain. I not only looked forward to enjoying Seville, it was another opportunity to find official Spanish soccer shorts. Unfortunately, I had another souvenir of Morocco besides the green shorts. I found out later that the consequence of poorly handled chicken or bad water is called campylobacter. I spent the time in Seville between the bed and the toilet with a wastebasket at my feet. This is not what they mean when they say, “Bend it like Beckham!” When we departed for Portugal, I had not added Spanish shorts to my carry-on (though I had thrown out a few pairs of my own knickers).
The next stop, Lisboa, Portugal, was beautiful. I tried to tour and shop on arrival, but had to spend too much time in the castle bathroom at the top of the Jewish Quarter. No soccer shorts that day. At the end of a subsequent day of touring the country-side, we had three hours before a scheduled Fado dinner. The young concierge said that sport shops in one of two malls fifteen minutes from our hotel would carry Team Portugal shorts. Although I was unwell, red-faced, and dripping wet from the humidity and my fever, I grabbed a cab. I toured both centers (and their bathrooms); neither had official shorts. One clerk suggested I go to Sports Zone, a store in the Colombo Mall on the other side of town. Columbus discovered the riches of America; surely his mall would reward me with a pair of soccer shorts. With time running out to meet my tour, I took two metro trains, visiting the bathroom between lines. Upon arrival, it took about 45 minutes of climbing stairs and making enquiries in fashionable shops to find Sports Zone. I visited the bathrooms often, hoping to find Michael’s shorts before having an accident in my own. In the sports store, I found souvenirs from Eurocup 2004—cereal bowls and jerseys—but no national team soccer shorts. Hoping that flattery would produce a miracle, I approached a young sales clerk: “I am sorry that I do not speak Portuguese. I would like to buy futbol shorts from the team that did so well at Eurocup. Where may I find Portugal?” “No more,” he said. “What do you mean no more? Luis Figo! Nuno Gomes! You came in second but the team still exists! I saw the stadium! I saw the telephone booths shaped like soccer balls!” The young man explained that Eurocup fans had bought all the shorts and socks in the country. Only jerseys (and cereal bowls) remained. I went back to the mall bathroom and fought with a cleaner who tried to close it. Maybe there were no official national team soccer shorts in Portugal, but I could act like a European futbol fan when called upon to protect my own shorts!
That following Saturday, we pulled into Madrid. The tour bus passed the stadium for Real Madrid and the guide made a joke about David Beckham cutting his pony tail to garner a contract with Gillette. Don’t tease! The guide said that those who did not want to take the optional tour to the Valley of the Kings could get off at the Prado. I wanted to see the Valley of the Kings but I wanted those soccer shorts more. The guide dropped us off at noon, mentioning as we disembarked, “By the way, the stores closed for the weekend at noon.” Caca! I have campylobacter and shorts from Morocco, but no futbol briefs from Portugal and Spain for my son’s 25th birthday.
I told Michael the story when he picked me up from the airport in San Francisco. He apologized that I went to so much trouble for something he could have ordered from the Internet—who knew?—but I think he enjoyed the narrative almost as much as he would have enjoyed showing off the shorts when coaching his soccer teams. He also knows that he gave me the gift of another humorous travel story to relate, something I thought I might never have again after the death of my usual travel companion, his very funny father.
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