Rolex? Marijuana?

No. Stop trying to sell me stuff, guys on the street in Lisbon. I know I look scruffy, but I don't want your drugs. And I know I look cheap, but I don't want your knock-off watch.

Though this does remind me of a great story from Madrid. A friend wanted to find a bar where he knew almost the whole staff because he and his girlfriend stayed with one of the waitresses last year (couch surfing sounds so cool), but he couldn't remember where it was. So we go to the gay neighborhood (it was a lesbian bar), see someone walking by, and I am elected to ask directions.

I ask him if he knows where the bar is, and he doesn't but he knows where it would be. This is word for word what he said to me without pause: "Go up this street and go left into the plaza then cross it and go right you want weed?"

One of the funniest things I've ever heard, and it took me half a second to register what happened. Again, the answer was no, but thanks for the directions.

Yesterday, in Porto, we were booking a night train back to Madrid for tomorrow night. The guy at the ticket counter spoke perfect English, and as we debated among ourselves the merits of getting beds vs seats for the 10 hour trip (€35 vs €10), the man asked us where we were from.

United States, I say.

Where from? he says.

California, I say.

Then, with furrowed brow, squinted eyes, and a slower tone of voice he says again, "Where from?"

We both instantly know the right answer to that question. San Francisco, we say. Oh, OK, he says cheerily. Why, I ask, knowing what he wouldn't have liked to hear. "It's OK. You're from San Francisco."

Oh, LA. So hated worldwide.