Why you can't watch American sports on European TVs

June 19, 2001
Lagos, Portugal"Why you can't watch American sports on European TVs"
I'm sure you're sick of hearing about the Lakers' Championship run, but let me tell you my story. First of all, I haven't seen a game since the Sacramento Series, mostly because Europeans don't care enough about American sports to televise them, and also because of the slight eight-hour time difference. Tip off at Staples Center begins here at three in the morning. So last Friday I found myself in Lagos, Portugal, on the eve of Game Five Lakers-Sixers. Lagos is an ex-pat town, crowded with Americans, Aussies, Canadians, and Germans so my hopes were high that someplace, somewhere would be showing the game.
I canvassed the town with little luck. Most of the pubs closed at two. Finally I found out about an all-night discotheque that would be showing the game. So there I was at tip off, leaning against the rail of the second floor of the disco watching the Lakers live on five Sony Flat screen televisions with a sea of dancing bodies below me, oblivious to the implications of the game. Since I was the only person watching, I did my best to represent Los Angeles. I cheered for Shaq's dunks, Kobe's breakaway three-sixties, and Robert Horry's amazing string of three-pointers. As the second quarter began two Portuguese clubbers asked me "Who are dese Lockers?" I just pointed to Shaq and said "Watch!" By half time the two Portuguese were shouting "Abrigado" and the three of us raised our glasses and cheered the men in purple half a world away.
As halftime came to close, the five beautiful televisions flipped to VH-1. My heart sank. I ran downstairs and appealed to the bartender, the doorman, and finally to the DJ, claiming "Please change it back! It's probably the last game!" They all just smiled, shook their heads and said, "Who cares? This is Portugal." So I left, and walked the streets of Lagos at 4 a.m. and finding nothing open, finally retired to my room in the hostel eagerly awaiting my journey to the internet parlor the next morning to read the ESPN NBA section. Well boys, at least I tried.

I've been in Lagos for five days now and I'll probably stay longer. Lagos is called the bottomless pit of Europe and I can understand why. People come here and get stuck. As I walk these cobblestone streets I am met by dozens of Americans and Aussies working here, passing out dinner coupons for restaurants, drink specials, grotto tours, anything and everything. Most backpackers work in bars and internet parlours, earning just enough escudos to pay for their cheap apartment. Others play guitar in the streets, make henna tattoos, hair wraps, or a dozen other hippie enchantments.

Lagos is a melting pot; a tiny Los Angeles. The Portuguese culture is hidden behind the blatant catering to Anglophone and Germanic Tourism. Signs are in written in ungrammatical English and Deutsche, and every attendant working here speaks both languages, as well as some French, Spanish, and Swedish. I ate dinner at a Gyro place, and as I waited in line for my kebab I heard the girl behind the
counter conversing in at least four different languages to various customers. "Ciao! Gratsi! Merci! Hej San!" I speak English everywhere and for the first time since London I am understood.
Should you go to Lagos? Definitely. The town is small, the streets are a maze of shops and eateries, and remind me of Indiana Jones wandering the streets of Cairo . . the same whitewashed buildings, the same dusty heat, the same baskets full of exotic wares. At the rivermouth you can hire fishermen to tour you through the grottos. That is what I did today. I signed on with a sunburned, scarfaced fisherman who looked like an advertisement for skin cancer. He buzzed us along the many private coves, hiding perfect white sand beaches, and the amazing craggy rock formations. When we reached the grottos he threaded the motorboat through narrow barnacled chasms into hidden grotto caves. The sea water in the caves glittered with the hint of buried treasure . . . and yes, it felt much like Pirates of the Caribbean, especially the beginning caves with the pirate skeletons and the piles of gold. I shared my grotto tour boat with a German couple, an Australian couple and so the Portuguese fisherman switched languages effortlessly. Such is the affect of tourism.