“Você quer uma carona?” says the driver of a blacked-out Subaru-like sports car as I approach the road just a few hundred yards from Vespucci Beach’s Pleasure Pier. “Eh… I don’t speak Portuguese, mate,” I say into my headset. Silence follows. I can’t tell if it’s lag, or if the man is simply trying to untangle my Glasgow accent. Maybe he’s contemplating putting one between my eyes in front of the ferris wheel, and speeding off towards the city. I brace myself for the worst. “Ah, Inglês,” the man says, after what feels like a very long time. “Okay, do you want a ride?”
