“All my friends know, that for my last meal, I would ask for steak and red wine”, declared my agreeable co-passenger on the flight from Zürich when I had mentioned that I was vegetarian, to her suggestion about eating a variation on codfish.
I chuckled appropriately and revealed that it was to be my first visit.
“Oh, you will love Porto!”, she declared. “If I ever were to marry a man, I always say it would be Porto”.
Was this a signal about her sexual preference, I wondered briefly. Her accent in English seemed Scandinavian, perhaps reinforced by her blonde hair. We talked about travel, wine, and languages.
“Oh, I love Portuguese. When I am at a restaurant with my friend and he orders food, I ask him to speak in Portuguese. I love it”
“Ah, do you speak it?”
“No, but I love it”.
Che bello, as the Italians say. A reminder that one needs no license to enjoy beauty.
She was from Hungary, promoting women’s sport globally. When I suggested we stay in touch, she wrote down her name in block letters along with her phone numbers on the back of a bookmark. She also recommended a riverside café wistfully, “Ah, what a view you have there”. I did not understand her straightaway, as she used an unorthodox pronunciation of quai.
“Have you ever been to Hungary?”
“Once, to Budapest”
“Ah, only Budapest”. She seemed disappointed. I am prepared for Polish and Czech women who ask me a similar question, but not, alas, for Romanians, Bulgarians, Serbs, Slovenians, Croatians, Macedonians, and Slovaks. But even a couple of days in a capital city can be enriching, given respect, curiosity, and a sense of adventure. We parted ways at luggage-claim.
After being short-changed by my taxi driver who had not even pretended that her card reader was broken, I walked into my hotel and greeted the receptionist.
“Your room is ready. Are you here on business?”, asked the young man after having checked my reservation.
“No, just a weekend trip”
“Ah!”, he exclaimed. “I too would like to travel alone. I have never done it. But now I am married. When will I do it?”
As the poet says in my country, “No one ever receives a perfect world — to some is withheld the sky, to some the earth”. Of course, the verse would not exist had the subcontinent not been invaded. Urdu, the language of its composition, was born in India as a result of multiple tongues coming together. Would justice require not just a return to older borders and the expulsion (or worse) of certain people, but also the suppression of languages and art? Could it still be called justice?
Through sun-drenched streets I made my way to the river. The rooftops with their bright colors and uneven shapes, the tall bridge on the left, and ancient-looking sailboats — what a sight it was. After a couple of gondola rides and reading my book from 18th-century Naples over a glass of sangria, I crossed the bridge again and stumbled upon the café with quai in the name.
Despite the pleasant weather and prettiness, the waiter was clearly annoyed about something. He muttered under his breath as he carried empty glasses around. I wished I could cheer him up somehow.
“Bom dia”, I said, when he came up to me.
“Hmph”
“Por favor, un espresso martini e” — I pointed at the olives on the menu.
“You cannot have olives. No olives”, he retorted in English.
“Ok, maybe peanuts?”
He took a deep breath. “I will clarificate if we have peanuts. If no, then no”
They did have peanuts, it turned out. Sipping my cocktail, I noticed that almost all his customers seemed to be tourists, and made their demands in English.
Before asking for the cheque, I looked up the full sentence with the modal verb in Portuguese on my phone.
That did the trick. He broke into a smile. “Sure, but it will take time”, he said in Portuguese.
“Sem problemas”, I replied reassuringly. But it did not take any time at all.
The subject was touched upon by my green-eyed guide the next day.
“We love tourists, but it’s disrespectful to come and speak English or Spanish here, expecting to be understood. At least, say bom dia in Portuguese. We are not the little brother of Spain”, she said.
One of my fellow explorers was from New York City, searching a property to retire, she mentioned, after having asked about health insurance.
Our guide shook her dreadlocks, “Retire already!”
“Yes, I’m older than I look”
“You are in your….late forties?”, ventured the guide.
“No, no, much older, but I am Asian. We don’t age”
“Yes, something about your skin”
How curious, I thought, that a Chinese-accented lady from an American metropolis wishes to settle down in Europe, in a city she has visited only as a tourist, and only once before, without speaking the local language.
That is the richness of the human experience, I suppose. We must disregard the Greek poet who warns us that we “won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore” — even if he is right.
Another member of the group was from Berlin. He looked like what I think a German architect looks like, but I was reluctant to press the red-bearded traveler.
“I understand Spanish because I studied in Granada”, he volunteered.
“Was it architecture?”, I responded instantly.
“No, and it wasn’t translation either — that’s what most people there study”.
The discreet man and I exchanged phone numbers to perhaps “have a drink together”. We did not, despite us having chatted in German about the pandemic, but we will stay on in each other’s phonebooks for years.
Following an art museum, an ornate bookstore, a traditional canteen, and a massage, I decided to return to the hotel. On the way, I stepped out of the flow of pedestrians to search dinner options on my phone.
Someone approached me. I glanced up from my device. It was a lady without a mask, despite the threat of an invisible virus.
She asked me in Portuguese whether I spoke the language.
I smiled and shook my head. The unwelcome intrusion would now end, I thought. Alas, she switched to fluent, accent-free English, “Do you speak English?”
Keeping my smile frozen in place, I uttered random sounds meant to represent words of a foreign language. I hoped that she would lose interest in the strange man — but no, she was insistent.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a prostitute. I am a homeless woman and maybe you can buy me some food?”
“No, obrigado”, I said, shaking my head, smile constant, giving up my foreign speech gambit.
“Some money?”
I would have gladly helped, but I was fixated on ending the interview and lowering my risk of infection — I repeated my rejection, thanking her.
The next day I entered a kiosk on the high street to buy postcards. The gentleman behind the counter was dark skinned and black bearded, perhaps in his thirties.
“Would you like some stamps, Sir?”, he asked loudly through his mask.
“Yes, please”
“Where are you from?”
“Why do you ask, Sir?”
“No, I just ask”
“And what is the reason for your asking, Sir?”
“No, I thought maybe you are Bangladeshi”
“And if I were, would you treat me rudely, Sir? Or more politely?”
“I treat all my customers politely. What, even if not buy anything, I treat politely”
“That’s good. So, it shouldn’t matter, right?”
Our conversation ended. What would be his position on a Japanese person impregnating a Bangladeshi lady? Would the progeny be an acceptable thing to this man? The offspring would not to him be Bangladeshi, I suspect, or Japanese. The impertinent shopkeeper was probably Bangladeshi and had brought to these shores a regressive world-view.
While paying for my lunch in the old town, the young, curly-haired waitress asked whether I had enjoyed my meal.
“Oh, very much so! I’m so glad to have found a vegan restaurant”
“With respect, may I ask whether you were brought up as a vegetarian?”
“Yes — in India”
“Ah, India! I knew it! I know the cows are holy for you, and I respect that so much. But here the cows are raped to give more milk. And then they take away their babies. In India, I could imagine eating milk products, but not here”
We bowed at each other. These happy exchanges of smiles, what a pleasure the world can be!
Rushing up the steps to the cathedral, I reached my rendezvous in time: a tour of the city’s street-art on a tuk-tuk. My guide greeted me and we set off exploring the colors and politics of Porto.
Some of the imagery was intelligible, but others needed local knowledge. For instance, a mural with a smiling dog and cat demanding justice for “our friends of Santo Tirso” was a reference to an arson that had killed 73 animals in a shelter last summer. How horrible men can be.
At a crossing, a passer-by attempted to climb into the tuk-tuk next to the driver. They exchanged some amicable-sounding words and we proceeded.
“Was that a friend of yours?”, I asked.
“No, I don’t know him”, he replied, quite at ease.
In a non-touristy quartier, a lady with a grocery bag full of laundry smiled and said something to us. The driver grinned and responded.
To me he said, “They are simple people. They have lived here for many years”.
I could relate to that. Many in Europe and India would be called simple by some — but that word, while often innocuous, can also occasionally hide coarseness and brutality. It is not a simple thing, for instance, to live next to someone with different Gods. Fortunately, we are capable of dealing with complexity.
Towards the end of the circuit, I invited my host to a drink in an outdoor café at a flea market.
He had had many jobs, from being a graphic designer, waiter, schoolteacher, organic food seller, artist, to a tuk-tuk tour guide.
“I like my freedom. So, I always try many things”
“The sun is so good”, I observed blissfully, sipping my lager.
“Yes, it is important. But it is crazy. It is winter and it’s so warm. Never was it so warm”
We exchanged phone numbers and fist-bumped.
When he left, two ladies in their early twenties took the bench next to mine. They spoke French and teased each other about photographs taken earlier. They pressed their cheeks together and took selfies but were evidently not pleased with the outcome.
“Happy to take one for you, if you like?”, I proposed in French.
They smiled at me. The brunette said self-disparagingly, “Thanks, but it won’t improve the quality, it’s a pity”.
I smiled back. Oh, what lovely visages you both possess, I thought. But I too, and friends of mine, had been similarly, inappositely critical of selfies in years past.
I bought a still life in oil with a toy soldier and a carafe, as well as an LP from 1976. The album had many photographs of the singer, always with a half-smile and her blonde hair worn open, and once with a lion cub. The small print had the postal address of her fan club. Her name was unfamiliar to me, but she sang tritely about love, “L’amour qui brûle en moi”. It might be the only way to address the topic.
I walked along the river towards a T-shirt shop recommended by my tour guide for carrying motifs by local artists. Along the route, I shouted repeatedly at a family of four walking on the tram tracks oblivious to the massive vehicle approaching them from behind. They jumped out of its way in time.
At the shop, I was the solitary customer. When I picked a shirt with a female face, the saleswoman shook her head.
“That’s for girls and it’s short. Many men pick it, though. Maybe I should order it in a larger size”
I put it down regretfully and chose one with a bus full of people, but rejected it for a sexist motto on the bottom.
“Ah, yes, many people have exactly the same reaction as you”
“Really? I see that I am more mainstream than I thought”, I said with a chuckle. “I would have taken the Mandela one, but I’ve never been to South Africa, so…”
“Oh, I fully understand, that would be cheating!”, she exclaimed. “But you have been to Portugal, so you are fine to pick the Pessoa one”
We beamed at each other from behind our masks.
“You know, Pessoa is the only famous writer I’ve encountered who suggests that travel isn’t that important”, I ventured, realizing that I had uttered the same sentence on my flight into Porto.
“Of course, that makes sense”, she replied, whereas my co-passenger had grimaced and retorted, “Nobody’s perfect”.
We started talking about how different cultures perceive personal space. She told me about her last trip to Asia and Cuba and that she would love to visit India.
“It’s an amazing place. But you should finish at a relaxing location, like in Goa or Kerala. How was Cuba?”
“Nice, and I felt safe. But I notice that the people aren’t doing well, with the currency devaluing”
A delightful exchange and we wished each other well. After a stop at a massage parlor and a vegetarian burger with a side of halloumi, I started for my hotel.
The town hall next door was lit in the colors of the Ukrainian flag. Two protestors sat on the ground. The boyish, dark haired man held up a cardboard sign that said, “If Putin is not stopped, war will reach you too”, or some such prognosis.
I walked up to them. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
“We do”, replied the fair, blonde woman in a low voice.
“Are you connected to Ukraine”, I asked awkwardly.
“We are Ukrainians”. My tuk-tuk driver had said that the largest foreign community in Porto was of Ukrainians.
“Ah, then I wanted to express my solidarity with you. It’s terrible what’s happening”
“Thank you”
“I also want to apologize. I’m from India and my country did not support you at the UN. We are a billion people and obviously do not have uniform opinions”
“Thank you. But you can still support us, on social media, on spreading information about this war”, she replied, still with a solemn expression.
“Of course. You know, when I was a child, one of my favorite books was from the Soviet Union. I checked recently that it was from Ukraine. It’s called, the two toreadors from Vasukovaka village”
At this, the woman broke into a smile, “Yes! It’s well known in Ukraine”.
So, we had something in common. I bowed goodbye, “My love and solidarity to you”.
“Thank you”, she answered. Her silent companion nodded.
Back in my hotel I tweeted my dismay to India’s official at the United Nations. Many compatriots jumped in, incensed at my dissent. Others supported me. The internet also had shocking stories of Indian college students in Ukraine being roughed up by the natives.
From my balcony I could still see the couple on the ground in front of the town hall.
So many people, trying to make for themselves and others a better life and a better world, despite the common cruelties of existence. If that were not enough: pandemics, war, a difficult economic climate, unseasonable weather, drought, violence against animals, and so on.
But we try to make good things happen. What else is there?
