A Time Before ...

The winter of our lives. Fictional dreaming in Coimbra, Portugal. The birthplace of The Age of Discovery

In some cultures, people speak louder than others. In all countries, some personalities speak louder than most. And in the winter of life, when our eardrums become stiff like the joints in our hands and knees, old men speak to each other, and the whole world may hear.

In the smallness of Café Mondego, the tables almost join. One must share the venerable space, if one is lucky enough to find a seat, with any who may come. It is social, it is democratic, and there is a freedom of expression—an island retreat in the stormy sea of chaos in our world.

And so the conversations one might hear are the fabric of a culture of coffee, maybe some vinho or cerveja, an ever-changing wardrobe of both drama and the mundane.

An older gentleman, even older than me, arrived first. He wore a flat wool cap with a short brim in front, a dark red sweater, and black wool slacks that matched his cap. He ordered an expresso and pão doce (sweet roll), which was served quickly, but he sat patiently, waiting.

Only minutes passed before he was joined by a tall, slim figure of about the same age. His companion wore a dress shirt and dark tie, a long wool trench coat, and walked with a cane.

They greeted each other warmly, with both a hug and ritual kisses to each cheek. I noticed the gentleman in the trench coat carried a large flat package, the type of sturdy cardboard box that might be used to send something fragile through the post.

The bearer of the package looked to the counter where the solitary waiter was filling salt shakers. He held up his index finger, and the waiter nodded. Then he made a fist and held up two fingers, another nod from the waiter. I was curious now, not having seen this kind of café semaphore in the past.

A few minutes passed, and the waiter arrived. From a silver tray, he places an expresso in front of the trench coat and then a small shot glass of something red and dark in front of each gentleman. He smiled, “No Pastel de Nata today, Miguel?

I was surprised! I rarely hear English at Café Mondego. Few expats and even fewer Americans wander in, as it is off the beaten path from the usual tourist parade. More and more Americans have moved here in the last few years. They now have a large active Facebook page. But from their dress, their countenance, and a slight prominence of the bridge of the nose, I was sure these venerable gentlemen were Portuguese.

The trench coat began to speak: Não, obrigado. “Tenho de perder peso e… ,”

The red sweater cut him off, waving his hand side-to-side. No Miguel, Não! We agree before. When we come here, we must practice to speak English for our trip. Only the English. Remember, we agreed!” The waiter smiled and left them to talk.

Nodding his head, his friend agreed: “Yes, yes. I know, João. You are right, and we only have two more months.”

They sipped their coffee in silence, an almost reverent ritual, and when finished, the red sweater raised his shot glass: “To safe travels on our journey.”

But Miguel wagged his head to the negative. He held up a finger and finished chewing a bite of the sweet roll, which had been precisely cut into equal pieces and shared between these two old friends. “Wait, João, I have something to show and wish to make a different toast. He began to unwrap and open the package he had brought.

João’s brow furrowed, and his frown had disappointment written across his face. But when a framed painting was withdrawn from the protection of the package, his blue eyes sparkled. Every wrinkle on his aged face curved into a wide grin. “Meu Deus!”

Miguel’s eyes darted toward his friend, disappointed at breaking their practice of English, but he said nothing. He proudly held up the painting for João to see, and the waiter came over to peek and give it nodding approval.

Miguel looked heavenward. He wagged his head slowly and sighed. “That was many years ago, my friend. A rainy winter day, unlike the sunshine we are blessed with today.”

João nodded, but sadness crept across his face. It was 1957, to be exact. Our friend, Amadeo, saw us and painted from his memory. So much has changed, but I remember we talked about seeing Queen Elizabeth in Lisbon.”

“Oh yes! I remember the roads were so bad back then, mostly dirt. It was a hard trip; my brother’s Ciroën 2CV almost broke its axle when we hit that pothole in Pombal. Queen Elizabeth, she almost outlived us, João!”

“Salazar did not believe in good roads. He feared progress would find its way to Portugal. He was a complicated man but a man of conservative Catholic beliefs. Some still say life was better then, but so many babies died at birth, so many were poor, and not everyone could read.”

“Yes, but he loved our country and kept us out of the big war.”

“Maybe his greatest achievement was that somehow, he preserved our relations with Britain and eventually with the allies who defeated fascism. He made many wise choices.

“1957 … was that the year the Russians put that thing up in space? You know what I mean. Everyone was afraid it would spy on everyone, everywhere. And now,” he glanced at his cell phone as he put it on the table, “Nobody cares if these things always tell where we are and listen to whatever we say … .”

“Yes, I remember! Sputnik they called it, ha! It made the Americans crazy with jealousy. Their next President, the young one, he proved they had more money to spend on spaceships than anybody.”

“But he did not live to see it. America is a dangerous place. And it is so big, so rich. It is a lot to see in one week. I think we must stay longer.”

João frowned again. “Where can we get the money to stay longer, Miguel? These tickets to fly, so expensive … did you know they even charge extra to bring a suitcase on the plane?”

Miguel shrugged. “Maybe they don’t change clothes as much as we do. Yesterday, my cousin showed me pictures of places called Walmart. Many of the people are still in pajamas and wearing slippers! Look at this picture he sent to my phone.”

“Hmm, do they sleep in these Walmart places? They must have good food there; look how big the people are.”

“I don’t know. That is why we travel: to learn and understand more. My cousin lived there for a year and wrote some tips for us in this email.” Miguel passed his phone to his friend so he could read the list.

João looked confused. “We must tell them not to put ice in our drinks. Why?”

Miguel shrugged. “My cousin says they must have different metabolisms. They use the air conditioning to make their house cold so they can wear sweatpants in summer and use enough heat in winter so they can wear shorts.”

João took off his cap and scratched his head, frowning. “What happens if I let them put ice in the glass?”

“You will always be thirsty. There is so much ice there is not much room for anything else. It is part of a trick they play to allow the waiter to keep coming to your table to give “free” refills. This way, they make you feel like you should give a bigger tip.”

“The refills of your drinks are free?”

“Yes, but only the sugar ones and still full of ice.”

“Well, there is much to learn, but it must be a good place. These Americans who come here smile all the time. Even when they don’t know you, they smile and ask how you are. It does make me a little uncomfortable, though. I don’t want to tell them about my gout and my swollen prostate, and... are they all doctors or something?”

“There is much to learn, João. That is why I brought the painting. I have a buyer, and by selling, we will have enough to stay longer.”

“But the painting, it is part of our youth. You have kept it many years when many others offered to buy it.”

“This is our time to go, my friend. Soon we will be too old. We must go before … before we are gone.”

João held up his shot glass. “So what is your toast, my friend?”

“To getting lost and finding better stories.”