Taberna de Amarante & the housing crisis

 

I went down to Batalha, went back up to São Lázaro, right there near the garden, closed off so as not to be stepped on, that square, from Guedes to Santiago, a large square of poets and terraces, the Pingo Doce to pay bills, all the ATMs for tourists, closed second-hand bookstores, the Bangladeshi fever, that just the day before yesterday I was almost mugged, they took my cigarette, I kept the lighter, he was shouting lighter and I was shouting at him, police POLICE, if you touch me, I'll tear you all to pieces! And he crossed the street, and tried again, they told me: here in the city centre, you can buy pepper spray or a taser, and you'll see that you'll finish off one, but two or three, for your health, don't walk around here alone, but, I said: - I've always been from here, because I'm from Paranhos, this city is mine too, but violence is all around, all over the world, which is this neighbourhood. With our backs turned to the war zones, where bombs and shells mutilate people just like us, who we can't see from our homes, there in Ukraine, there in Gaza.

Hunger has set in, and in São Lázaro there is no hunger. Instead of Guedes (who isn't even there anymore), I opted for the neighbor next door and this result was better than expected. A steak sandwich and a panaché. At Taberna de Amarante, I dare you to say that it's all Brazilian people, and the food is better than in many restaurants in Porto or Portugal. Top-quality steak, fries, and don't tell me it's not art, there is art, eating dry fries, without oil, that taste like my grandmother Albina's fries. A simple, lightly seasoned salad, some delicious cherry tomatoes and a panaché like I haven't had in a long time. I felt like I was living on the terrace, surrounded by beautiful and lively people, without fear of being mugged, the sun shining on my glasses and I feeling safe and from Porto. The world is my home, but inside me, all the typical regionalism of the city where I was born still lives, the smells, the cries, the songs, the choruses, the ginjinha and the morcões, we are all cool, these people who get up as soon as the sun rises, swallow a carrot cake and a dark coffee, without sugar, pure, like the virgin sky of June, full of summer and promises and go in the dark, and go out backwards, to go up to the empty part of the city and almost get mugged in broad daylight and are left with longing and lack of joy, because this city was once safe, the undefeated always hospitable, but it is no longer Porto, it no longer has luxuries for its native people, it is now the resting place of the foreign world and does not safeguard the environment, which becomes cold and harsh, and, before the sun descends upon me as it sets on the horizon, I set off, in case I have to drink again, without gas pepper, without a taser, in an overdose of fear that is being at home but there is an unknown part inside that pulls the rug out from under us, that violates our soul and leaves us fragile, with no desire whatsoever to go up and down avenues, to admire their stories, compromised by the look that I recognized from many years ago, on the Lisbon metro, loneliness was unfamiliar to me but the cold shark look is a sign of the absence of affection, in the multiplication of dialects, every care is needed. We are just and only people, trying to survive in a land full of nuances, of pranksters and varnishes, living with danger, contempt and I, who can already glimpse the Popular Saints, my training uniform is bloodshot, because I will still manage to rent a place in Portugal, but it will certainly not be in this city. And they just called me. Proposal from Braga. They don't call money laundering when they sell property and, without wanting to offend, but already doing so, they don't want to commit themselves and, preferably, not register it with the tax authorities, that it's all about deals and bribes. Rita used to say to me, nicely, that it's all ignorance and politicking by those who can do anything and everything. My great-grandfather is from Braga. It could be that he's the one who finds me a place to live in the city where he became a commander. Which may or may not be the case, but that's not Porto, it has white nights and Saint John's Day. The only thing is that it doesn't have a beach or children. At fifty-six years old, I have to be practical, it's all a question of mathematics. Go eat at the tavern in Amarante and see if I'm wrong. A nice steak sandwich served in Largo, with the whole of Porto as far as the eye can see on the horizon. The only thing left for me is Ribeira. I'll sort that out now with the Jafumegas. Then, I'll go for a hike.