We were winding around the margins of a small village in the margins of Portugal,
looking for a late Sunday night dinner. Earlier there had been sun-drenched
empty alleys…now a traditional room, wooden sideboards with wine glass
on crocheted lace. White tablecloths layered with sheaths of white paper.
Dried thistle, old gourds as décor. Bright white glow coming from a
Magnum ice cream freezer.
A girl in a princess dress looks back at her parents as she races for ice cream.
In this forgotten corner of rural Portugal, the three other diners
clutch phones to their ears, shouting Kamala! Then Biden, then back to
Harris… the balding 30-something with his scruffy beard, the chubby bespectacled companion, the woman with flowing dark hair, all consumed by the political stage.
Their pork cheeks arrive, they fill glasses with more local wine
from their carafe; order another, gesticulate, talk to each other,
talk to their phones, in mixed languages –the word of the day,
Crazy, crazy!