I'm not telling you the name because I don't think it has a name. At least I couldn't see one. BAR is all it says on the outside in vertical letters.
It's on Rua Rui de Pina.
We're walking the old town on a real cold afternoon looking for a bar I found on IMaps. Never did find it but as we give up, BAR comes into notice.
I peek through the door window and say "Let's go in."
I knew this was going to be fun.
We walk in, me first. I scan the place. Man standing on a chair painting the ceiling white. Small fireplace on the right, two men are sitting by it. That's it. Brightly lit so you can see all of the well earned dirt and grime.
The oldest of them, the one sitting the closest to the fire, what looks like to be the chair of honor, stands up and looks me in the eye.
Glances to the door where Annie is standing.
Eyes flick back to me, then to Annie, then back to me.
I'm thinking....is this a men only bar? because he's so silent.
"Aberto?" I say.
He says yes, I ask for a cerveja, Annie a vinho tinto.
He walks behind the bar that comes up to this chest and pour two beer glasses right to the very tippy top with wine.
That's alright, I really didn't want a beer anyway.
That's it, we're on!
We start to try to communicate, try Spanish, French, Italian. Nothing, but you know of course that doesn't stop humans from eventually being able to convey thoughts and meanings.
I know I'm painting with a super big brush here and no harm meant at all but it seems like it doesn't matter to the Portuguese if it's obvious you don't understand their language. They just keep talking as if you understand every single word they say. Even when you say, "I have no idea what you're saying." They keep talking. Love it actually, shows a passion for living I think.
The barkeep is no exception. One of his first questions is how old we are. He say's he's 83 and reaches into his shirt pocket and wrestles with some large object trying to get it out. He does.
It's a big stack of cards and papers held together with a rubber band. I mean it was large.
Top of the pile was an official ID. There was a picture of him maybe forty years ago on it. His name.
José.
I say "José! like I've been pronouncing since high school Spanish. He corrects me in Portuguese and I tried to follow. Back and forth we went for quite some time. He correcting me over and over.
Satisfied he stops.....for a few minutes. He picks up the back and forth some more. This goes on a couple more times.
He has children, we tell of ours.
He becomes silent as he reorganizes his stack of cards and papers. He gets a flashlight and shines it at his ID and studies it real close. Pulls out a piece of paper and writes something down then announces he's 84, not 83.
By then we're done with the wine and spy some GinJa on the top shelf. I asked him for a couple glasses of it. He turns and looks at the bottle and turns back and says No.
Corrects the pronunciation of it. I guess we've been totally not pronouncing it correctly for years.
There's another bottle of GinJa on a lower shelf.
He says Yes.
Drink that and there's two more bottles of unknown liquor next to the Gin Ja.
We get a couple shots of each. Still don't know what they were. The drier one that I was drinking was funkier than all get out. Funky. I'm sure it could be used to power an engine in an emergency.
José and his bottles. And the piece of paper he was doing his age figuring.
Oh...the smell. The paint the man on the chair is using is an oil based enamel. The fireplace was no gem at drafting so there was quite a bit of wood smoke in there too. Heady I tell you. Oil enamel and smoke.
Anyway, we've been tortuously communicating with José with finger points, hand gestures, mimicking, acting when the guy with paint brush he says he speaks Spanish. Man did that make me laugh.
A woman walks in, she's 51, by the way, and walks right up to us and starts talking like she's been there the whole time. That was beautiful. Annie and her are talking at a good clip now so I sit down by the fire.
They exchange facebook info.
A much older lady comes in and she starts talking too like we've known each other forever. She sits down close to me by the fire. I get up and offer her the chair of honor. She refuses.
I point to the very large safety pin holding her sweater together and smile. She laughs and points out the holes in her elbows. Lives across the street.
You know, it's at a point, an hour or so in the bar that it feels like I just gained a new family. Everyone laughing and talking, touching and holding you to make a point.
My older lady friend picks up two magazines and goes page by page telling about each page...I don't understand a word but she keeps it up like I do. Page by page, two magazines. She even cross reference things for me.
At one point I start to sing the David Crosby song, "If you smile at me, I will understand. Because that is the one thing everybody does in the same language."
BAR. Damn, it made me feel connected to the core of humanity in there. It doesn't matter if we don't have common spoken languages between. That's of zero consequence. A smile, a nod, a touch and you will understand.
Leave eventually to go get something to eat and I give thanks to Srab, The Goddess of Bars.
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