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Time to go do what we know best. This warm summer evening is surely bringing all the crazos out, people say as we walk by. It’s not even ten o’clock and I’m feeling electric, someone please get me another drink because this only stops when something comes crashing down. There I go, leading the herd, why do people insist on having Tiresias drive; flip-flops quacking away, denim shorts sliding down my waist, Ash Is a Robot T-shirt loosely hanging, its collar mysteriously moist and chewed. It doesn’t really matter where we go, as long as we can stand around and chat for hours on end, an activity I’ve converted some of my expat friends into pretending they like.
La Boheme is a small, secret room that operates as a bar. Quirky pictures on the wall, arcane statues brimming with energy, books piled on a coffee table in the corner. It’s owned by an incredibly nice vampire who once barred Johnny Depp, legend has it. The city’s artists and nonconformists usually meet there. It’s a winter bar, so we’re not going. ‘Nuff said. Which means we’re also vetoing Bardo. Its prime location, although elusive for quite a while to some of my friends, is the perfect bridge between where we’ll start the night and where we’ll most likely end it. This big, medieval tavern serves hearty meals with meaty fillings, dishes out pints of mead and beer as if Odin himself was waiting at the counter; loud, sloppy chants soaring above lutes and flutes are weirdly missing – the soundtrack of The Witcher 3, however, can be heard around the clock.
No, tonight is a Machadas night. The warm breeze carries a static charge that urges us to delve deep in the heart of the town. In Largo da Ribeira, the colossal tree extends its branches above us. Two fat ladies gaze at each other through the arch, their bronze encased stare weighing lightly on the evening. The songs of each bar are muffled by the cackles of the extroverts, won’t you look at them all spiffy, in white and beige, sundresses and floral shirts, bright glimmering tans and sunglasses left forgotten on their carefree heads. Underneath the cover of the old sycamore’s arms, everyone looks younger still and tomorrow is just the sigh of relief of a few has-beens; for us, tonight will be forever.
We find a comfortable spot to stand in amid the masses. We take turns rallying the will to face the queues at Machadas, if we’re looking for cocktails; for beer, any place will do. Throughout the next few hours, as friends arrive and gather together in small bands, we’ll see all the possible permutations as the groups mix and match with drink arrivals and bathroom leavers. Passing us by, we’ll see or greet acquaintances, students, clients, colleagues, old friends, lost friends, kindred spirits, drunkards, space cadets, freaks, tired flames, and new flings; everyone jams together to the beat of their own tune and somehow the harmonies seem to fall in the right place, order into chaos this time. As the night charges forward, the square lazily hollows. Those of us who stayed know that tomorrow will eventually arrive, no matter what happens now.
At two a.m. most bars start serving last drinks, if they haven’t closed already. Apart from the clubs, of which Absurdo is the only worthwhile – if you’re into 80’s nostalgia – there’s only one place I’d like to go. We’ve been gathering the troops for the last fifteen minutes; people are wobbling slowly towards Desassossego from all parts of town, trickling down the avenue like the last drops of a fancy liqueur into a cup. Everyone sounds a bit louder, the frame-rate seems to have dropped quite a bit. Hazy, dragged blends of black and gold interweave with faces and smoke. Inside, some outdated distortion guitar thunders as the remaining decadents flock around the counter for various shots: Blackjacks for the Setúbal veterans, equal parts whisky and kahlúa, and Piratas for a sweeter taste, with rum instead. Some even go for tequila, ay ay ay dios mio! We form a circle outside and chat until half of our words or thoughts become unintelligible or strange.
As four a.m. nears, and the metal shutters of Desassossego come creaking down, a few of us have left already. Some of us will go on to Travessa do Rock, the only place for our type of subculture that stays open until seven. But we’re old now; soon enough we’ll be those has-beens and the certainty of rest will be worth much more than any FOMO can steal. Whatever happens to the world tomorrow, she and I will be kept in each other’s arms, and one day that’ll be all we really need.
Order a nightcap, fast goodbyes, kisses, hugs, a shout across the street as someone forgot to point out an irrelevant fact about a past conversation. She and I confront the dawn with the last drops in our tanks. We say a few I love yous along the way, reminisce about today and talk about what must be done tomorrow; later, of course, we’ll sleep through the morning. I try to resist the urge to pee against a tree in Bonfim, or to pet a duck. She laughs at my shenanigans, I don’t know how she’s still got it in her after five years. She inputs the code to the door, I try to open it with the key, neither of us enters for a few seconds in disorientation. Upstairs, I persuade myself to not have another drink while she makes something for us to soak up the booze. We sit and chat away as if we had just met today.
It’s closer to six when the lights go off and I can hear the sound of Friends playing on her phone. It feels like high tide, so the bed lurches like a caravel crossing the Cape of Good Hope; waves come crashing against the hull, the dense fog dancing with the mantle of rain. Adamastor glances down on me, judging whether I carry inside me a hero’s worth. The only thing festering inside could come out at any moment, so I best not confront the giant. I hold on to her before I need to turn, then hold on to the sheets on the other side and pray that tomorrow will still be there when I wake up.
In this head fog, my mind starts ambling away. The dream-like state again. It’s too hard to keep myself awake, but I seem to refuse to switch off. I start thinking back on today. What a great day it was. I can’t allow myself to fall asleep, because I don’t want today to end. All the beautiful places and people we didn’t see come to pay me respects on what feels like my deathbed; characters, artists, neighborhoods, legends, parks, buildings, landscapes, they all come to ask where I was today. I don’t want to wake up to find out there’s something there, something other than the summer, the weekend, Setúbal, her.
What a great day it was.
I realize they’ve all been great days. Is it Setúbal? Is it her? Is it me? Gotta turn to the other side, feeling a bit nauseous. What a great day…
I remember thinking that, maybe, I wouldn’t mind dying here. The fumes ebb and flow, from my mouth to my nose. Maybe I’m already dead. I can hardly remember what I did today… Where did I go, Palmela? Or was it the beach? Where did I eat? Maybe this is nirvana and I’m living in paradise. Should’ve got one more drink before bed. When did I die? It doesn’t matter. All I didn’t do doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ll wake up here, tomorrow, beside her, and I get to do it all again and again... and again… and again...
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