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Published: October 27th 2006
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One morning we head down to Aveiro, a small town about an hour’s drive on the motorway from Porto. Gabriela’s covering for a co-worker who’s called in sick at one of the company’s stores, and it’s quickly shaping up to be a morning best spent in bed. We’re stuck in traffic for the better part of an hour, with Gabriela taking pains to remind me that, on a normal day, she’s sitting at her desk about 10 minutes after leaving home. It’s hard to ignore the day’s illogic. With just one full-time employee on staff to man the Aveiro store, it’s Gabriela - an executive of considerable weight - who’s usually called in as a contingency plan. Admittedly, it doesn’t strike me as the soundest business strategy. For my part, I’m happy to explore the city for a few hours, and I’ve arranged to hook up with another
CouchSurfer for the afternoon. The day even begins auspiciously, with rays of light fighting to poke their way through the clouds. But by the time we pull off the motorway it’s begun to drizzle, and a familiar, slate-colored sky has stretched out above us, promising another soggy day.
We’re 20 minutes
late showing up to the store. The cleaning woman is waiting with her umbrella out front, a look of long-suffering patience on her face. I don’t need to put forth the hypothesis that, given the chance, she would hock something nasty into a glass of water and offer me a drink. That was probably a safe bet 15 minutes ago.
Gabriela’s flustered as she gives the place a once-over. These trips to Aveiro are hardly worth the energy that goes into them. On top of her usual duties - coordinating work in the Spanish and Portuguese factories with inventory in the New York and London stores - she has to flash a smile at every customer who walks through the door, chatting warmly with anyone willing to plunk down €4,000 on a hardwood cabinet. I try not to get too caught up in how many months of travel I could bankroll with just a single dinette set. And it seems worth noting that the first man who crosses the threshold in the morning is just looking for some spare change.
By the time Zelia arrives, Gabriela’s ready for a break. They chatter in quick, breathless Portuguese,
Zelia stopping now and then to offer me apologies in English. Her dark eyebrows leap and make animated little gestures while they talk. She has a few hours to show me around town, and Gabriela pouts as we go, bracing herself for a long day of furniture peddling.
Zelia has the familiar, dewy glow of someone enjoying the life of a perpetual student. She’s spent the past 13 years in Aveiro - most of them at the university. She’s finishing up her PhD in tourism, putting together a dissertation on Portuguese investment in India. With an admirably savvy touch, she’s decided to pass on the chance to investigate growth in Calcutta or Delhi, focusing instead on developers in the state of Goa. Her field research has twice taken her to its palm-fringed beaches, and at this point, it can safely be said that this girl is one smart cookie.
She’s had some time to travel around India - often staying with CouchSurfers along the way - and she talks about the country with a sort of rapturous wonder. She’s watched elaborate Hindu ceremonies in remote, rural villages and had her hands painted with henna by the
natives. She’s been dressed in colorful saris by local girls and had old women show her how to make nan. In a lot of ways, her stories remind me of just what we hope to accomplish when we leave home in the first place. And suddenly, those late-night bowls of ice cream in front of the TV at Gabriela’s are being cast in sharp relief.
She makes a gracious host, buying me sweets at a small, out-of-the-way pastry shop and sniffing out a lunch deal at one of the better restaurants in town. Strolling along the canals she tells me a bit about local history, showing off an encyclopedic knowledge of folk and fishing lore. She talks about the colorful
maliçeiros that bob in the green, glassy water of the main canal. Years ago they were used to rake seaweed from the water; now they’ve been given a fresh coat of paint, mostly for the sake of the tourists. Across the prows are splashed crude cartoons depicting equally crude humor, relying on the sorts of sexual hijinx and double entendres you might expect from a bunch of Portuguese fishermen. Zelia does an admirable job of translating, her voice
breaking with nervous laughter when a joke strains the limits of polite conversation.
The clouds have rolled back by the afternoon, and we enjoy a few hours of warmth while the sun reflects off the canals and the colored
azulejos. Gabriela’s hardly been so lucky: she’s spent the day trying to keep up with an endless string of e-mails from London. When we find her bogged down beneath a pile of paperwork, I get the feeling that a fancy lunch and a lazy day by the water are the last things she wants to hear about. I do my best to sweeten the mood, presenting the box of
ovos moles that Zelia picked up at the pastry shop. Her face brightens: further proof that there’s nothing little balls of cream and sugar can’t cure. We devour a half-dozen of the suckers on our way back to Porto, and it’s reassuring to know that there’s a nice €5 bottle of wine waiting for us on the counter when we get home.
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