Evora is a walled city on a hill; whitewashed and flourished with color. The Portuguese consider it their country’s most comfortable place to live. It is a smaller city, surrounded by fields of grain.
We drive down a narrow alley and into Evora’s main plaza, which sounds great until everybody is giving you that you fucking idiot look. You know that one? People are drinking their coffee under umbrellas, and giving us stares. The man who approaches our car, he wears a dark hat and a dark suit. He says in Portuguese that we have driven into the town square, and that we should really try to get our car out of here as quickly as possible.
It’s cool that this old man is willing to help direct us. Little did he know that Jane told me, two times, that I was going down the wrong street.
