O Meu Diário de Coimbra

They waved to me. I waved to them.

At around 7 p.m. on Easter, workers started taking down the make-shift amusement park in the courtyard. Big trucks, semis, and pickups came and parked in the alley — or tried to. I didn’t get a photo, but the bumpers cars, all neatly parallel parked in the back of the biggest truck looked tired and satisfied after a month’s work. That’s not as metaphorical as it sounds. The cars were painted with large lips and broad smiles, some with big eyes and lashes. Men in hard hats and reflective vests holding large hand-help machines laughed while unbolting, deconstructing the rollercoaster. As I looked out my window and watched three guys pull up the floor of the Big Top, or as a big of a top as the courtyard could handle, my intercom went off.

I picked up and heard a voice, screaming something in Portuguese. I hung up.

Another buzz.

I picked up. Again, an angry Portuguese voice — the same voice.

I went downstairs.

It was a police officer. I let him in. He was telling me to move my car — at least that’s what I think he was telling me. I told him I didn’t have one — at least that’s what I think I told him — and then, after asking if he could, followed me up the stairs, — at least that’s what I think he asked.