O Meu Diário de Coimbra

Tuesday, March 11th

This morning, it rained — a gentle, polite rain — on one side of the Montego River, the side across from downtown, the side I was on. On the path, two guys on bicycles rode by, one in a yellow jacket, one in a blue and black one, both smiling, clearly happy to be riding together. They seemed like accomplished riders, the movement of their pedals, the syncronicity of their bikes chorographed. The one in blue and black had one hand on his handlebar, one hand on the back of the man in yellow, not, it seemed to me, to steady his friend who was going over or about to go over a rough patch on the path, but just for the connection, the friendshop. A man, a jogger, with a barking dog on a leash, both drenched, ran by and both acknowledged me, the dog less so. Across the river, I could see the city — the university on the hill, the scaffolding around the main building, the train station that’s about to be torn down, the oldesness of it all — where it wasn’t raining. I was headed back that direction but in no real rush to get there.

Last night, at Restaurante Escapes De Montarroio (Restaurant of Climbing Steps) aka Combo Coimbra last night, I was talking to Baraat at the bar about what he wanted to make me.

It’s easier this way.

“Butter chicken tonight,” he said.

“Good.”

“Sit, sit.”

“Hey, that’s Barry Friedman,” two people said.

I must be hearing things.

“Barry, Barry.”

The hell?