The following scenes were all experienced first-hand.

Walking down a side street in Bonfim, one of the oldest frequesias in Porto, an older, unkempt man with white, frazzled hair bites at a packet of cigarette filters and curses in a slow, Portuguese cadence, “foooda-se!”

A seagull balances itself on a plastic bag in an open garbage bin and pokes its saffron beak — striped with a bit of red as if it had hastily applied lipstick before leaving the nest — down as deep as it can go, reaching, hoping, for something tasty (whatever seagulls consider to be tasty). It reaches too far, slips down on one foot, and flies away.

Green moss on a husky limestone bench and balustrade overlooking the languid Douro river, the air is damp and cold despite an intermittent glow from the winter sun, a must of centuries gone past permeates the soul as the limestone and ancient oaks inhale the melancholy of life and exhale the timelessness of nature.

A venerable senhor in the back corner of a café with no heating, despite the damp chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you put on. A jacket thrown over his shoulders and a minuscule coffee cup next to a crumpled newspaper between his wrinkled, spotted hands. He coughs as a door swings open and a sudden gust flutters the newspaper.

A less-than-venerable senhor in a slightly-tattered, yet clean suit chases after a group of roosters in Parque de Pasteleira. Either had a bit too much cheiro in his post-lunch coffee or is a child at heart, possibly both.

Samples of the bird calls sung daily by the elderly:

“Obrigaaaaada!” (trilled with gusto by Dona Maria, matron of the Porto Novo café, whenever a customer would wish her a good day and walk out)

“Boooom diiiaaaaa!” (pronounced “bung deeeaaaah”, heard nearly every morning as I rush out to a café for English tutoring with a good friend and former work colleague, chirped out by the old lady with wild patchy hair, the informal shopkeeper and street sweeper at the bottom of a steep incline on Rua da Póvoa)

“Chau, chau!” (in a quick cadence like the metallic clicks of a railcar switching tracks, tweeted out by ‘o senhor’ as he hands me change after paying for the almoço)