Porto Alegre I
It was Sunday. Although it was still early on that October evening of 2020 and the days were beginning to lengthen, darkness had already fallen over Porto Alegre. My taxi driver looked irretrievably weary of life, but halfway through the ride he demanded to know my nationality. I obliged, adding that this was one leg of a longer journey south and that I had wanted to stop in his city for a Mario Quintana pilgrimage. At this he straightened in his seat.
“I met Mario Quintana!” he announced.
It turned out he had once seen Quintana talking to someone at a street café — which was, of course, entirely plausible. Many of the master’s poems mention just such a scene.
When we reached my destination, the driver offered to take me a little further to show me Quintana’s house. Less than two hundred metres on, he grandly stretched his arm — his window was open — towards an impressive ochre building. Though I was not paying for this diversion, he took his time pointing out exactly which room, on which floor, had been the great man’s abode. I think I grasped the gist of his explanation despite the thickness of a regional accent I was encountering for the first time, further muffled by the obligatory mask. He then took me back to where I was lodging.
Once I had dropped my luggage in my modest accommodation, the next challenge was to find somewhere to eat. It was only half past eight, but Rua dos Andradas, famed for its busy cafés and restaurants, was deserted — as were the neighbouring streets. I found a grocer’s, where the fortuitous discovery of gluten-free biscuits seemed a good omen. The two men at the till took my dinner as a personal challenge and assured me that a place near where one of them lived, just around the corner, stayed open until ten on Sundays. Not this Sunday, as I discovered when I got there.
Eventually I returned to my lodgings, searched online, phoned a restaurant to check it was open, and ordered an Uber. On arrival I was told they were about to close and were no longer taking customers. I protested that they might have mentioned this when I had called only ten minutes earlier. They saw my point and let me in. La Pietra Antica served pizza, and nothing else. I took the glutenous risk. No untoward effects were to supervene.
As I was leaving after dinner, the porter who had earlier tried to bar my entry showed that he had softened towards me and entertained me with conversation. He chided me for not asking for gluten-free pizza, which he was sure the owner would have provided on request. He told me he was from Trindade do Sul, somewhere else in the state of Rio Grande do Sul. He was pleasant, and his accent more accessible than others — though I was still unsure how much of what I heard I was understanding.
On Monday morning, the cobbled Rua dos Andradas was abuzz with trade. The population looked less diverse than that of São Paulo, though the Afro-Brazilian presence was not absent. In this more homogeneous human landscape, I was struck by clusters of street traders — all men — of a gleaming, almost blue complexion that did not seem Brazilian. I strained to catch their conversation, but could only tell that it was not Portuguese. Were these African refugees, I wondered? If so, why here rather than in Bahia, known for its diasporic heritage? Was it the relative prosperity of the south that drew them? I knew there was also an influx of Haitian refugees, but I detected no trace of French. Their goods were displayed on makeshift carpets on the pavement, with sentinels posted to watch for police raids. I learned this when a short, discreet whistle sent the pedlars gathering their merchandise and dispersing without trace — all within seconds. Why such street trade was forbidden here but tolerated on São Paulo’s Avenida Paulista I never found out.
As the street grew busier, a busker doggedly worked his way through an under-tempo rendition of a Haydn string quartet — the viola part.
It was a relief to be charged more reasonable prices for food than in São Paulo, though the choice was more limited. For my dinner outing I experimented with travelling light, leaving my shoulder bag behind. Only when it came time to pay did I realise I had come out with my glasses and my phone, but not my wallet. I found myself in the classic nightmare: newly arrived, dinner eaten, no money. An attempt to pay via the bank’s app failed when it demanded, with perfect timing, that I reconfigure it from scratch. But this was Brazil, land of easy-goingness. There had to be an easy-going solution here too. The man at the counter consulted his manager, who emerged to say it was absolutely fine: I could return with my wallet whenever I liked. I came back without delay, paid, and felt duty-bound to dine there again the following evening.
On my second day I walked along the riverside. Its expansive silence stirred fond memories of my long walk beside the Sava in Belgrade two years earlier. In the afternoon I went to Cidade Baixa in search of a highly recommended café. I found Café Agridoce, but it was serving only takeaway because of the pandemic. I drank my coffee on a public bench in the small park outside. It lived up to its reputation — a place to come back to on my next visit.
The plan had been to continue to Gramado and Canela, both praised to high heaven by various informants. I had long been curious about Brazil’s German towns, and seeing them seemed an appropriate farewell to the country that had sheltered me through most of my exile so far. But on my last night in Porto Alegre I had to accept that I was in no mood for tourism. I am a poor sightseer at the best of times. Leisurely rides are something I have done only to please others. To go sightseeing alone — travelling for hours merely to see a place — felt like a frivolity. I made the necessary changes and, on 7 October, left. The Roman numeral in this entry’s title records my intention to return in freer times.
