Behind Closed Doors

  We were walking down the sidewalk in Odiaxere this morning.  A man was unloading a dump truck load of dirt one wheelbarrow at a time.  He was taking it into a little cafe.  Some kind of revenge against the owner?  Some sort of sick mind who didn't like the food?  Nope.  Just an example of what I call "Closed Door Syndrome."  Sure enough.  Straight back from the door of the closed-for-renovation cafe was another door that was open to reveal a sort of alley and behind that was another door opened to reveal a garden and, believe it or else, at the end of the garden was another door open to receive the new dirt.  In all, about 80 feet of door-to-door-to-door entries into a world beyond the cafe.
   We've seen this before.  Once, we had just arrived from the States and had no hotel.  Our friend, Jose Reis, said, "You are welcome to stay with my parents.  They have a separate bedroom and bath for my sister and other relatives who come from Lisbon to visit."  Having assured us that we would not trouble his parents, we followed him up the same sidewalk we were on this morning.  We got to a metal garage door with a regular-sized door inset.  He opened the door and led us--not into a garage--into a lovely garden with citrus trees, marble-paved patio, and his father sitting under the shade of a grape arbor.  Our bedroom there was detached from his parents' home and had an even smaller garden area behind it, complete with chairs and a table.
  It seems to me that Americans are much more public people than the Portuguese.  We decorate our lawns with flowers and flags and lawn ornaments.  The Portuguese put a wall around most of their houses, especially the older ones, and create a space for themselves.
   I'm not sure why someone wanted the dump truck load of dirt this morning.  I couldn't see what the man was ultimately doing with it.  I hope he was adding dirt to a garden back there.  One people going down the sidewalk will never suspect exists.