The counter was a long run of polished white marble, lined with glass trays of golden pastries dusted with cinnamon.

I held three coins in my palm, feeling the weight of the silver and brass.

A woman in a crisp white apron came up to the counter, smiling as she dried her hands on a linen towel.

“Bom dia,” she said, resting her fingertips on the edge of the glass case.

“Bom dia,” I said, pointing at the tray on the left.

“Um pastel de nata e um café, por favor.”