“Your Portuguese is good today,” she said in slow, careful English.

“I practice every single morning,” I said.

She gestured toward the open window, where the sun was rising over the red tile roofs down the hill.

“It’s a quiet street in the mornings,” she said.

“Very good for sitting.”

“It really is,” I said.

She smiled, gave the corner of my table a pat with her cloth, and went back inside to answer the bell over the kitchen door.

I finished the last sip of thick coffee and left the empty cup on the wooden table.