Tag Archives: abroad

What’s the deal with the box?

At first it was just a box.

Nine weeks down the line it has become a monument to a generational chasm; a symbol which could either be one of defiance, or simply indolence.

I saw the moment ‘the box’ arrived, delivered by M, the ever-smiling Brazilian friend and ‘fixer’ of Dona C, the man she uses to resolve the more technical problems around her farm. Directed by Dona C, M placed the cardboard box outside A and L’s window on their side of the large, colonial veranda we share. M opened the box, and rummaged inside the cover for a moment before he extracted a sheath of paper which he laid on top of ‘the box’ – assembly instructions.

I could see from the images on its cover that it was an exterior plastic storage cabinet, an extremely useful addition to a veranda which, over the summer months, had become increasingly congested with various items which ranged from inflatable airbeds to sacks of BBQ briquettes, and discarded cardboard boxes to an army of empty, reusable, environmentally-friendly supermarket bags.

That’s A & L’s side, not ours. On ours is a table, chairs and some nightlights. A border of pot plants, ferns, and low dragon palms separate the two. But we don’t stick to it, it’s a casual affair. The utility room we share is on our side of the terrace, the switch which bathes us all with light when darkness descends is on their side.

One summer afternoon, whilst quaffing beer, we’d all had a discussion about the lack of storage in the farm’s outbuildings which now served as both our houses. Ours had been the wine press before it was turned into a home. Although full of character, they weren’t designed for practical living. The arrival of the box looked like A & L had arranged to do something about their outside living space.

Except for the look of… the look of what exactly? Now I come to think back, the look on A & L’s faces when they returned home from work that night suggested they weren’t responsible for arranging ‘the box’ at all. It was the look you get from a cat when you replace its favourite bowl.

A ‘what’s this and why is it here?’ look.

A & L leave the house early and return quite late. The only time they have to deal with domestics is over the weekend. The first weekend ‘the box’ arrived they had friends staying. September is sultry hot here, life is still lived mostly outside. They sat on their side of the terrace with their friends all weekend, we sat on our ‘summer’ terrace at the rear of the house – it’s a tad wilder there, looking into the pines and the sheep’s field. It’s also facing west, so the sun kisses it for longer.

By the end of the weekend, ‘the box’ was still in its virgin condition.

We travelled for the rest of September, but when we returned home ‘the box’ still hadn’t been touched. Three weeks had passed.

‘The box’ stopped being a box and started to become something else. If anything, debris on the terrace had grown, but ‘the box’ remained untouched.

Over the following two weekends, A & L again sat on their increasingly smaller terrace with more friends, ‘the box’ remaining ignored, even though one of their chairs had to backed right up against it as space was now at a premium.

Why? Why hadn’t they assembled ‘the box’? It would make their lives easier, the terrace less cluttered to manage, to keep clean. The night that box had arrived I’d have been cross-legged on the ground, in my element, scratching my head trying to decipher simple construction instructions, and childishly ecstatic at having an opportunity to use the brace of tools I own which rarely get used.

But no, ‘the box’ stayed, well, in its box.

Our travel plans meant we hardly saw each other over the following weeks, the chance to converse limited to the occasional, “hi, how are things?” as we passed each other on our ways to do tasks which meant we couldn’t pause for a decent natter. Summer has now drifted away to be replaced by a cooler autumn. Our paths rarely cross despite our geographical proximity to each other.

Which has been hellishly frustrating as there’s a question that’s burning away which we haven’t been able to ask.

Three weeks became four, five, six, seven, eight… and now here were are. Nine weeks and the box within a box hasn’t been touched. It has, ironically, become the biggest item of clutter on the veranda; the king of the chaos.

Why? The question eats away at us.

I wanted, want, to scale the leafy border and carry out a raid on their terrace under cover of the night, dragging all the meaningless pieces out of the cardboard container to turn them into something meaningful. But when daybreak broke would this be viewed as the actions of a friendly fairy or an interfering ogre?

The untouched box is a conundrum. It has become far more than just a box; its bulk greater than physical. It is a statement of something, but what exactly?

There can be only two explanations.

The first is A and L never actually asked for ‘the box’ and view its presence as a negative judgement on them. Its virginal state is a stubborn statement of defiance. Don’t interfere.

The other is they are simply too lazy to take the time to assemble it. Their weekends are a time for relaxation and pleasure and nothing else. They are a lovely couple, in other ways considerate and friendly. But previous actions/inaction have revealed they can be domestically inept. Possibly they’re simply waiting for the day that M returns and puts it together for them.

Meanwhile the debris grows, sometimes blowing through the terrace like tumbleweed across a prairie. And I wait for the moment when we actually get to have a decent-length conversation with them so I can casually ask: “what’s the deal with that box?”

That’ll probably be sometime next spring.

Just leave the dog alone

“My mother would have phoned the police by now.”

“What?”

“She would have phoned the police or, at least, have rescued that dog.”

“Why?” I looked at the forlorn face of the mutt peering past us and into the restaurant. It had a hang-dog expression for sure as, and this was an assumption on my part based on years of amateur dog psychiatry, it was missing its owner who was clearly scoffing food somewhere in the depths of the same restaurant. But it was absolutely fine, its leash wrapped around a fire hydrant on the opposite side of the narrow, cobbled street.

“Because it’s in distress.” replied my concerned friend.

I looked at the dog again. “No it isn’t, it’s just feeling sorry for itself… as dogs are prone to do when they’re excluded from the social scene.”

“I think it’s been abandoned.”

“What? It has not. It’s just been tied up outside whilst its owner has dinner. I’ve seen similar plenty of times.”

“Well I have never seen a dog left outside a restaurant. In London the RSPCA would have rescued it by now.”

“Well, I have seen plenty of dogs waiting for owners outside bars, shops and restaurants, and if anyone took that dog now it would be a really shitty thing to do.”

At this juncture I have to point out my friend is from London whereas I grew up on a Scottish island where if a dog was left outside a bar nobody would think twice about it. I have seen it in many other small places… which were not London. This time was in an area of Lisbon where there’s still a strong feeling of community. I had no doubt the dog was ‘waiting’ rather than having been abandoned. But London is apparently the centre of the universe and whatever happens in England’s capital city is what dictates… even if you happen to be in a different country.

“Why did that guy duck out of the way?” Inquired an American man of his family on the table next to us. There was a World Cup penalty shoot out taking place on the TV on the other side of our table and the Americans had been giving a running, and quite surreall uninformed commentary throughout the football match. The ‘ducking’ man was a goalkeeper who had just dived the wrong way. Combined with my friend’s insistent and misplaced concern for the dog, I was not having the most enjoyable of dining experiences. Maybe this was also partly to do with the fado musicians, the singer’s soulful voice filling the place with an infectious melancholic saudade. I felt as depressed as the dog looked.

“I’m really worried about that dog.” She wasn’t going to let it lie even though at this point a pair of pugs entered the scene and the dog brightened considerably. His tail perked up and he forgot his owner as he bopped about trying to attract the pugs’ attention. “I think I’ll call the police.”

By this point I was exasperated. I didn’t want to, and it was embarrassing, but there was only one way to knock this nonsense on its head. I stood up and walked over to the barman.

“My friend…” I was making it crystal clear who was responsible for my question. “… is worried that dog has been abandoned.”

The barman looked at me like I was an idiot tourist sticking my nose in… which of course I was.

“It’s a local dog, everyone knows it around here,” he nodded toward a room where the fado musicians were. “The owner is in there. In Portuguese law the dog isn’t allowed in the restaurant. But the dog is fine.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I responded like a particularly sheepish sheep, my travel cred in shreds thanks to my friend. “But my friend’s from London.” I added, as though that explained it.

I fed back the barman’s response which, finally put paid to most of the worries about the dog’s welfare (she still didn’t approve of it being left on its own).

The irony of this little exchange is this is someone who is vehemently and vociferously opposed to the idea of Brits attempting to impose their culture on different nationalities. Apparently there’s an exception when it comes to how other nationalities treat their dogs.

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