I went up to the bar to pay the bill. After the whole-day trip to Wachau (with the unavoidable involvement of multiple glasses of wine and an avoidable episode of hiking in the 35-degree hotness with high wedge sandals) and the unfortunate defeat of Croatia by Portugal, midnight was a good time for me to call it a day. Not that unfortunate, you might say. I did not bet any money on Croatia pocketing the capitalized glory of being the European Champion. But I bet my unbiased confidence in them. This very unbiasedness or, impartiality if you will, convinced me of the erroneousness of the result: Croatia deserves to go forward. It was a Portuguese bar; it was one of those places where you end up while falsely hoping otherwise (why in the world did I not think of the probability that a Portuguese friend would watch the game at a Portuguese bar). The satisfied crowd has left to continue the celebration elsewhere. Two of my friends were waiting for me. And I asked to pay.
As I respectfully returned some coins for a respectful tip, the Portuguese bar owner in his early thirties asked me where I am from. China, I said. Then he went on to tell me that he's planning on doing some kind of a business in China. I spent half an hour asking all kinds of questions, trying to probe what the business is without success. His answer never went beyond "yes and no". Sorry, I'm not supposed to tell anyone about it yet, he apologized genuinely. Do you have a business card? Maybe I can consult you about China-related issues in the future. No, I don't have any business card with me, but I can leave my contact details. That would be great. Do your friends want another drink? It's on me. We ended up staying there four more hours as when we downed our free weiße Spritzers, a storm started out on the street. In the pouring rain, a very thin lady appeared from the other end of the dark empty street, walked steadily and entered the bar. I could not tell her age. She asked softly for a cigarette, and the owner handed her one almost before she opened her month. He told me that she's a drug addict and does strange things. Then in the quietness of the night, we, the four of us, took turns to play old-time songs on YouTube. It's amazing how music (just like football) can connect people no matter where they come from. AC/DC, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Verve, Stone Temple Pilots, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Travis... Why does it always rain on me. Someone played this song. The rain on the street didn't seem to take notice of our latent urgency to go home. We listened without talking for a short moment, as if replaying a passage of memory with the exact background music that blends a slice of reality into what's forever gone. He showed me the typical concerts when students graduate from universities in Portugal. In one of the videos, a melancholy song was performed by a big group of graduating students in front of a grandiose church during the night. He explained to me, the lyrics basically mean: the secrets of this city, I will carry with me all my life. The secrets of this city. The secrets of this city. One day later when I was reflecting on this sentence, I thought of another one: the secrets of my life, I will leave behind in this city. In a moment like this, I was no more than the city, and the city was no more than me. We finally left after three more drinks on the house, and the rain died into some gentle drizzle. The guy was as happy as a bar owner could be. We were as happy as bar patrons could be. As we were leaving, he said, remember to take your business cards next time. I slept very well that night.
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