Portuguese Soup

I wasn't expecting anyone. Yet, someone kept buzzing for me to let them in the building. I ignored it. Two minutes later, a knock came at my door. Louder and louder. I walk over to the clandestine metal door and peered through the peephole.

It was the land lady, staring right back at me with a big smile.

I had only been in Paris for about an hour. I didn't expect to see her. Elisa has been the landlady of our building for 25 years. She has seen me every other year of my life for thirteen years. Between my brothers and I, she is known as the "woman we can't understand." The city has had no impact on her accent, nor has it changed her life. She seems content in her little studio apartment with her husband and five birds, one of which is a grey parrot who makes cat calls to good-looking women.

"Bonjour Elisa. Comment ça va?," I asked her after opening the door.

She barges in, explains to me how to open the door next time she rings, rushes to the kitchen mumbling something in Portugrench about lunch, pulls out a bowl and walks out of the kitchen. Still talking, she grabs my wrist and drags me out the door.

I blink.

I find myself in her apartment making awkward conversation with her husband until she emerges from cloud of smoke and smells of a well-cared for meal with a steamy bowl of yellows, greens, oranges and browns. Knowing very well that I would be alone for a couple days and didn't have much food, Elisa wanted me to have some of her Portuguese beef stew.

It was worth the invasion. I had never had a stew where the peas, carrots, onions, potatoes and beef worked in such flavorful harmony.

I'd say it was a good first day.