Two hours and twenty minutes from São Bento, and for the last hour the train runs along the river so close you could drop a line in. Nobody talks. Everyone looks left.
Terraces go up the hills like contour lines somebody drew with a ruler, and every one of them has a vine on it, and every vine has been there longer than anyone on the train. Little stations with tiles. A man with a dog who waves at the driver.
At Pinhão the station itself is covered in azulejos of the harvest, blue and white and a hundred years old, and the café next to it does a toast with butter that I've thought about more than some relationships.
Bring nothing. Eat before or after. The whole point is that the window is the meal.
