Little-people watching in Porto

Yesterday was such a fun day for Little-People Watching.
The day started with my conversation with a daddy at the next table who was ringing a bite-on-a-fork against the youngest child's glass, commanding, "eat." I observed we had three girls and four boys, and we'd been through one like that, and that his children were beautiful.
If my offspring read this, I know they are wondering which one of them was "like that."
He introduced them as Matílde, six, María, nine, and Miguél, twelve. Miguél was burying his face in dad's shoulder, María was on her cellphone ignoring everyone, and Matílde was flashing her eyes and giving Maria fits. We all went back to our breakfasts. As they were leaving, Matílde scampered back to our table to say good-bye. Such sweetness blooms in open delight.
Mid-afternoon Kathryn and I stepped out of a fabric store and an old soul in a young body being hand-towed down the sidewalk fixed me with a gimlet stare as she passed. I winked at her. Without breaking her stare she imperiously waved her hand - all the way from her shoulder - in a gesture clearly demanding, "Who the hell do you think you are, old man?" without breaking a stride that would make an old-school Prussian Drill Sergeant proud.
Headed for the bus stop at the end of today's fabric store recon patrol, a young family passed, baby brother in a stroller, big sister stomping across the open-grate three-meters-across ventilation grill for the train station ten meters below. Dad let go her hand while she continued her stomp. I grinned and shared with him, through sign language, that she had a brave heart. He grinned back, somewhat strained. As they rounded the corner across the street, she was skipping, her entire body swaying like a pendulum from daddy's hand. Kathryn and I marveled and chuckled.
Life is so rich and full and full of innocence.

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