Friday, going in to the big city day...

2017, February 3, the 34th day of the year is a market day, tax payday, filling in forms day and family day, just because it's Friday, "to the big city" day.  It is very quiet throughout the week at the foot of the hill, but on Friday the village taxivan drives on off and on early in the morning to bring, especially the older, rural residents to the city.  Traditionally the most beautiful floral-print apron is put on, some money stashed in a pouch hidden under the skirt and an empty bag is filled with more empty bags.  While the Mrs goes to the market and does the monthly purchases, her husband is patiently waiting, sometimes for hours, in the historic, expertly restored, tax office to do the regular bureaucratic paperwork and, dutifully, makes his contribution to finance society.  Much different from the former leader of the British anti-EU party UKIP, Nigel Farage and the nine other scumbags that robbed, while lying and cheating, about 580.000 Euro’s out of the financial jar of the European Parliament, and unlike the, racist nationalist Marine Le Pen, President of the French Front National Party, who, for enhancing a fictional assistant, has to give in at least 8500 euro a month in salary and expenses to return the 298.392 Euro’s she stole, because she refuses to pay back to the European Parliament, the rural residents in the South are honest hard working people that meet their, hard to bear, obligations.  So at two o'clock in the afternoon everything is back as it always is, quiet.  When the day progresses, the taxi rides in the old van of the village “snorder” (illegal taxi) get more and more adventurous, he just can’t refuse the offered liquid refreshments.  It is a miracle that every thing goes so well and without accidents, but maybe that's just a part of the tradition that, without the intervention of an "Uber" contract, is part of village life.  No, the worldly news is only an afterthought during the fight with everyday life and the discussions about it in the village café are quit short. It’s the only place where, for lack of football during certain hours, the news from outside the region reaches the village by the television that hangs on the wall. The message about a successful boycott campaign against Uber, whereby the company had to use a computer program to process the massive number of terminations, because of the CEO’s cooperation with the boar of pig-paradise and its immigration stop, is responded with a few simple questions;  "What is Uber?" and "who in God's name wants to go to America?"
While the coffee, traditionally, get’s diluted with a spicy fire drink, the empty crates of Sagres pile up next to the door of the toilet and the kick-off, of the first football game of the weekend, live from the Benfica stadium takes place under loud applause, the gouvernment paperwork, the bills and the rest of the world disappears with the sunset.  For the duration of a week, the border will be at the edge of the village, everything else can wait until next Friday. ...