Imagine this: you’re comfortably seated in the plush, air-conditioned belly of a Portuguese high-speed train, slicing through landscapes so jaw-droppingly gorgeous they’d make a renaissance painter chuck his easel in despair and cry with utter joy. Your coffee steams smugly in its cup, your thoughts are your own, and the world is in top form. It is a perfect, peaceful tableau.

Then, like a brick through a stained-glass window, "it" begins.

Not a whisper, not a polite cough, but the surround sound impact of domestic drama. A grandmother, lungs like a foghorn, presence like a dictator mid-rally, has hijacked the carriage with her phone call. Your A2 Portuguese, usually reserved for ordering pastéis and apologising, suddenly snaps into focus. You are now, against your will, a key witness in the urgent national crisis of little João’s gastrointestinal distress. Is it gas? Is it mutiny? Will chamomile tea save the day, or are we calling in the pharmaceutical cavalry? The entire carriage is hostage to this crisis, strapped into a melodramatic broadcast, live on Radio e Televisão pública. There’s no mute button, no reverse gear, just you looking upwards at the big guy with gratitude.


You somehow escape to the bus, seeking asylum in its less glamorous, more diesel-scented confines. Surely here, amidst the hiss of hydraulic doors, you will find silence.

Enter Snr. Renato, who engages in video calls like a monkey deals with a grenade, no concept of its appropriate use...our man calls his wife.

His mission?

To solve the eternal mysteries of dinner and the precise coordinates of the cold beers in his fridge.

This should be a five-second exchange:

“What’s for dinner?”

“Bacalhau.”

“Beers?”

“In the fridge, you lazy bastard”

Not for Snr. Renato, a man who clearly enjoys the sound of his own thoughts, treats this exchange like a parliamentary filibuster. You now know more about his refrigerator’s zoning laws than you do about your own blood type. His wife’s responses grow shorter, sharper, each one a tiny guillotine. By minute ten, you’re mentally drafting their divorce papers.

Oh, but you’re a modern soul, chirps the imaginary, insufferably smug critic inside. You’ve got those fancy noise-cancelling headphones. Why not just slap those bad boys on and zone out?

Dear sweet sister of noise pollution, you think my overpriced, tech bro-approved ear armour can stand up to the raw, unfiltered power of a Portuguese grandmother analyzing João’s fibre intake? These headphones, which swear they can hush a Boeing 747, start malfunctioning under the sheer sonic might of a tuga matriarch in full cry. The noise-cancellation algorithm throws a tantrum like a public service worker, flashing an error message:

“How dare you expect us to work under these conditions? We are self-respecting, sophisticated €80 sound conductors, designed to work in a safe environment; we are not ear mules. These hazardous conditions are beyond our scope; you should be charged for crimes against technology...we are walking out"


It all begs a rather bourgeois question: is this a uniquely Portuguese form of acoustic hospitality, or am I just a spoiled jerk craving a soundproof bubble? Is the whole world now an open mic night for everyone’s tedious personal dramas, or have I been cursed with a front-row seat to the unscripted/unfiltered theatre of the mundane?

Perhaps it is not noise pollution. Perhaps it is a gift. Where else can you get such a rich, in-depth, and entirely free study of modern society? For the price of a bus ticket, you receive a masterclass in Portuguese family dynamics, culinary planning, and paediatric gastroenterology.

Next time, I might just ditch the headphones altogether. Grab a notepad. Lean in. Little João’s saga won’t eavesdrop on itself, and neither will Snr. Renato’s beer quest. In this loud, chaotic world, maybe the real privilege is being forced to listen.