Maria's Story – or How an Iron Became Public Enemy Number One
At 11 a.m., Maria already had her forehead pressed against the terrace thermometer: 39 degrees, with a heat index that felt more like a wood-fired oven. The apartment in Alfama — a third floor with no elevator, of course — was ready for the next guests… except for the pile of bed linen that stubbornly insisted on looking like an accordion. Sheets, pillowcases, towels, all freshly washed, all wrinkled. The guests were arriving at 3 p.m. and...