Linen lines the lanes of Porto's old town. Up high, fresh laundry quivers in the breeze like bunting, pegged precariously to twine stretched taut between windows. And at street level, linen scarves, cotton aprons and tea towels adorn the entrances to souvenir shops, many of which are run by Bangladeshi immigrants whose home country shares Portugal's rich tradition of textile manufacturing.

As I thumb the tea towels, I'm struck by stark sentimentality. I think of the drawer of tea towels at home, a motley mix of mementos from my own vacations and those I've inadvertently inherited. From William Morris-patterned linens to a faded rendering of a map marking Hadrian's Wall, to a cloth bearing the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and another claiming life begins at 40.

Each time I take a fresh tea towel to dry dishes, I think about past conversations at various kitchen sinks with those who have held and folded these very cloths. Now, as my child helps to dry while I wash up, we're wrapped in the comfort of these washed-out rags and this domestic ritual. Before leaving the Portuguese souvenir shop, I pick out a new tea towel to pass back and forth while discussing the day — and, one day, to pass on.