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In Which I Slink Into Lisbon's Back Streets
October 12, 2007 by Mike
Lisbon
What exciting things have I managed to fill my days with?
I've bought a new tent. Again, got a great price, but this is also a proper brand -- Quechua -- rather than a supermarket own-brand model, and I'm hoping the extra quality will shine through. (If not, there are so many Quechua tents in every campsite that I'll probably be able to find a spare one along the way!)
I bought a new book. Having dismissed Jose Saramago's travel book Journey To Portugal as overblown and wordy a few days ago I went out and bought one of his novels, All The Names. This guy has won the Nobel Prize for Literature, is practically a living saint in these parts: I wanted to know what the fuss is all about. And.. it's magnificent. Can't recommend it highly enough. Those tedious paragraphs in JTP become extended riffs of conversation, action and expression in ATN, that draw you in to Saramago's dreamy, satirical, ironically nameless world. Or in other words, I'm a fan. So I've gone and bought Blindness, which is supposed to be his masterpiece.
I *didn't* buy any hashish from the several dealers who approached me on Praca do Comercio, the main square of the city. Lovely chaps, I'm sure, but.. no.. no thanks. (I do, however, enjoy the fact that they're hustling in Commerce Place -- equally, that this square isn't named after a King or a military victory or suchlike, as is so often the case. Commerce is King, Money makes the world go around. Etc.
I visited the Castelo do Sao Jorge -- old, brushed up and rebuilt in the 19th century -- very Portugal. It's slapbang in the middle of town and on top of a hill, giving great views over Lisbon, but it's a bit of a hike to get to. A more gentle alternative would be to fly in to Lisbon airport -- the planes come in straight and low over the historic and densely populated city centre. [Note to terrorists: please ignore this paragraph.]
Lots and lots of walking: back streets and main streets, the City Museum and the living city itself, up hills and along the river, morning, noon and night. Ahhh yes, Thursday night. I missed the last bus to the campsite, and it's a looooong way out of town. How far? Let me put it this way, the campsite is next door to Ikea -- *that*'s far.
So -- what to do? All the museums close at six o'clock. Read my Saramago in an outdoor cafe on a busy pedestrian road where street musicians entertain the shoppers? Yes -- but not all night. I walked over to Barrio Alto, the oldest part of town, where nights are a little more lively than elsewhere.
I'm reminded of Freda, a street I found last year in downtown Helsinki which a great bookshop, a panel shirt shop and a traditional London barber's shop had helped to make my favourite road EVER. It's been knocked into second place by the Rua do Norte in Barrio Alto -- a panel shirt shop, a tattoo parlour with a life-size model of Elvis Presley in the middle of the room, and a sprinkling of fado joints.
Fado: the "Portuguese blues", I call it -- the indigenous music of these old Lisbon streets, voice, guitar and 'Portuguese guitar' (looks a bit like a 12-string balalaika), a style of singing that is at once declamatory, melancholy, expressive, yearning, fatalistic, sensual. The singer slices open his or her chest, wrenches their still beating heart out, veins and arteries ripped, blood gushing and spurting, and lays it before the audience on a plate. Draining. Fanbloodytastic. There were three singers taking turns at this self-immolation in the bar I found myself in: two young tyros and an older woman called Maria Portugal. (I know - perfect, isn't it?) The two accompanists, suited and booted, wore the most mournful faces I've ever seen -- perfect. And while the youngsters were good, Maria was divine.
After the music stopped, I spoke briefly to the guitarist and to Luis, one of the young singers. Trying to figure out where the after-hours bar was that the musicians retreat to to get away from the tourists. They weren't giving in that easily, but (I think) enjoyed my enthusiasm for what they were doing. Which was to be true to a seeringly honest music even while they were, of necessity, giving the tourists what they want. There are, still, places in echt Lisbon where fado is played because it *has* to be, not because tourists clap politely. And they weren't about to tell some two-bit ritish tourist where to look. Good - that's as it should be.
Besides, it was past my bedtime. I searched every pocket for spare coins and hailed a cab.
--
It's a legal requirement for all tourists in Lisbon to take this picture:
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By Rachel | October 16, 2007 12:11 PM
And after an hour's read Amazon is now winging more music and books to me. Portugal is evidently pleasing you! Rachel