I Was Dancing in the Lisboan Bar

“I grow dizzy. The seats on the tram, of fine, strong cane carry me to distant regions divide into industries, workmen, houses, lives, realities, everything. I leave the tram exhausted, like a sleepwalker, having lived a whole life.” – Fernando Pessoa: The Book of Disquiet.

Up before the sun. Up before the birds. I had four or five hours before I had to check out of the apartment, so I figured I’d take a dawn scramble, make my way back and pack.

Crept down the marble staircase and tiptoed through the courtyard to the street. I was wearing purple shorts with a mustard shirt, yellow socks, and purple shoes, pretty tight. It was cool but not cold. It was still dark except for the pink light coming from the butcher shop.

The meat men were filling their shambles. The paper men were organizing their displaying their headlines. The coffee men were setting up their chairs.

Yesterday, I had found the perfect route by chance, so today I experimented, dipped into a residential area and watched the cats sniffing the grates. So many lank babies. No identifiable breeds. They all got along with one another, their tails were still.

Found myself at a dead end and marveled again at how charmed things seemed to have been the day previous. There was no one around and the sun was only an Eastern promise. It was peaceful and as quiet as a Portuguese grave. The only sounds were my feet on the stone and the little good-luck bell the Red Dao woman gave me in Sapa. It’s tied to my camera.

Could I live here? Trickled back to the starting point and retraced yesterday’s steps. Enormous fountain (dry now), large park, Institute Technico. Alameda metro station.

Fooled around and fell in love with a neon sign advertising an optometrist’s. Long walk down Rua da Palma to The Alfama, a very different place than yesterday evening. You could tell it had been the site of great merriment just a few hours prior.

Long, winding streets, curving toward staircases, curling against cathedrals, shadowed by castles. Medievaled my way to the sea past laundry lines and expensive boutiques in equal measure. Apartments, monuments, and shops all in a staggered, layered pile, as if the city pushed them all here long go and broke its pledge to organize it later.

A ziggurat of brightly colored homes, cafes, churches, and sudden broad impossible-seeming avenues with bright yellow trams merrily dinging. I stopped for breakfast at a place with op-art napkin dispensers.

My ham sandwich came on a bun sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar. I had thought it was flour. They like things very sweet or very salty here. The coffee was very nice.

While I ate, I thought about what a surprise it was that I was here at all. I hadn’t prepared or researched it. Listed what I knew about it to myself. An empire of sinewy shipbuilders and cunning navigators, conquered Brazil, famous for sausage. Notable citizens include that soccer player who is great but sucked at the Olympics and Fernando Pessoa whose books and poems I discovered in the last two or three years.

Bused my tray, walked outside, and there was a statue of Pessoa. Amazing. It could have been anywhere in the city, I could have been anywhere or looking somewhere else, but minutes after I remembered he was from here, I saw him. It felt like magic.

The espresso and that feeling buoyed me through plazas and under arches and through shopping arcades. I saw the sea and a vast bridge spanning it. I saw an enormous column with an angel and her pet elephant (!!!). I saw women being exceedingly kind to their dogs. This is a city that loves its pets.
It was creeping up on checkout time, so I headed back. Took a different way and found myself climbing through ancient neighborhoods. Beautiful balconies with potted plants and stone statues.

Everywhere that marvelous tile.

I want to take a chisel to this whole town and keep squares and squares of it. Trivets for everyone! Kept pausing to photograph different patterns and styles. An old man cursed at me, the first negative encounter I’ve had. He saw me angling my phone at some tile and spat out some harsh syllables as he walked by.

I said, “Mmm, tile. So good,” and he stopped and took a defensive position like he wanted to scrap. It was ridiculous. He was where I needed to be, so I had to walk toward him. I felt him tense. I’m sure he had weathered old knot-tying sailor’s knuckles and a pocket knife. I didn’t want any part of him.

He glared, and I said “Buenoth Diath” in my best Daffy Duck voice. He didn’t respond, and it was all over. I went to a gift shop to cool off. The tenderness with which the boy wrapped my magnets was very touching.

Kind of tired, kind of lost, found the metro. Went home to pack. Long shower. I would have liked to have stayed in that place a second night, but he was all booked up, so I had to find a place a few blocks away. Though I haven’t bought anything and I’ve shed some books, my bags felt heavier. It was an uncomfortable walk.

The place wasn’t ready yet, so I got a pork chop and some beans and rice at a place next door. So so good, but they salted the salad. Why?

My new hosts arrived and showed me to my room. They were headed to a soccer match, so I had the place to myself for a while. Took a nice nap. Like a person!

Then I woke up, read some Thomas Hardy (The Distracted Preacher) and went back out. The goal was an artist’s collective called LX Factory.

It was nowhere near the Metro, but if you took the train to its terminus, you could get as close as an hour’s walk. So, that’s what I did. There were some very beautiful children smeared with chalk dust, every color. It was fascinating. In their hair, all over their clothes, all over their skin. The looked like fey folk or rainbow goblins. They had celebrated Holi, I think.

A beggar with a copper cup came ringing down the car and broke the spell. Alma! Alma! Ding! Ding!

The final station had massive White Rabbits from Alice all over it in a running motif. It was wonderful to see. Fascinating how the images from Alice in Wonderland seem to have universal world appeal. It’s not just some daffy English thing for some reason.

Dumps you out across the street from a market sponsored by Time Out magazine. Nothing did I buy, but I popped in to use the Wi-Fi. For some reason, my map function works without it, but I wanted to make sure I knew where I was going.

Then I corkscrewed through a bunch of Lisboan neighborhoods to slowly make my way there.

I saw teenagers kissing slowly and romantically, a way I didn’t know teenagers could kiss. It was nice to watch them. Across the street, a pigeon had gotten into a fruit-seller’s grapes and was happily pecking at them right in their display bucket. It was nice to watch him.

Then I had the nonsensical phrase, “Does the pigeon match the grapes?” in my head for blocks. I was frustrated with myself for being unable to shake it, but I kept thinking it and saying it aloud. A kind of mania. Recycling bins were printed with a talking towel character named Wippy.

I saw many people with plastic swim rings, though they looked dry. Maybe it’s just a fashion accessory here. In a doorway, I saw a tourist practicing with a small ornamental guitar while his girlfriend rolled her eyes and smiled. I saw a couple trying to fit their child’s stroller through a narrow door into an old apartment saturated with that marvelous tile.

And then I was there, at the LF Factory. It was cool, an old warehouse district that’s been converted into a fancy sort of art mall. Pop-up shops and giant murals and coffee and a very cool book shop. They had some Pessoa in English, so I bought a book. Very foolish, since my back isn’t going to recover from hauling the ones I have, but it seemed necessary.

Had a milky coffee at a Dutch Pancake place and grabbed a cab. It was dark now. I’d spent most of the day getting lost in one neighborhood or another, and that was just perfect. What if I’d been here with someone else? Would they have enjoyed it? Allowed it? Would I have?

The driver was upset about the traffic. “The thing you are seeing is stupid Portuguese people driving to the bars to drink. If Portuguese people had their best wish, they would be allowed to drive their car right up to their table and park there while they drink. Then, on the ride home, the police would all be asleep or with women.”

I found all of this very funny. The last bit made me think of the song Big Rock Candy Mountain where they cops are all on crutches and the dogs have soft rubber teeth.

He dropped me off in a sort of nowhere place, and then I was lost for real and for sure. About 90 minutes of guesswork and backtracking before I remembered the phone-map worked. Why did I take so long to remember that?

Exhaustion, I suppose.

Phantomed through some sketchy parks and alleys until I was near the midnight meat market. Got too much sausage and found the train home. It was pitch black. Were my hosts still at the soccer match?

The Wi-Fi was out, so I had to go back outside and make arrangements leaning up against the wall of the restaurant where I’d had the rice and beans before.

I leave for Faro on the Southern Coast tomorrow. Seaside town that they forgot to bomb. Should be very beautiful, and I should shed some books on the train there. This has been a very happy mistake.