Summer Crush

Largo de São Carlos

I love Lisboa. I really do. I think one of the reasons I like Lisboa so much is because I always feel like a tourist in it. Even when I arrive at Lisboa’s International Airport and the plane touches ground I do not have that “Finally home!” feeling. I feel a bit confused and rather lost at arrivals. It is just when the taxi driver says “Where to, Miss?” that I realize I am actually arriving and not passing by. And yet, as the taxi drives along the known streets my eyes wander off and rather than recognizing the familiar buildings, they are caught by surprise by the little changes the city has underwent during my absence. And, in a way, I am marvelled by all of it and get a little bit more in love with Lisboa.

In Summer Lisboa is not itself really, but rather a harbour of curious blonde heads, loud accents, flickering cameras, rubbery flip-flops, really short shorts and really mini mini-skirts that reveal brave, pinkish, sunburnt arms and legs. There are more Indian gentlemen distributing flyers with special lunch discounts on the tandoori-pizza places, ladies selling lace and embroidered towels in front of luxurious clothing stores, and the outdoor café’s chairs and tables are packed with lazying tourists and half empty beer glasses. Lunches and dinners are served late and the postcard racks spin incessantly in touristy hands.

Lisboa is emptied out of Lisboetas and I could not love it more! Not that I do not like Lisboetas, I like them dearly, it is just that, amongst the tourists, I feel I belong. I give myself the chance to look at the city with prejudice-free eyes, I get lost without feeling guilty for not knowing each and every street or asking for directions. And like any other Summer crush, all is new, intense and lovely… it gives me that lingering smile until the end of September, when Autumn settles in and I sober up, with the arrival of fading yellow tainted tree leaves and the smell of roasted chestnuts. And then the Summer crush gives way to my true love – Lisboa in Autumn.

A true Summer crush has to have a soundtrack, if not a complete soundtrack, at least one song – the one song that whenever you listen to, it brings you back to that time, that place and that love. I would have to say, that for this particular Summer crush, the soundtrack is São Carlos’ Square Free Summer Concerts – Great Opera Overtures. Last Friday a friend invited me to join her and listen to Lisboa’s Metropolitan Orchestra play famous opera overtures. Even though I was tired, after a long working week, the moment I arrived at the square and saw the orchestra seats, my heart beat harder, I felt all this new energy being pumped into me.  The square was wonderfully lit in all these shades of old yellows and the buildings closed in on the square, making it look like a concert hall with a huge skylight, from which we could see a timidly starred night. The place was packed with people of all walks of life and ages. We managed to squeeze in between a couple and a young girl of four, seating on the sidewalk, next to the stage. As the first notes of “The Barber of Seville” were played I smiled spontaneously and was invaded by a warm fuzzy feeling. The commentator was graceful and witty and made the evening richer and memorable.

For the first hour or so, I completely forgot about my personal Pessoan curse, and that the multi-faced (bipolar, if you ask me…) poet was born in the building standing right in front of me. From where I was seating, I could barely see the statue erected in his honour, so I momentarily forgot about it. And yes, there is a curse on me by Pessoa. The more I learn about him and this Lisboa that I love, I realize that we have a lot in common. And it seems, that wherever I go, Pessoa’s ghost follows me, haunting me with his presence: the small graffiti on the wall, the coffee cup with his hat, the promotion of his book on a bookshop, the sugar package with his quote, the taxi playing a song based on one of his poems, and the bustling disquiet on Lisboa…  Pessoa is everywhere. And this would not be so bad, if it did not remind me constantly that you are not here and that I miss you.

As the commentator was making his final remarks on the last piece we were going to listen to, he must have sensed that I felt free from my curse, for quite out of context he says “And of course we cannot finish the evening, without paying homage to our neighbour on the 4^th floor”. “Of course we can! He is dead, he couldn’t care less”, I grunted… My silly complaints were completely ignored, and the commentator not only recited some verses by Pessoa, but he also made us repeat them, after him… twice.

And right there and then, I had a glimpse of the heartbreak that will follow my Summer crush for Lisboa. However, until then, my heart flutters with the flirtatious happy notes of Rossini.

Love Actually…different

Arrivals at Lisbon’s Portela Airport are not, I’m afraid, as romantic as Heathrow’s.  Actually they are not romantic at all. As I was standing there, quite eager to hug my arriving friend, I realized that there was little hugging taking place. Actually, no hugging at all. Some cheek-kissing (very social, not emotional), only one bouquet of flowers and several middle-aged man.

I realized then, that in Lisboa grandfathers play an important role in airports as the travelers’ ride home. For each travel agent there were at least five older looking men, and they all had something in common: infinite patience and a simultaneous discontentment with the airline service (which airline is irrelevant, for they all seemed upset). Some grandfathers brought with them one grandchild, but mostly were alone. I looked at them and noticed that besides the body language – arms crossed in front of the chest, attentive look, internal sighing for patience – the attire was similar among them. They all wore jeans, comfortable shoes, meticulously well ironed shirts (not plain, pastel colours and with checkers or crossed lines) and spectacles, of course.  How can you spot the person who is arriving if you are over fifty and not using spectacles?

And then, as the passenger  would arrive, these grandfathers broke their stern look for a quick smile, some gesturing right or left to indicate the exit. They would greet the traveler, take the trolley of their hands and lead them to the car. Unfortunately, I could not hear what they were talking about, but it seemed that there were some complaints about the airline and the latest update on current events.

It occurred to me that this kind of efficiency could be transformed into a bussiness: “Are you alone? Are you travelling to a foreign place? Grandfathers’ Arrivals provide you with a comfortable and homy escort from the airport to your final destination!”. 

I can picture it now, side by side the travel agents, middle aged men with discreet signs “Ms. Soul flying from Heathrow”, and a small tag on their chest pocket “Grandfather Silva”.

Twilight

Now I understand all that talk about "Generation Gap": it wasn't really about age adequate clothing style (sorry... I could not resist the silly joke...), but how different generations have different views, that usually clash.

The first thing that comes to my mind when I hear "Twilight" is the unforgettable soundtrack and the dark misterious voice saying "The Twilight Zone"... Vampires? No not really, I don't think I ever watched a TZ episode on vampires... But then, that was such a long time ago...

The Indians are the Italians of Asia

"The indians are the Italians of Asia", Didier pronounced with a sage and mischievious grin. "It can be said, certainly, with equal justice, that the Italians are the Indians of Europe, but you do understand me, I think. There is so much Italian in the Indians, and so much Indian in the Italians. They are both people of the Madonna - they demand a goddess, even if the religion does not provide one. Every man in both countries is a singer when he is happy, and every woman is a dancer when she walks to the shop at the corner. For them, food is music inside the body, and music is food inside the heart. The language of India and the language of Italy, they make every man a poet, and make something beautiful from every banalité.These are the nations where love - amore, pyaar - makes a cavalier of a Borsalino on a street corner, and makes a princess of a peasant girl, if only for the second that her eyes meet yours.

in, Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts

Junk

I usually describe Portugal as "my tiny, yet beautiful country", I have heard others describe it as "Europe's Best Kept Secret". Either way, whenever Portugal hits the headlines it is not about its beauty, its size, its unveiled secrets but rather because something is not going well.

The new sick man of Europe, perhaps not so new for this is how Portugal was described in 2007, is very ill. In fact, according to Moody's (a very accurate and poignant name for a rating company) Portugal is "junk".

I guess that, once Portugal becomes terminally ill it will become a magazine cover, pretty much like the late ant friend of Garfield. I wonder, however, which adjective will Moody use it to described it. "Compost", perhaps?