Treated Like a Princess

Last Saturday I decided I needed a much deserved break before going to the supermarket. It takes a special kind of courage to do the weekly groceries shopping in the local, overcrowded supermarket. So I made a stop at “Casa Rey”,  the neighbourhood coffee shop where I’m know for my sweet tooth.

Since I’m quite sensitive to caffeine, I do not drink the typical Portuguese “bica” (espresso), but instead the “meia de leite”  (a cup of coffee with milk). Usually I ask for a “meia de leite clarinha e morna” which means a lukewarm, more milk than coffee drink. Rarely do I get what I asked for: it’s either lots of milk, not much coffee, but scalding; or practically cold, but barely no milk and lots of coffee.  Somehow, part of the “meia de leite clarinha e morna” formula is lost.

This time around, I decided to go “Sally” about it, as in the Meg Ryan’s character in “When Harry Met Sally”, thus describing in detail my order: “I would like a ‘meia de leite’, please, but could you prepare it as follows? I just want a third of coffee,  two thirds of milk and lots and lots of milk foam, please. And lukewarm, too, please”. The waitress smiled, said a laconic OK and began to prepare my order. 

As she brought the “meia de leite” to my table, I wowed: it was beautiful! She took it quite literally the whole “lots and lots of foam”. I smiled  and thanked profusely. As she was about to put the cup on the table she asked “Would you like some cinnamon or chocolate on top?”, “Why yes, I’d love some cinnamon, please”, I replied giddily. Not only the “meia de leite” looked beautiful, but it was delicious too: a third of coffee, two thirds of milk, lots of foam, and truly lukewarm.

As I paid I told her it was the first time, ever, someone got the order right. She replied modestly, it wasn’t that peculiar a request. So there you go: want to be treated like a Princess? Go to the King’s House (Casa Rey)!

The ingredients for a fantasy novel

As I was walking down Avenida da Liberdade, right in the heart of Lisboa, I realized how romantic it looked. In spite of the boisterous designer shops, the loud kiosks that serve hot drinks and cocktails and the constant cars driving up and down, if you walk right in the middle of it, in the large and wide sidewalk, of black and white cobbled stones, all that noise is hushed down by trees.

And then you notice it: the beautiful designs in the sidewalk, the statues, the shade, the quietness. And just in case you're lost amidst this bucolic scenery, there they are: arrows. One pointing to Praça da Alegria (Square of Joy), Príncipe Real (Royal Prince, if you cynical you can also translate to Real Prince) and Rato (Mouse).

I took another look (and a picture, too!) of the signs and laughed at the thought of Lisboa having just the right ingredients for a Louis Carrol/C.S. Lewis, fantasy novel.

Namaste!

Home away from home

"Hello! Good afternooon!"
"Hello!"
"Did you miss me much?", I asked jokingly.
"But of course, we did!", she replied with a broad smile.
"Liar! How's business?"
"Good, good. We are having a couple of good months. May almost full, June all booked. How was your trip?"
"Tiresome actually, I have a bit of a headache..."
"Don't you worry about a thing! Your room is ready, here's your key. You can go upstairs straight away and rest !"
"Aaah! Thanks a million. On which side is the room?"
"On the left, overlooking the stream, of course", her smiled melted away, a bit disappointed at me.
"Of course, as usual".

I thanked once more, bidded farewell and left to my room. It was only 30 minutes later, when I finally laid down, that I realized that, for the first time in my life, I didn't have to say my name, show some ID or the hotel reservation to make the check-in. Actually I had arrived two hours before check-in time.

I smiled to myself, "so this is what it means to be a regular, feeling at home, away from home".

Namaste!

The fairytale in the rain…

I rub my hands in contentment, my favourite season it’s here and it’s promising. Now is the season for leisurely strolls on Avenida da Liberdade and evening cups of tea, along side with the weekly copy of The Economist.

The Summer of reading immersion is indeed gone. As Winter draws near and the weather worsens, the use of the umbrella increases. However, being (unprecedented) overcautious, Portuguese people, or at least Lisboetas, bring their umbrellas with them at the least threat of showers. Cautious as this behaviour may be on rainy days, it kind of brings about a bit of chaos to Lisboa, in particular when it is not raining. Used to rain as they should be, Lisboetas do not know what to do with their umbrellas during Winter’s “dry spells”. Rather than using their umbrellas, or better still, refraining from using them, my beloved Lisboetas convert their sunflower shaped, waterproofed canvas into an accessory. It is then, in these odd moments, that housewives, businessmen, businesswomen, students, commuters are all transformed – quite magically I may add – into fairytale characters. From Mary Poppins, to chimney sweepers, witches and warlocks, knights, Lisboetas are transformed by their umbrellas.

Mary Poppins (or John Poppins) are my favourite. The closed umbrella is rendered as an useless utensil and therefore, it’s closed and the Poppins in question either hangs it around the arm or, if possible, puts it inside her bag (suitcase, purse). And there it is, safely kept, unobtrusive and discreet, causing no discomfort to fellow sidewalk companions.

The Chimney Sweeper (I do have a soft spot for Dick Van Dyke, since I watched Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang for the first time…) has a strategy of his own. With the same elegance as Mary Poppins, the umbrella is converted into a practical, handy cane. More than a friend, the umbrella-cane is an important walking accessory. It doesn’t improve the walk so much as it gives a certain Old World charm to its bearer, while strolling. And, as the transformation takes place, so does the body language of the Chimney Sweeper changes. There is something stout in his strolling, the walk has a rhythm of its own, and the umbrella-cane waltzes to the stroke of the hand in an elegant, but very uncomfortable for other passersby, dance of its own. It goes something like this: 1) vertical thump on the floor; 2) up in the air and pointing forward; 3) back and a new thump. And now, like any waltz  1-2-3,1-2-3, that’s it, you got it! You really get it if you are walking rather fast and behind the Chimney Sweeper and get the umbrella-cane on your knees, whilst the “cane” is going backwards from step 2 and 3. One, two – bang of pain in the knees – three; one, two, dodge, three; one, two, safe in front of the Chimney Sweeper, three. The Chimney Sweeper will be too engrossed in his own waltz to realize that an empty space is surrounding him in the crowded street, with people avoiding him.

Then there are the less friendly fairytale characters of witches and warlocks. For these people the unused umbrella is a nuisance to be reckoned with. However, instead of carrying vertically, pretty much like witches and warlocks grab the broomstick in the middle to ride in it, so do these people. They do not really hold it in the middle, but rather in the upper part of the umbrella, parallel to them and diagonally to the ground. Usually, there is a lot going on in the mind of these Witches and Warlocks – a rain spell, perhaps?! – and they walk around furiously, umbrella-broomstick in hand, keeping everyone around them at a distance for safety (other people’s safety, not their own). Absent minded passersby will find their coats caught by the umbrella or suddenly encountering the pointy end of the umbrella hitting them on the kneecaps.

And finally there are the knights. The Knight has a quest of his own, most likely to fight off Saint Peter or whomever he finds responsible for the foul Winter weather. The Knight brandishes the umbrella pretty much like a Middle Age knight would hold his lance. Crusader or not, the fearless Knight holds his umbrella-lance forward, next to his body but pointing upwards (the opposite of Witches and Warlocks). The Knight is invested in his own crusade and walks rather briskly. I have never seen a real confrontation between two Knights, but I can only imagine the sparks going off and the umbrellas opening up in fantastic apotheosis.

Unfortunately, what we do not have in Lisboa are the fabulous singers in the rain: happy, in love, chaotic dancers. But then again, there’s something magical in this transformation of my beloved Lisboetas, so…”come down with the rain, I’m happy again!”.

Food for Thought

Viva o Santo António!
Viva o São João!
Viva o 10 de junho e a Restauração!

Portuguese folk song

On December 1st Portugal celebrates a national holiday, “Dia da Restauração (da Independência)”, that roughly translates to Restoration (of Independence) Day, the date when Castilian rule was overthrown and Portugal was, once again, an independent nation-country.

As a child, I didn’t really know all these historically details, and I found the holiday rather confusing, because in my head it was “Restauration Day”. Though I could easily recognize the significance of food in Portuguese culture and history – the Baker from Aljubarrota or the Siege of Porto - it seemed to me that to dedicate a whole day to the catering food industry – restaurants – was a bit over the top, even for Portuguese standards.

As I grew older, of course, I realized that it was Restoration rather than Restauration, but the confusion did not succumb to the evident mistake, it only grew bigger. My mind wondered what had indeed been restored then: was it a national heritage thing? Where we to remember how Lisboa was rebuilt after the 1775 earthquake? That made a whole lot more sense, for in Lisboa there is quite a huge square dedicated to “The Restorers” (Praça dos Restauradores), with an equally outstanding (and a bit phallic I may add) monument right in the middle.

Eventually, I focused less on semantics and more on the historical facts and realized that we were celebrating the 1640’s eviction of the Castilian monarchy. As it happens, the Praça dos Restauradores is part of my commuting route, when I walk from the office to the train station. I  stride through the square on which, on one side stands the beautiful Tourism Office and on the other side a huge Post Office building. So  the square is usually busy with curious tourists and helpful policemen.

Early this Summer, as I was passing by right in front of Palácio da Foz (the tourism office), I found a middle-aged Spanish couple, equipped with backpacks and digital cameras, inquiring relentlessly a helpless policeman what was the monument on the square, which bears a huge carving of 1640.

“So what is this monument? What happened on 1640?”.
“Well… bien esto es un monumento bélico… historical, big battle in 1640, muy importante para Portugal”.
The couple was not quite convinced.
“Ya señor, ya vemos que es bélico. Pero qué ocurrió? Por que es tan importante?!”
“Eeeer… pues… es histórico, una guerra, a long time ago, in the pasado…”

As I walked by and looked back, I could not help but laugh. The inquiring couple was determined to get an answer, and the policeman was adamant in dodging the question. Both parties were playing their role in their best: the tourists wanted to learn about local history and show interest for their host, and the host wanted to be warm and welcome, avoiding any kind of diplomatic incident.

The centennial rivalry seemed something of the past. Isn't that food for thought?!

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?