The American Classic of the 09:18 train

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s… book.”. If such commandment existed I would be the most sinful of all sinners! It doesn’t matter how good the book/magazine article/bottle label I’m reading is, I will always be interested in what people around me are reading. If in the corner of my eye I see a a book cover…  I will, most likely, take a break of whatever I’m reading, and start coveting my neighbor’s book. I’m not proud of it, of course, but it is what it is.

Not only will I (quite absentmindedly) envy in silence what other people are reading, but I will also make quick mental notes about it. Oh yes, “though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t” as Polonius said to Hamlet. I’ll find myself laying about mental notes “hmm… interesting!”, “aaaah, that’s on my to read list, yes”, “really?! You’re wasting precious brain cells on THAT?”, “I wonder if the translation is any good?”, “Oh I loved that! Isn’t it wonderful?”, “You are in for some great hours of entertainment!”, “there’s a sequel?!”, “mom and dad have that one, I should borrow it from them…”, and so forth. But rarely do I take notice of the reader, the object of my attention (and coveting…) is solely the book.

Of course, commuting, only heightens my coveting skills: there’s so much supply! I think it was last year, as I was getting out of the train and walking towards the tube I saw “…wain… berry… ventures”. I had an immediate laughing mental note “Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn! Who doesn’t like an old fashioned boyish adventure? Well Huckleberry Finn is a bit more serious, but still… I really need to borrow it from Mom and Dad…”. When I was in the tube platform waiting for the train, I bothered to take a look at the reader of such adventures. First I noticed the well cared for hand, with the shiny band of gold in the ring finger, that was holding “…wain… berry… ventures”. Then the light blue shirt, the impeccable navy blue suit jacket and trousers, the dark shiny shone shoes, the trimmed, well combed hair, the marble smooth shaved face, the chiseled profile, the striking dark brown eyes. Everything about him was sharp and elegant. Though he wasn’t very tall, he stood out in the platform of tired, sleepy, grumpy commuters like myself. Even the way he walked on the platform was striking, he wasn’t walking really, he was strolling purposefully,  with poise, balancing his suitcase on one hand and the book in the other. I’ll admit I was mesmerized: he was a walking, living, breathing handsome advert for Hugo Boss, with a Mediterranean flair. I sighed, I was coveting, all right, but not the book anymore…

Some time ago, I was running late and rushed into the 09:18 train to Lisboa, sitting in whatever seat was available. And there it was “…iamond…ig…Ritz”, another American classic, but by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have always wondered what a diamond as big as the Ritz was, and made a mental note to read the book. And then, to my surprise, who else but the elegant commuter, was sitting across from me, reading “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and other stories”. Again, he looked impeccable, his coat neatly folded resting on his knees, the suitcase by his side. However,  my American Classic was sleepy, so he carefully kept his book in the suitcase, lowered his chin and took a nap. I tried very hard to concentrate on my own book, but it was quite difficult: the American Classic, even sleeping and slouching, with one of the shirt buttons undone was quite handsome.

Since then, I’ve been curious: what is a diamond as big as the Ritz, really? And does he only read American classics? Is he like the tall, slim, pale, curly hair “thronie”* on black skinny jeans, that is devoted to the one genre? I feel tempted to recommend Steinbeck to him, but I’m still mustering up the courage to do it. Until then, the American Classic of 09:18 train, is the highlight of my tardiness.

Note: “thronie” was the suggested name, from a friend on Facebook, for a fan of The Game of Thrones.

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!

The greenhouse effect

Pecha Kucha Night | Lisboa

What if you wanted talk about your projects with other professionals?

What if you wished you didn’t have to wait for the next Summer festival to listen to your favourite alternative band?

What if taking pictures was more about passion and opportunity, rather than a good camera?

What if you could find bibliography information about art books?

What if you wanted to invite your favourite busker to play at your birthday party?

What if building a house took more than just lumber and a lot of motivation?

What if writing, was more than a means to inform, but rather a way to convey a message?

What if someone took a picture of you while you were sleeping?

What it you were living abroad and couldn't work?

What if… I had refused the invitation to Pecha Kucha Night in Lisboa? I’d have never learned all the answers to these questions and then some more.

Thanks to Billy I attended for the first time this caldron of ideas, motivated minds, brilliant perspectives and innovative thinking. Even though the presentations were way too many for one evening, after a grueling week at the office, pecha kuching was all I needed.

P.S. And I’ve finally met Portugalize.me and ran into Cozinhar sem Lactose! 

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?!

My favourite season

First and foremost, my apologies to whoever wrote and composed the song, but mostly to Ms. Andrews whose lovely voice has imprinted "My Favourite Things" on a whole generation's childhood. And I apologise too, for skipping a stanza, but there are a limited number of things I do like about this season.

Ready?

Roasted chestnuts on smoky street corners
Mapleleaf sidewalks and half-naked tree branches
Young college students in traditional robes
The tea kettle is whistling on the stove!

Orangy persimmons on the greengrocer’s stall
Opera and theatre premières pasted on walls
Eager young children on their 1st day of school
First craving for soft garments of wool!

When Winter comes, when Spring’s gone
When Summer’s sun's too hot
I simply remember
My favourite things
And long for Fall! 

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.