Lisboa

Ruminations pt I

We are in the air. It is September 1st. To me, September has always been the real “new year.” My birthday, typically the beginning of the school year. the closing chapter of summer. It’s when I make my goals for the following cycle around the sun. It’s when I reflect back and ruminate.

The island was dark when we arrived to the airport. The green of the land was a dark grey as though it all shifted to volcanic rock. From the window of the plane, I see another island below but I’m not sure which it is.

I do miss home, which is somewhat of a surprise and somewhat is not. Given that I am a homebody through and through, eventually that home sickness would bubble up in my stomach.

I think Pete understands me more now having met family. I’ve been thinking about my grandmother’s dramatics. The way she’d respond, “God willing” to a “see you tomorrow.” I even recall giving her a necklace one Christmas and she said, in Portuguese, “this is too much,” and turned to my mother and said, “I’ll leave this to you when I die.” Can my dramatics be excused if it’s simply inherited? I’ll have to ask Pete.

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Lisbon is both divine and overwhelming. As I try to appreciate the architecture in the Baixa, random men come up to me and ask me if I want marijuana or cocaine. Every building and street has a pulchritudinous (and I later learned Pombaline) design that I can only briefly gaze upon before moving along. There are still many tourists.

The Baixa looks as though they pushed locals and tradition upward as if to make room for the tourism below. The city grew from the cobblestones in a chaos that is effortlessly cohesive. The colors are light, sometimes pastel, and there are hints of the island but expanded, enlarged, and so much taller, obviously.

Are the walls white so as to be canvasses - both intentional and spontaneous? There is graffiti in America, sure, but somehow here it feels a little more like a museum. And even when buildings are deteriorating, there is still an indisputable charm.

But it is not the Baixa district I fell in love with. It was the neighborhood of Alfama, the older district of the city. Pete says there’s lots of energy there. Every street has a mystical, labyrinthian feel, almost as if they twist and morph into a different path any time you come upon it. I could disappear there and never be found.

The difference in energy has been jarring for us, though, coming from the island. I don’t know that I’ve settled into this new speed. It feels like a little bit of a whirlwind. Pete and I are already reminiscing about the island. I am chuckling at the town name of Bastard’s Fountain.

We ate and drank at a bar dedicated to Maria Severa. It was tasty and we learned about her. And the waitress complemented me on my pronunciation. There is a Black Pig Gin from Portugal that was the best gin I’ve ever had. And we learned about the tragic life Severa led. There is a story there.

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Barrio Alto is another endearing neighborhood. There are so many cobble-stoned streets where a bar is hidden, tucked away. We found a speakeasy underneath a bakery. When the door was opened, there was a tiny white dog that greeted us, and a woman, who looked confused as to why we rung the bell. When we asked for the bar, which the name escapes me, maybe The Secret Poet’s Society, she let us in and directed us toward the winding staircase that went into what looked like a former wine cellar.

There, I had a drink called “Cultivate a Quiet Joy” which is a line from the poem “Be not Defeated by the Rain” by Kenji Miyazawa —

Be strong in body. Unfettered by desire. Not enticed to anger. Cultivate a quiet joy.

Count yourself last in everything. Put others before you.

Watch well and listen closely. Hold the learned lessons dear.

A thatch-roof house, in a meadow, nestled in a pine grove’s shade.

A handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables to suffice for the day.

I am quick to impatience. I am high strung and desire immediacy. This country, to my health and well-being, is trying to slow me down. I hope to carry that serenity when I leave here. I hope I can look at things with more kindness and appreciation.