Wandering Portugal

It’s a lazy morning in the Alfama district of Lisbon. Waking up from ten hours of jet lagged sleep in the curtain drawn dark of our small hotel, we stir from bed and down the stairs to a typical Portuguese breakfast of good strong coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, and assorted pastries, ham, eggs, and fruit. Out on the street someone is singing Adele on the sidewalk, note for note. A crowd has gathered around on their morning commute, in appreciation of the music.

Music is everywhere here, an accordion player on the train, jazz electric guitar on a park bench, reverberating off ancient tiled walls. A violinist covering Abba on the steps of a five hundred year old church. Fado, plaintive traditional Portuguese folk music, wafts from windows and storefronts.

This is Portugal. Long in the shadow of Italy, Spain, and France as a travel destination, the small country squeezed between Spain and the Atlantic Ocean has a unique charm all its own. The southernmost and westernmost country in all of Europe, in the 14th and 15th centuries Vasco de Gama sailed from the waterfront to explore a route to spice rich Africa and India. The Portuguese explorer Christopher Columbus stumbled on a new world. Magellan circumnavigated the entire earth. Though Magellan was killed fighting natives in the Philippines, one lone expedition ship and a skeleton crew limped back into Lisbon harbor three years later. They had set out knowing the earth was round, but underestimated its size by two thirds. They had no hint of the existence, much less the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. A monumental discovery. Between colonization, gold, and the spice trade, by the mid 16th century Portugal was the richest country in Europe.

The Portuguese are proudly aware of their history, yet take each day as it arrives, savoring a glass of wine or good conversation with the easy humor of a people who have been there, done that, and survived to tell the tale. More importantly now, my friend, can I borrow a cigarette? And what’s for dinner? 

The Alfama is one of the oldest areas of Lisbon, a neighborhood of narrow, steep, cobblestone streets, and whitewashed dwellings spread out on the hills below St. George Castle. Instead of driving we’ve elected to use Lisbon’s efficient system of trains and buses. And the ramshackle yellow electric trolley cars that go everywhere. A holdover from the 1920’s, they ride like a Ford Model T, with all the charm of an earlier age. 

We also walk. A lot.

Up the hill, after a steady climb to St George Castle on a beautiful winter day, we sit in the sun and drink small refreshing Sagres beers atop the castle walls. This is the highest point in Lisbon, and the views out over the city and the Tagus River are expansive. Boats of all sizes ply the water, sailboats, barges, trawlers.

Peacocks strut the battlements, first brought here by the Moors from North Africa. For over four hundred years this was a prosperous Muslim city, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the Crusades of the twelfth century, when it was taken back under Christian rule. A short walk down the hill we visit Lisbon Cathedral, built on top of a mosque, itself built on the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. And the Phoenicians and Celts before that. Portugal is the oldest country in Europe. Lisbon is 500 years older than Rome.

And then there’s the food. With its maritime economy, fresh seafood predominates menus. Octopus – grilled, sauteed, or cooked in hearty broths, is a favorite, along with bacalhau, the salt cod that is a national dish. Grilled whole fish of all types, and fresh tuna steaks. Most every plate is accompanied by simply prepared vegetables, potatoes and broccoli, or salad. The underappreciated wines of the Douro valley are cheap and a revelation in quality. Mediterranean eating at its best.

On the street we duck into pastry shops for a quick pastel de nata, little sweet custards, and a bica, Portuguese espresso. Everywhere people are friendly and helpful, and English is spoken, or least understood, by most. Easy to get around, get directions, ask questions.

The centuries old rivalry between Portugal and Spain is still alive and well. The only time a voice is raised is when I ask directions from a bus driver in my pidgin Spanish. Big mistake.

“I speak English or Portuguese!” he bellows. “Not Spanish!”

Then, demeanor softening, he proceeds to politely answer my question in perfect English.

It’s easy to fall in love with Lisbon. The architecture is a natural mix of medieval and modern, with narrow side alleys filled with intriguing shops and sidewalk cafes. Stand up bars the size of a closet serve up port and ginginja, a sweet and tart cherry liqueur favored by the locals. The people almost everywhere are friendly, helpful, and unhurried. 

Our last day here the weather is perfect. Sixty five degrees in the afternoon. In February. Soft waves lap against the seawall. At an outdoor cafe we’re soaking up the sun and people watching when a family of four, mother, father and two teenage sons, stroll by perusing the sidewalk menus. She is completely bald and a little frail, obviously sick. But smiling a joyous smile. Completely involved. Present. They stop near our table and one of the sons puts an arm around her, rests his head on her shoulder. They share a word and both break into laughter, happy to be here in Lisbon together, at this moment, on the waterfront in the sun, today. This day.

Tomorrow we leave the city, and drive to the Algarve.