Lisbon

11 May 2014

I board Tram #28, a vintage ‘electronico’ at Plaza Figueria in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon late one afternoon. We are packed like sardines in the tiny old tram and I am standing in the center of a mass of humanity as the tram skirts its way along beautiful boulevards and squares and then along tiny cobblestone streets as it leaves the city center.

It is heading towards Alfama, a gritty neighborhood on the hill nearby, where, I had read, a mirador offers excellent views of the city. As the tram escalates up the hill, a couple of young able-bodied men hop on the backdoor steps and cling on to handlebars outside the tram, trying to get a free ride.

Generations ago, Alfama was home to fishermen and sailors and their families, a reflection of Portugal’s seafaring past when it was a maritime giant. Nowadays, Alfama is somewhat downtrodden, the enclave of immigrants from Africa, Eastern Europe, Latin America, even Asia- working class people in search of a better life in Lisbon.

The tram screeches its way uphill, at times just inches away from buildings, pavements and pedestrians. Cringing my neck and arching my back, I manage to get a glimpse of the cathedral along the way, through open spaces in between the body parts around me. Some old timers get off along the way giving me some room to breathe. Then the tram comes to a steady halt and the scene opens up to a lovely square, Largo St. Luzia. This is where I get off.

In the square, there are a couple of restaurants with outdoor seating, a few stores with tourist-friendly knickknacks and some peddlers, mostly Africans, approaching tourists to sell their wares or just to have friendly banter. I try to avoid one who seems particularly persistent, and as I turn around from the square, Lisbon greets me with a tapestry of pretty red-roofed houses and the Cathedral Se in the background under the veil of late afternoon sunlight. The city is filled with these red-roofed houses and from my vantage point they seem almost identical to each other, so elegant, and picture perfect. I feel a sense of excitement and bliss at the same time. The temperature drops a bit as the sun begins to set. I put my sweater on, just briefly interrupting the frenzy of my camera clicking as I take tons of photos (and some selfies) from every conceivable angle in the mirador.

At dusk, I start wandering cautiously beyond Largo St. Luzia. I amble along a maze of narrow alleys  and cul de sacs, venture down steps and under archways, keeping a mental note of specific landmarks so I can find myself back to the square just in case I get lost. Along the way, I notice that these picture perfect houses from afar are not quite that perfect after all. They are not even identical to each other except perhaps for the color of their roofs. I see balconies of different types of metals and configurations, some with beautiful ironwork while others are rusting away. Colorful flowers placed in dainty pots are juxtaposed between newly washed clothes and bed sheets hanging out to dry in clotheslines that crossed house boundaries. Some building walls are painted with an array of colors – yellows, blues, greens but the most striking houses are those adorned with azulejos, Portuguese tiles, which give each home a distinct character.

Portugal has a long history of tile making, a practice they learned from the Moors in the 15th century. The traditional Portuguese azulejo is blue and white and depicts important events, though the tiles in the houses I saw were also of different hues and designs.

The use of tiles, I learned, became very popular in Lisbon after the devastating earthquake in1755, the seminal event that has defined Lisbon’s history. Lisboans discovered that these azulejos, aside from beautifying the facade, strengthen a building’s structure and, being waterproof, also protect against the elements. I am mesmerized by the beauty of the tiles, though admittedly some tiles are in better shape than others and quite a few are in need of scrubbing. Some buildings have no tiles at all and in their bare facades, there was nothing that concealed the cracks, scars, blotches, stains, graffiti, and other forms of wear and tear they have experienced through the years. What are the scars hidden underneath the tile-covered buildings? As I stand up close to these buildings, I realize that each of these red-roofed houses has a story to tell.

I find my way to nearby Largo San Miguel, and am enticed into a taverna by beautiful music from a duo of instruments, a round Portuguese guitar and a conventionally shaped acoustic guitar.  A Fado was playing that evening. This Portuguese tradition of sad melodies stems back from the country’s seafaring days when men would leave to join expeditions, and the women are left behind in the villages. Fado (“fate”) is best described by the Portuguese word “saudade”, a sadness permeated with expectant longing. I take a seat at a corner of the tavern with a glass of port wine. After a few minutes of soulful guitar music, the tavern’s lights are dimmed except for the flickering light from a lamp where the guitars are playing.

A woman dressed in black and an intricate lacy blue and white shawl steps up in between the guitar players. She is beautiful as she looks around the room. She locks eyes with a few in the audience, and gives a faint smile. She is a Fado singer, of course, but in the next 45 minutes she’ll be transformed to a character of years ago, perhaps that of a young widow of a fisherman lost at sea? She lets out a cry, a lament, on the first note as if to introduce herself to us and we are jolted and captivated immediately. She takes her blue and white shawl off and, now exposed, sings, in haunting melodies, of her lost love and her longing to be reunited. Saudade. This is her story and we are there to listen. Underneath her beautiful appearance, she gives us a peek of her scars. And through her body movements, the quiver of her voice, the intensity in her eyes, we experience the fragility of her spirit even as it clings to undying hope. It is both heartbreaking and inspiring. How is it possible that something so sad can be so beautiful?