Lisbon

Bela Lisboa, Sunday afternoon, Monday morning

April 21, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The guesthouse staff welcomed me with tea, pastry, personal charm and endless patience. My bed was comfortable. Went for an orienting walk – assigned myself the task of finding milk, bread, and chocolate. That’s generally a good place to start in a new town. There were other people on the streets, but it felt (blessedly) empty compared to the surge and swarm of humanity in the center of Madrid. I am fond of the tiny, bent crones I see here, carefully dressed in their multiple layers of Sunday best, who seem to have stepped out of my grandmother’s era.

The streets and sidewalks were paved in small square-ish cobbles that undulated in patterns – more like mosaic than the mathematical precise stone or solid lumps of cobbles.

Slept in a profound and restful silence. The auditory equivalent of being wrapped in white velvet and gently rocked. So quiet I can hear that seashell hum in my ears. You don’t realize how braced you are against the battery of crowds and cacophony of shouting and whooping threat of police sirens, or how anxious and tired your body becomes until it stops. Lisbon will have its own demands – every step is either uphill or down, like San Francisco – but I say bring it on.

I had to open my (double pane) window to hear the birds – the birds! – singing in the boughs of the trees in the park I could see from my window. Trees thickly canopied with spring leaves, trunks so huge a single one blocks the width of the sidewalk and spills into the street. It would take three of me to put my arms around that trunk.

There’s an aqueduct that runs along side the park- stone arches and pillars dwarf the rectangle of greenery and worn wooden benches. A small coffee kiosk and playground squealing with children – a happy sound. The children reminded me that the name of this place Largo do Rato. I expected a piper in motley at any moment.

The breakfast options were varied and fresh, and tables await in either a den, the sun room, or in the enclosed garden. Star jasmine was blooming, mixed in with the ivy on the wall.

I was willing and able to take on the city.

Bela Lisboa, Day Two

April 22, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Lisbon April 20

I’d booked a day tour with Mafalda Corregedor, a guide highly regarded on TripAdvisor. She was all that and a bag of chips. Smart, friendly, informed, and feisty. She drove for a part of it and we walked the rest. According to Fitbit I did eight miles, and I swear all of it uphill. I am beat, but is was well worth it.

It was the best introduction I’ve ever had to a city, thanks to upbeat and resourceful Mafalda. (mafaldacorregedor@gmail.com) She has several jobs because of the threadbare Lisbon economy – tour guide, school teacher, tango performance.

She picked me up and we drove to Belém and saw the Jerónimos Monastery, where Vasco da Gama is buried.

Took a gander at the monument to explorers, which oddly enough reminded me of the Stone Mountain Confederate Memorial Carving. A monument that honors men who died in the service of a cause I don’t believe in. It’s not exploring I object to so much as subjugation and extinction.

There’s a map of the worlds that they conquered by sea, back in the day.

Moving right along, we ducked into the famous Pastéis de Belém with the delectable Pastéis de Nata, an addictive egg custard tart. Outside Belém tower a young black violinist played a medley of the theme from Star Wars, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Shake it Off. It was weirdly great.

Back we went to Lisbon and drove around in the steep hills, the twisty winding narrow streets. I saw the famous elevator and tram, and stopped at three overlooks.

Had lunch at the place she takes her father. A family joint, with an old school menu. We had cod mixed with potato and battered and fried, (but not greasy, a Lisboa miracle) a heap of lettuce, onion, tomato, and olive salad, and red beans and rice in a casserole. She instructed me on the way to order cod (only salted!). I had a shot of espresso that made my eyes pop open.

We walked up to the Moorish Castle of São Jorge, to the top of the castle ramparts, on the tip top of the city. We dodged school kids and seven screaming peacocks and the views helped me make sense of the layout of the city. The guide that led the school kids around dressed for the part.
We walked down back through the town and into various churches and the cathedral, and in and out of neighborhoods, and short cuts through building with escalators, and back onto the streets, for miles and miles.

Mafalda told me about the natural calamities of earthquake, Tsunami and fire; what withstood them and what was swept away. We talked about the man-made disasters of war and dictators, the current economic woes and the resilience of the people. She approved of the assassination of the former king – she has no use for royalty. If she were French she would’ve stormed the Bastille. As the citizen of a country that was founded on the rejection of the concept of divine right of kings, I could only agree.

I popped my head into a few shops and bought a tea towel embroidered with misspelled love letters. Mafalda translated the Portuguese for me. At some point I had a coconut gelato at Santini’s – I can remember the name because of the movie and you know, yum, gelato. There was a curtain made of buttons I liked. This is the only photo I have of her. The smile is right, but her eyes are closed. Drat.

Graffiti covered the city like a crocheted paint blanket of loops and slashes. Sometimes it was just an ubiquitous signature of urban life. Sometimes it pissed me off.We walked and walked and walked some more through the center of town. She advised on where to eat and not eat, and where I might like to shop, wisely steering me away from the fashionista district and to the street for trims and buttons and yarn. Clearly, she was on to me. We stopped for pastry and bread for me to take back to the B&B, then back to her car. I am leaving out a lot. We talked the entire time. She dropped me off at 6pm.

Best money I spent the entire trip. I have never had so much fun and felt so at ease. I tipped generously.

Tomorrow I am dining at a fou fou joint the B&B guys suggested. I just hope they are as welcoming as they are inventive.

Bela Lisboa, Day Three

April 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Bela Lisboa, April 21 – In two parts.

Part One

Enjoyed a varied and tasty breakfast in the walled garden of my B&B Casa Amora. www.casaamora.com/ TripAdvisor has never steered me wrong. There is a reason these guys are the number one guesthouse in Lisbon and I’m delighted to add my voice to the laudatory chorus. They manage their transient guests with good humor and skill, arranging a tour here, dealing with airlines there, offering dining and shopping suggestions tailored to individual tastes, with no pressure. They encourage the timid and marvel at the adventures of the bold. Total pros.

Headed out, overjoyed to be going downhill. If I had to pick one word for the topography of this town it would be steep. I saw a plain gray stone church, and, on a whim, pushed open the door. The interior was painted Tiffany blue and white. Intricate versions of The Stations of the Cross marched around the periphery, made of classic blue and white painted Portuguese tile.

The ceiling was elaborately painted, with the Holy Spirit as a dove in the center in a nimbus of yellow light.

Three people came in at different times while I was poking around. They dropped a coin in the poor box, prayed in front of one of the altars, and left for work. I was respectful and discreet, and they paid no attention to me. It was lovely to see the ritual part of spiritual in daily life. I lit a candle for a departed friend and pushed on.

I stopped in a park with an overlook and took a moment to stop and gaze at the city spread out before me. As I turned to go, a man playing guitar for passersby picked out the opening to Stairway to Heaven. I put two euros in his cap.

My next stop was the Museum of Sacred Art, adjacent to the Sao Roque Church. There was blindingly intricate lace for priest’s cuffs, gold embroidered vestments,

ornate silver gilt candle sticks, painted wood statues, – my favorite was the Pious Pelican,

and variations on saints, martyrs, virgins and one particularly dissipated looking cherub.

And the man himself, St Roch. I don’t know why I love that hat on the skull, but I do.

I was absorbed and fell into my observation zone. It’s very meditative and I lose track of time.

Afterward, I thought I’d take a quick look at the church. Holy cow. You know when a flash bulb goes off in your face? Probably not, unless you are over forty, but I digress. The point is you are temporarily blinded by the light. Well, that’s what this was like. Plain as a paper bag on the outside, beyond gaudy by everything baroque could throw at you on the inside.

There’s a poem by John Keats, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, that sprang to mind. No, really. It starts out,

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

and ends this way –

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortés when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific -and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise –
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Perhaps it was ‘realms of gold’ since I was swimming in the stuff. Or the conquistador reference, that’s where a chunk of the loot to finance this came from. Or the fabulous phrase, ‘wild surmise.’ I think the whites of my eyes were showing. I stared, stupefied by the sheer level of in-your-face.

This Jesuit church is awash in gold.They went all in, and then they threw in some more.

There were glazed tiles, gilt woodwork, marble, carving, silver gilt, multicolored painted figures, and oil paintings galore. One chapel featured what looked like a couple of thousand cherubs. The interior was a visual assault, a body slam of gleam and dazzle. It made excessive seem like it’s just not trying hard enough.

It’s one of the earliest Jesuit churches, built in the 16th century.

Fun fact – The most notorious of the several baroque is the 18th-century Chapel of St. John the Baptist (Capela de São João Baptista). That built this bad boy in Rome, then disassembled, shipped, and reconstructed it in São Roque. At the time it was the most expensive chapel in Europe. Apparently, God loved it, because this church was unharmed by the infamous earthquake/flood/fire disaster of 1755.

I lit a candle for my family and then my time was up – I had a lunch reservation at 12:30.

I reluctantly pried myself away, and stumbled the few blocks to Belcanto, hoping the service would be as welcoming as the food was inventive.

Bela Lisboa, Day Three, part two

April 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Part Two

Belcanto http://belcanto.pt/EN/ welcomed me. The Maître de was like the Jeeves of Lisbon. He shimmered around being helpful and unobtrusive. I ordered a la carte – Wave Breaking to start, (translated as ‘bivalves, coastal prawns, seawater and seaweed ‘sand’) and Dip in the Sea (‘sea bass with seaweed and bivalves’) for my entrée. He approved, and asked if I had any food allergies. When I said no alcohol, he didn’t curl his lip or sigh. He went and checked. Good man, because one of their signature freebies turns out to be an ‘inside out martini’. Happily for me, they were willing to adapt. The waitstaff deserve props for being game and throwing no ‘tude. Another thing I really liked about this place was the small waiting area that had a phrase by Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa, “To be great, be whole,” spelled out in light coming from the spaces created by missing books. Books! Ironic, given the words were made of absences.

I won’t keep you in suspense, the food tasted great – really top shelf. What was interesting was the amount of attention paid to deceit. Food as trompe–l’œil. They were into trickery and tomfoolery, and they liked explaining it afterward. Imagine Penn and Teller as chefs de cuisine.

Here’s the real crew on the job.

First thing they brought out looked like a tangerine-colored candy fireball. It balanced on a short handled spoon they rested on an indentation in a stone. It was a thin shell around a liquid they promised wouldn’t actually have alcohol in it. They didn’t exactly lie. It tasted faintly like vanilla and cherries. It was their riff on a faux aperitif. I would have preferred to skip it.

An olive trio followed. A tempura-esque fried olive (I could have gladly eaten a dozen of these), a soft shell olive that was olive-colored and shaped, but had a melting texture, and the aforementioned inside out martini, which, sans booze, was like a tablespoon of olive puree.

More trickery followed. Something that had the exact texture of an almond rocher, including the gold foil cup, but was fois gras and nuts with a fragment of gold leaf. I could have eaten these until all the chefs went home. I forget what they called the thing in the back, but it reminded me of fried chicken. The little half moon in the front was tasty and threw me because the visual matched the flavor.

They delivered bread and butter with due ceremony. There were choices of breads and three kinds of butter. Resistance was futile with the olive roll.

Now we come to what I actually ordered. All of the above was just foreplay. Wave Breaking, a diorama of tiny morsels of various sea creatures punctuated with dots carved out of green apple, and a foam that the server said was part seawater. Crumbles of dehydrated seaweed made the sand. By now I am in the swing of having fun with this. It’s not food to satisfy physical appetite so much as to engage the mind and encourage you to be playful. Well, as playful as a joint with a head chef named David Jesus (I am not making this up) can be.

I ate my seafood morsels and though they were small, the flavor was mighty. Especially the mussels. I remember thinking how I didn’t realize that fresh was a flavor until now. The immense amount of briny goodness in those tiny bites was startling.

The sea bass, aka Dip in the Sea, brought along his friends, and the actual amount of fish was impressive. It was poached in seawater, and was moist and tender to a degree outside of my experience, except for a butterfish I once ate in Hawaii.

The raspberry was another bit of cleverness. It was looked real, but it was reconstructed, reformed and chilled – pure liquid essence of raspberry, with a touch of wasabi.

Dessert was called, with surprising directness, banana, chocolate and peanut. Robert will recognize this layout from The Getty Center, in LA.

Can’t say it was visually appealing, but it tasted just fine, though it required more plate scraping than I like to do in public. The peanut was another decoy. It was made out of a hardened substance reminiscent of a peanut butter cup, but not as sweet. The chocolate was excellent, intense and neither sweet nor bitter – balanced on the edge of both. Those banana slices were fakes. More like a cold puree with a faint banana flavor formed into discs and dotted with faux seeds.

They brought a wooden Chinese puzzle box for the finale. It pulled apart into three drawers filled with cocoa shells, and each level presented a pair of ….something. The top level was said to be olive, but it tasted sweet and crunchy, just like a gumdrop. Okay by me.

The middle layer was candied black garlic. Summoning all my bravery, I put one in my mouth and chewed twice. Gah. So bad. Nasty. Absolutely foul. I spit it into my hand as discretely as I could manage, only to realize there was nowhere to put it. Desperate, I dropped it back in the box, slimy with drool. Sorry! But no. Hell no. I don’t want a mouthful of sugary garlic to wipe the excellent flavors I’ve just experienced off my tongue. Lesson learned. When creative food goes wrong, it’s a spectacular crash.

Fortunately, the bottom level had a pair of raspberry and chocolate morsels that were sublime. All’s well that ends well.

I decided a postprandial walk was just the ticket. And by ‘walk’ I mean mountain climbing with steps, no sherpa. That’s how Lisbon rolls, people. Believe you me, I was grateful that Jessica ran me up and down those stairs at the gym.

I headed to the big square beyond the grand arch. Mafalda called it Lisbon’s St. Mark’s Square. A tourist kindly took my photo by the Tagus River.

Afterward, I walked down the street of trim, braid, buttons and lace, and did a little window shopping. Finally headed towards my B&B, following the Google map. It was a long, hard slog that felt longer when I realized it was mostly straight up. By the time I came through my door, I was aching from hip to toes.

Time to call the cavalry, aka Uber. I promise myself I’ll start using the service tomorrow. Spend several hours working out a plan of what to see on Thursday – proximity is crucial. Dinner is cake and tea and tangerines, and I’m in bed and asleep in no time.

Bela Lisboa, April 22, Day Four

April 27, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday April 22,

This time I took Uber straight out of the gate, to the glorious Calouste Gulbenkian Museum. http://museu.gulbenkian.pt/Museu/en/Homepage\

My priority was to preserve every shred of cartilage I have left in my hips and knees. It was uptown, and in Lisbon, they mean straight up. I swapped a thirty-minute uphill climb for ten minutes by vehicle for 3 euros. A bargain! I wanted to smack myself in the head. I could’ve had this little bit of ease all along. Once again, pain teaches me what pride won’t let me learn.

The Gulbenkian was named for a Turkish oil man who loved art as much as breathing, and made this provision for a home for works he called his children. * I have not inquired into his family life. The man had exquisite taste and threw not only money but his skill at long and complicated negotiations into his acquisitions. The museum building was thoughtfully designed to conserve and show the artwork in the best way for viewing, and the presentation of objects and paintings was exactly as I would wish.

It didn’t just have paintings by old masters, it had some of their best work. Very Frick-ish feel, though not jumbled in a house rejiggered to serve as a public venue, yet it retains the sense of a single discerning and, yes, obsessed, eye. My kind of guy.

They were out of the English audio guides. I plunged in. I whipped through the Egyptian room, slowed a little bit by the coins display. I usually can barely see such small objects, but these were suspended and lit in such a way that even I could make out the intricate designs clearly. Below is an example – the coin was about the size of my little fingernail. I don’t know what it commemorated when it was struck in 400-350 BC, but the couple looks pretty frisky. I ended up spending much more time with textiles, porcelains, and glass that I have in other collections. I loved the Portuguese patterned oriental carpet with a design of the ships on water – you could see the east and west collide.

Also, due to his Turkish heritage, Gulbenkian has objects from that part of the world. A fifth-century glass beaker and glass lamp from mosques amazed me – think of the odds of glass surviving those ages.

By the time I reached western European art, I’d slowed down and fallen into the moment. This was a detail of a smallish portrait of St. Joseph. The whiskers captivated me. Northern renaissance, of course. My people.Loves of the Centaurs, by Rubens. And by love, he means more a verb than emotion.

And this portrait of a woman who, fully dressed, personified carnal flirtation with a look and a single gesture.

No way I could walk past this Weenix painting of hunting trophies.

I’ve spent months painting rabbits, some more successfully than other, and this is what I aspired to. This is what a pelt should look like.

I ended up circling back to this painting multiple times.

After my lunch in the downstairs cafeteria (vegetable soup, fresh fruit, the ubiquitous pastis de natal) I sketched just the rabbit for an hour. Made a couple of attempts, on more than one page of my sketchbook, using pencils and Conte crayon. Mostly I wanted an excuse to look at how Weenix did this.

Saw many portraits that were unique in the liveliness of expression of the sitters. Cracked up over this one –

“Everybody’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.” – ZZ Top.

Loved this little Sargent of the boat under the willows.

I had lunch and then explored the grounds – art students were sketching, scattered across the lawn and back garden vying with the resident ducks and pigeons for the green space.

Meandered around in the gardens, watched baby ducklings paddling in formation behind the mama duck on the pond, then went back inside to revisit some of my favorites.

Stayed until 5, then foolishly imagined walking back would be downhill. Nope.

Should’ve called Uber.

* The collection nearly ended up in the states. This respected collection was shown in both London and Washington DC. Curators in both cities courted him in hopes of the coup of winning the ultimate future of the collection. During WWII the British government managed to offend him and they were out. He ended up in Lisbon, and ultimately decided to leave his collection here.

Bela Lisboa, Day Five

April 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Thursday, April 23

Listening to an audiobook as I roam around is a big part of my experience. It’s the way I cope with long weeks of silence, the kind that comes with not knowing the language. Writing scratches the itch I have to communicate beyond ‘I want to buy ten stamps, please,’ but I also want to hear English. Intelligent, lively, thoughtful English. Joanna Bourne’s http://www.joannabourne.com/ books are excellent for this since she’s as much adventure as romance, it takes place on the peninsula, and the audiobook reader is superb.

Today my destination was Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, in no small part because they have a major Bosch triptych, The Temptation of St Anthony.Think back to my experience of viewing the Bosch in Madrid – vying with the crowd for more than a glimpse. Not here. People came in twos and threes, and in between I sat before it, alone. Examining a painting this complex and rich, with time to view each detail and then step back and see it as a whole, is a genuine luxury.

A few details;

After an hour, I drifted through the other rooms, soaking in the peacefulness of art viewed without jostle. That’s not an unmixed blessing; these storehouses of treasures need supporting, and seeing the other patrons was like looking in a mirror – definitely senior and preponderantly female. I winced a little bit, not because of aging, per se, but because I belong to an identifiable type; formerly fierce, once-upon-a-time outrageous women, now earnest, harmless, and gray-haired. Grandmotherly with an artistic bent.

Several works caught my eye, despite feeling somewhat over-saturated in religiosity. This Tiepolo is not only vigorous and lively, it’s a way of imagining the Flight into Egypt that doesn’t feature dirt roads, sand, or donkeys.

This Salome looks properly ambitious and cold-blooded, instead of the decadent slut she is too often portrayed. She’d make a credible Lady MacBeth, too.

Finally, this Mary looked like a virgin teen mother, still a child herself, instead of simpering or featureless as an egg.

I was struck by a large painting of animals crossing a ford, in particular, a shaggy white goat. Took pleasure in doing a little drawing. I used sienna and umber conté crayons and a little white chalk.

Stumbled over a little exhibition devoted to red chalk drawings. Nice.

Had lunch on the terrace overlooking the mighty river Tagus.

Pigeons are aggressive. I saw a dozen pigeons converge on a tray someone left on a table. They went all Animal Planet, like vultures fighting over a carcass.

Back inside and upstairs to look at work by Portuguese painters. This view of hell is much grimmer and less hallucinatory than Bosch. Good for a month of nightmares.

The day had flown by. Ready for some gelato, I headed towards the Santini’s I’d visited on day one. After I’d walked fifteen minutes, I paused to look inside the Mercado da Ribeira, Lisbon’s sleek indoor food market. Behold, I spy an outpost of the very same Santini’s. I ordered a chocolate, caramel and coconut combo if you must know. Worth every calorie.

Ubered back to the B&B and slept in peace, which I don’t take for granted and truly appreciate.

Bela Lisboa, Day Six

April 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 24

It’s pouring rain, and a good time to catch up on blogging. I talked about art for an hour this morning with Luis, who introduced me to some of his favorite Portuguese artists. Here are three websites for the curious.
Contemporary realism, of an unapologetically sexual in your face kind. Don’t click if you are a prude. You have been warned. http://barahonapossollo.com/

This guy blows images into buildings with explosives. Bam! http://www.alexandrefarto.com/index.php?page=video&video=16

Sprezzatura skills with wire creates sculpture of unworldly grace. http://hifructose.com/2013/04/04/illusory-wire-sculptures-by-david-oliveira/

When the downpour turns to a drizzle, I walked half a block and into Fundação Arpad Szenes-vieira Da Silva, a modern art museum, if by modern you mean Warchol and Lichtenstein. For those of you who know me, I went because the ticket was free, and my B&B hosts strongly urged me to attend. Had a moment of interest with these typewriters. The title is a favorite; Infinite amount of monkeys + Infinite amount of typewriters + Infinite amount of time = Hamlet.

I goofed around with Pistoletto’s Bottiglia per terra Bottle

but otherwise, I begrudged it my time.

I hiked through wet streets to the basilica, which, compared to St Roch, was pretty tame. Walked around for a moment and then it closed and I was politely shown the door. Just like in Madrid. No more tardy visits. When it comes to basilicas, go first thing in the morning.

Spitting rain again, I called Uber and got the ‘high tariff ‘ message, but noticed it said ‘ending in 2 minutes’ . Okay. I waited a couple of minutes in the church doorway, tried again and got the normal rate. Just a tip. Sometimes pausing is your friend.

I was determined to visit the 19th Century ship-museum, the Frigate Don Fernando II e Glória. It’s in dry dock on the banks of Tagus River, in Cacilhas. Directly across from where I had lunch yesterday.

Uber arrived, and off we sped across the May 25^th bridge, designed by the same firm that did the Golden Gate in San Francisco. The driver was a native and life-long Lisboan. Took the time to carefully to explain to me how I could safely and easily return on the train or ferry. There’s no Uber where I’m going.

The frigate lay high and dry, in a moat of cars. In dry dock, it looked abandoned and ungainly. I was the only person there. I walked up the gangplank, toward a tiny wood kiosk with a window. I heard a voice behind me and a young lad with red cheeks darted past me, opened the door to the hut, motioned me back and slid open the wooden hatch. “May I help you?”

He sold me a ticket. No more audioguides, he explained, because the water is not good for wires. Hmmm, I thought, looking around at the river and the sea. I walked around the deck recalling Elizabeth Essex sea-faring books http://www.elizabethessex.com, feeling uneasy but psyched at being the only living soul aboard. I am sure Portuguese school children are herded through here in droves, but not today.

Except for the artillery, everything was made of wood or rope coiled neatly and woven in patterns.

Below the top deck, the captain’s cabin looked like a Mayfair drawing room with a very low ceiling, so peculiar.

The ship itself looks sleek and elegantly made to my ignorant eye. It may have wallowed in the water like a hog, but it was clean and smelled of wood and hemp.

Below deck, I thought I saw other tourists and but they were manikins dressed as seamen. Not bland-faced models dressed up, but manikins fully realized and quite disturbing. Spooky. A trio dressed as passengers, a father, mother, and child, were so creepy George Romero would cast them in a heartbeat.

I descended further below decks, completely alone. There was a small working office with a TV running and the paper detritus pinned up and spread on the desk but no one was there. Twilight Zone. I had a subliminal sense that a ship ought to be moving, that being still and motionless was wrong. The way a corpse is stiff once the life goes out of it. The parade of eerie mannequins continued, frozen figures slumped in hammocks, a seaman with a howling face clamped with iron manacles at his throat and ankles “for strict discipline”, a cook who fed up to six hundred out of three big stew pots, a sick bay with a grimacing patient, an officer reading in his bunk with a crucifix on the wall.

There were cannon balls stowed neatly in racks and they reminded me of the true purpose of this vessel. Not a pleasure yacht.

I had a new respect for ship builders, all the way back to Noah. I knew that though this vessel dwarfed me, at sea it would bob in the water like a cork, a speck in the immensity of the ocean.

I climbed up and out, and the red-cheeked boy popped up to show me down the gangplank and helpfully pointed to the ferry, 150 meters away. He agreed that the mannequins were scary and claimed their faces were modeled on the actual laborers who rebuilt the ship. Maybe that’s why they look like corpses. I found them distracting, but the ship was a thing of latent beauty. I bought my ferry ticket, climbed aboard, and in only a short time – ten minutes maybe – we docked in Lisbon.

I was a few blocks from the Mercado da Ribeira, and Santini’s calls to me. Plus, time for lunch. I wander the market periphery and settle on a spot that offers black pork cheeks on sweet potato puree. In a bowl. Very happy with my choice.

Heading back I checked on a souvenir shop with unique Portuguese items that the B&B recommended. Loved it! An artist mother and her daughter ran it. I bought some tee shirts she designed featuring the Cranach version of Eve tempting Adam, but with a Pastéis de Nata. Good call, Casa Amora.

Tomorrow is Lisbon’s independence day, May 25^th That shop will be closed and there will be parades and parties. I’ll let you know if it’s another day like King’s Day in Amsterdam when I should hunker down and avoid the crowds, or something more pleasant.

Goodbye Lisboa, Hello again Madrid

May 2, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Days 7 & 8, Saturday & Sunday

I waited for my Uber taxi in Largo do Rato park. On every bench people were bent over notebooks, scribbling, and only gradually did I realize they were all sketching. Enforced stillness and attention, while waiting on Uber to pick me up, may give me some of my clearest and best memories.

The Last Ship, by Sting https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X_2jhIs7LM turned out to be the song that carried me through Lisbon. No real idea why, except it’s haunting, full of melancholy and yearning.

My ambient playlist carried me through museums at a drifting pace that fit my desire to look and linger, or stop to stare long and hard. Especially Finally Moving by Pretty Lights https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk9XYQMRiLY, and Anthem, by Emancipator https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PEGDGxZdzA.

For my last hurrah, I returned to the Calouste Gulbenkian Museum. They were out of English language audio guides again, but just as I purchased my ticket a man handed in his English language audio headset. Score! On this trip I was impressed by the singularity of expressions in the portraits.

Six examples –

I loved this fun couple – so like me and Robert.

Ate lunch in the nice museum café. This time, with scattered light rain, the outside patio was almost deserted. I sat outside at a table under a large umbrella, watching the ducks. I should have kept my eye on the thieving pigeons. One jumped on my table and made a grab for my pastéis de nata right off my plate. I flapped my museum guide to shoo it away and gave it my best Border collie stare. It eventually gave up. My other complaint – a visitor wore a perfume as pervasive and overpowering as Vicks VapoRub. I took evasive action and tried to avoid her trajectory, but I was sneezing and breathing through my mouth by the end. I could always tell when she entered/exited a room. I tried not to make scowly faces or glare but fell short a few times.

Afterward, Uber dropped me off at the park, and I watched this merry band prepare for the May 25th parades. park band.

The next morning I was up and out, after bidding a fond farewell to my Casa Amora B&B hosts. hosts http://www.casaamora.com/en/hotel-overview.html I can heartily recommend this place if you are looking for accommodations in Lisbon. I am considering writing them a sonnet for Trip Advisor. They earned it.

I Ubered to the airport (14 Euros) in plenty of time and shuffled aboard my Iberia airline flight. At departure time, we remained on the runway in Lisbon, our scheduled departure delayed due to maintenance on runways in Madrid, a fact explained by the pilot in a most entertaining fashion. Here’s part of his speech over the intercom: “Why, you ask yourself, if this man knows these things, have we boarded? Well, I will tell you. I know as well as anyone of you that waiting in your seats on a plane that is not progressing is torture, but! If we are prepared and in readiness to depart and another flight is not, we move up a space in the line, and so we wait.” About twenty minutes later we took off, the flight itself blessedly uneventful.

About twenty minutes later we took off, the flight itself blessedly uneventful.

I appreciate the decision of the city of Madrid to impose a flat rate of 30 Euros on all taxis rides from the airport to the city. I have learned that my pronunciation of Spanish is so inept that all taxi drivers grunt and look baffled until I hold up my iPhone with the address and route visible on Google maps. Then they nod and head in the right direction. I don’t know if my accent is really that bad (likely) or they are feigning ignorance in hopes of driving a rube around in circles to beef up the fare. Once I pull out the iPhone and Google map way, clarity and honesty prevails. I recommend it.

Checked into the 19th-century Belle Époque Hotel Orfila, which was all that is grace, elegance, and charm. I knew I’d be weary by the end of my trip and hoped for a bit of cosseting. I way overshot the mark. Lucky me.
The man at the front desk wore a swallowtail coat, like a head footman in a regency novel. Turned out he learned English the summer he worked in Georgia at Six Flags, and said ‘Welcome y’all,’ in a credible southern accent. Small world.

The hotel had tasteful art everywhere and antique furniture. Swanky, with the patina of many decades, and linen sheets like my grandmother’s. The ladies on staff all looked like Ralph Lauren models, Spanish Vogue division, and were discreet and polite. I’m guessing in their spare time they practiced the appropriate curtsey for various ranks of nobility.

I looked like the travel-worn, scrappy hobo that I am and they were so gracious, it didn’t matter. Up to my quiet, luxurious little room, with chintz Louis XIV chairs, walnut sécrétoire and a bathroom that boasted a matching toilet and bidet and a Jacuzzi tub. I unpacked.

Though it overlooked the garden, the double-paned windows were so efficient I barely heard a murmur.

After basking in the charm of my room, I ran through the rain to get a chai tea and have a quick look around. I’m familiar with the Salamanca district because my favorite church (for spiritual practice, not art) was not far away. St George’s Anglican church, on the corner of Calle Núñez de Balboa, had wisteria over the front gate and a massive fig tree spreading shade over a back courtyard.

Back at the hotel for the night, a courtesy plush robe and slippers had been set out for me, along with a little linen floor mat next to the bed, I guess so my feet never had to touch the carpet. Chocolate was on the pillow with a handwritten card noting the weather for the next day.

I looked for laundry info. It was on a shelf next to the safe in the walnut shelved closets (Plural! Closets!). For double-digit euros, you could have your slacks dry-cleaned and pressed. There was no ‘wash your yoga pants and hoodie’ option, so I busted out a packet of Woolite, scrubbed them in the sink and hung them on the gold-plated towel rack to dry. I thought, boy, this will shock the maids. Maybe it did, but they were too couth to indicate by look or gesture. They probably didn’t give it a thought. I set my clothes and shoes out on a chair for the next day.The mattress was comfortable, the sheets were as soft as a basket of kittens. I had a twinge of feeling a little too Granny Clampett for this joint, but I thought I’ll get used to it. And sure enough, I did.