Part I, Part II, Part III
Encounters
The static mental picture of a new place is made alive only by memory of its inhabitants.
I purposely avoided including people I communicated with, in one form or another, into my photographs. I didn’t want to associate this or that architectural landscape with faces – such association is often accidental: would it add something to my impression of Evora
if I took a snapshot of an amusingly incompetent guide from the bus tour, or, alternatively, impressively informed (and very cute) French tourist, kind enough to compensate for her inadequacy with his explanations?
Then, after many months of not touching the subject, I was surprised to discover that this exact thing happened – even without the visual aid, photographs of places remind me of people I encountered there. Shot of this house gate
brings to me that warm velvet evening, silent side street curving her way uphill, and the faces of two black men in the only lit window (in fact, their door was open, too), sipping some dark liquid and playing checkers among old armchairs, strewn raspberry and lemon-hued clothes and bluish flickers of the TV screen. I was returning to my hotel in particularly elevated spirits, after an evening of flamenco, excellent dinner and flirting with company of loud German tourists – only a minute ago there were bright lights, happy chatting and music on the Praca, and now, in the quiet of the southern night, these men looked out of their window, visibly startled by the sound of my heels on the rough mosaic pavers. I returned in the morning and took the picture of their house.
Flamenco festival was in town. Evening before, I couldn’t finish my bottle of red, asked the waitress to cork it and took it with me. Walking thru the Praca, with all its cafe tables, street magicians, gawking tourists, locals on the cellphones, I came across small group of people surrounding four guys with guitars and a girl dancer. They were having a sort of rehearsal, before the big concert, right there, on the street. She was dancing barefoot; olive-skinned lithe beauty in flowing rags, not a glance at the public, a worry line between her eyebrows. It was like a scene from Merimee’s Carmen, updated. Guitars cried, begged and suddenly broke off on a high-pitched accord. She continued for a few moments by herself, then stopped among clapping and looked around as if awaken from a dream. Then took the hat from one of the guitarists and went around the circle. I gestured ” have no money” and instead pointed at my bottle. The five of them laughed (what’s a half a bottle for 5 of them? but they got the gesture), the older guy took my present, she hugged me and started to dance again, this time for me personally; guitars and shouts “ole!” joined her. It lasted no more than a couple of minutes, then they bowed and left, but I still remember her turbulent skirt and white teeth.
The big flamenco concert was memorable too, in a different sense. Nothing of the raw quality of ancient street theater, something more like the Le Théâtre de Clara Gazul. Senoras and senoritas, in their evening best, were given black and scarlet fans at the entrance (I still have mine – it’s gorgeous and NOT made in China), and they surely knew how to use it. Restrained and proper at the beginning, by the end of 2 intense blissful hours the public was shouting, whistling, singing with the musicians and jumping to their feet. Roses were thrown on the stage, to the divine feet of “balerina Mirabal”, as she was called on the program (apology for red-eye; I didn’t have time to adjust for the low light).
and she surely deserved them.
I can continue for hours describing similar mental images, which take a split second flashing in my memory. So instead of boring you further, let me just throw on the screen some random notes from my travel notebook.
– on the streets of Lisbon there are very few stocky people. Haven’t seen certifiably obese, so common in American cities. Usual face expression – alert, attentive. Often there is an opinion that Portuguese don’t smile. Yes, they are not giggling like idiots, but they respond likewise to your smile. They are polite and respectful of another’s privacy. Not knowing Portuguese, after 2 days I was able to recognize one word – obrigado (thank you): so often I heard it, and not necessarily addressed to me.
– bad teeth are everywhere. People are generally short. I was introduced to a theory that during centuries of importing the best physical specimen overseas, the country retained only short men – and then survival of the fittest played its role. How sound this theory is, I have no idea – but opinions from the audience are welcome.
– women dress either in black, with below-knee skirt, modest dark clutch and Thatcher-era haircuts (older generation, often very religious), or in pants/jeans/pant suits of every possible color, design and pattern. Very few young women wear skirts. Explanation – the idea of women equality is relatively new to the country (Salazar was gone in the 70’s – they have completely missed The Revolution!), and women celebrate their freedom to wear men’s clothes. [A received opinion. Discuss.]
– lots of young men with wedding rings. I got used to American tendency to get married much later in life – but here to see a 20-something guy, father of two, is normal. A disadvantage: nobody flatters my age here learning that I have a college-age son… Also, a marriage where husband is 5 to 10 years younger than his wife is not rare, at least in the city.
It’s entertainment in itself to observe foreigners in Portugal. In the South I befriended a couple from England, I. and R., who have been vacationing in Algarve for the last 12 years, she – a nurse, he – an engineer. It seems they knew the area better than locals; walked me a few miles to various attractions along the beach, advised on the the best restaurants for my budget and showed their favorite souvenir shop. But – they have never been to Lisbon, or other parts of the country. “We’re quite happy here”, they said. “Why spoil the good thing”?
– on the bus trip to Evora, a picturesque city with ancient University, beautiful non-Baroque cathedral
(a rarity) and labyrinth of Manueline streets
there were tourists from Europe as well as few Americans and even a Brazilian national. Who looked – and was – ethnic Japanese. Her family had lived in Brazil for 80 years; she could only speak Portuguese and some English; no Japanese. She said there are 2 million Japanese in Brazil, is that true? This information she revealed at lunch after excursion, in response to persistent questioning by a Texan. Two elderly ladies with Greek accent in their English at the table turned out to come from Naples, FL and expressed their irritation of having “too many tourists destroying our quiet beautiful town”. In 2 minutes, however, they found Portuguese customer service unsatisfactory: “these people are too proud for their own good; they should be thankful to us, spending good money in their backwater country”. That was hilarious – I exchanged glances with the French guy across the table – nobody else noticed anything out of line.
There was also an old Italian woman on the tour, positively mad. I had en empty seat next to me on the bus, and she moved there from the back; but she wouldn’t sit quiet – she tried to push me from my seat at the window, then she asked for a bathroom stop, then she kept interrupting the guide with requests to turn on A/C (or give her a blanket – it became too cold!) – all the while endlessly and excitedly talking in her native language.
That trip was fun.
– Portuguese stare. Not so much in the touristy South and in Lisbon, but in less-visited Porto I was constantly stared on; I started to feel I grew a tree on my nose or checked if i forgot to put on a skirt in the morning. Believe me, my beauty isn’t that outstanding and I’m not used to attracting so many glances. In two days I was:
a) the center of silent public attention on a tram;
b) in the park where I was looking for Museu Romantico and got a bit lost, a man was following me around; I couldn’t be mistaken since it was a weekday afternoon and there were not many visitors in the park. He disappeared when I finally entered the museum. I’m sure he didn’t have any indecent intentions, it’s just his curiosity took better of him.
c) two elderly signoras in the wine cellar couldn’t take their eyes off me, even when I changed the seat they moved the camp too.
-candid scenes from “Madonna and child” series. One – in one of plentiful tiny stores a mother seated her kid in the window, among the merchandise, and entertained him tossing an orange in the air. Another – on a steep narrow street a woman put an infant down for an afternoon nap – literally. On the sheet of carton on the pavement.

– beggars and bums don’t show a slightest embarrassment; on the contrary – they seem to be performing serious work and are full of self-respect. This guy was making rounds on the train station in Faro.
– I had a long and interesting conversation with concierge at my pensao in Porto, Nelson, a university graduate, about student societies. I showed him this shot
that I just took outside, and asked why I see lots of young and pretty people wrap themselves in black woolen capes, in the heat of September? Turned out, they are members of praxe, which sounded like [prAsh] – sort of fraternities in the local University. They certainly put much more meaning in their traditions, apart from usual pranks and childish rituals, compared to what I hear from a certain member of American fraternity. Nelson (who was not aware of any connection of his name with the Admiral – heh!) even researched online and printed an article on the topic for me – unfortunately, it was in Portuguese, so I can’t quote from it for yours and mine education!
Back in Lisboa, I was given further explanations – and even a demonstration of the famous cape (thick, almost feltish, wool, with earthy animal smell), and of special signs and emblems in the boyscout fashion – but I promised not to reveal the identity of the bearer, since boasting is against his fraternity rules.
There were many, many more interesting people…a clerk in the central tourist office, who sold me the ticket to the Evora bus tour and 3 days later run across me and L in the cafeteria of the Park of Nations’ mall: not only she recognized us first- she apologized profusely for the low quality of the tour (I didn’t say a thing!) and the incompetent translator; offered to retain tickets to excursions to other city attractions and was genuinely saddened to learn I was leaving the next day…A taxi driver who took me to the Fado restaurant and when instead of promised 10 minutes it took him about 18 (he missed the turn) – he asked for 1/2 of what was on the meter; and thanked me excessively when I paid the full fare and then some. A shopkeeper in Algarve, from whom I bought my cataplana, chatted with me about recipes, old porcelain china, and husbands (“ours won’t appreciate you, -she said – you should go to America, there are plenty of fine men there”)…a middle-aged couple seating next to me on the plane back: they were going on vacation to Macao; the husband was a RE developer. I was so starved for work, we spent an hour sketching layouts for the renovation of his new purchase, an apartment building in Cascais. I learned about many inexplicable restrictions of Portuguese building code; New York DOB is marvel of free enterprise compared to it. Imagine, no open plan allowed; all kitchens are required to be enclosed and have at least one window!
And of course, the jewel of my Portuguese collection, most pleasant people L and T, thank you. You made my trip truly memorable.
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