Portuguese particularities

As my time here in Portugal draws precipitously to a close, I am caught reflecting on all those little things that make a culture particular, and the steeping oneself in it inescapable for the understanding of it. So, besides the fact that the majority of the people with whom we most coincided were Brasilian immigrants, I am left with a decidedly happy memory of Portugal. In general, people are helpful, and, if not gregariously friendly, at least pleasantly polite. Of course, there is the horrificly closed accent of the north that renders certain words and phrases virtually unintelligible to the untrained ear, but, that is likely true of any insular community in any country.

Friday was spent at the ocean, in Aveiro with Juli, Kristina and Matt. This was the kind of beach experience that evoked summers in Miramar, replete with an escollera (still don´t know what you call these in Portuguese), boardwalk and colorful balneario tents in clusters along the water´s edge extending back to the comercial peatonal of chintzy taiwanese goods, available in any and every beach town on earth, I think. We met with their language teacher, Ana Rita, and had another marvelously spectacularly mediocre meal. The company, of course, made it all worth while, and the abundance of food for such a minimal price perhaps can allow us to forgive its lack of real flavor. Perhaps. Sara and I were joking that we are all still dreaming of the Mexican meal that I cooked at Francisco´s, as it was the best meal we ate all month. Ah yes. The simple pleasures of meals with rice and french fries on one plate. So, back to the particularities of the Portuguese, the things that guidebooks might be wont to include as they are not necessarily flattering, but which to me, make the experience that much more robust.

So, beyond the hyper-starchification of meals, and the lack of bone removal from fish, there are a few things upon which I would like to comment. First: movie theaters. Fascinating custom, indeed. When you buy a ticket at the university theater (and I am told at commercial theaters, though I have no first-hand knowledge of such) for a film, you must select your exact seat within the theater. Second: bathrooms. Much like in Mexico, toilets apparently are not built to accept hygenic paper, and it is instead deposited in overflowing wastebaskets to the side. (We can all guess that I commited regular acts of treason by not following this custom, as I likewise resist in Mexico). As experienced in Argentina, many toilets are accompanied by bidets, but the actual toilets (especially public ones) are liberated of actual toilet seats. Third: restaurants. Ok, this is perhaps the most disconcerting of all habits, and the most inexplicable. In restaurants, regardless of how many people there are, or how many actual menus, in which of the many languages spoken at the table, you will almost never receive the number of menus as people. At times there will be two to three for a table of 6, and others, only a single menu for the entire table. This inconvenience, however doesn´t stop the waitstaff from becoming annoyed that your entire table has not decided with some immediacy. With regards to things like bread, olives, butters, and patés, they are placed on the table, and then removed if not eaten, but are charged separately (an important thing to know) at .30€ a piece of bread or pat of butter as a general rule. The cheese that I have tried, thus far, is horrendous and not worth trying again, but the vinhos de casa are almost always extremely inexpensive and quite good. The gorjeta, propina, pourboire, tip etc... is not at all common, and the Portuguese wiuth whom I have eaten insist that it is simply not given. As my upbringing and internal monologue won´t permit me this grave inconsideration, it has come to pass that one leaves 1 or 2€ maximum, regardless of the amount of food consumed or the hours spent (as we shamefully left a few euro tip after 3 hours on the ribeiro of Porto´s rio Douro).

Oporto, vinho doce, is a marvelously pleasant particularity, and Kristina and I went to the Krohn Cavas (leaving Juli, Matthieu and Sara behind to enjoy the afternoon sun). I learned, in addition to the different processes of fermentation and bottling of the different types of Port wine (vintage will keep improving ad infinitum, because of its lack of oxidation, and must be set upright 24 hours before opening, opened an hour before drinking, and consumed in its entirety within 2 days whereas Colheitas are the only wines whose date is a "real" date, and which stop aging and improving upon bottling, but will maintain their bouquet and qualities for years with no diminishing in quality, and which can be opened--and absolutely not refrigerated in the case of reds and absolutely refrigerated in the case of whites-- and enjoyed over a course of 7 to 8 months) that vinho do Porto doesn´t indeed come from the name of the town O Porto, but rather because the wines which are produced in the Douro river valley some 50 kilometers from the actual city, were stored on the Gaia side, by the port because the Cavas could A) be there without paying land taxes, and B) the wind pattern was such that it kept that part of the river at a temperate and thus propitious for wine storing climate. Women would sell the wine, perched in baskets on their heads and shoulders calling out, «vinho doce, quem quer vinho doce?» and once it began being tasted, people asked where it came from and they said, from over their, over by the port, hence, the name, vinho do porto.

Now, it is off to receive my "diploma", and then on to Lisboa with Kristina and Sara. Kirsten will arrive tomorrow and we shall hit the pavement with a vengeance. Meanwhile, along with Juli´s friend Josefine who we picked up when she flew from Amsterdam to Porto, we had our last multi hour hurrah on the Mondego at the Italian restaurant that has seen more of our collective money than any other establishment in the city. We met a group of interesting Brazilian sociologist/ economists, had drinks on the dock and returned for dinner at the Italian place, before m oving to our final resting place at the cafe on Quebra Costas where our friend, and beer festival beer supplier, Daniel met up to say a final goodbye.

París a pie

It is Thursday, which means that it was just last week at this time that I found myself groggily lolling my head to one side on the early morning train to Lisboa. The night before had ended with a film, conversation and smoky hair, red wine and nervous flutters in my stomach. Off to Paris for me, on a whim, sponsored of course by parental units, to see my big bro, who I hadn´t seen for, we suddenly realized, something like three years.

The number 5 bus, just outside of the Estação Oriente takes you straight to the airport in about 20 minutes, and there I was, checking in to AirFrance, direct service to Charles DeGaulle. Everything went so smoothly that I knew there would have to be some sort of problem, and it was this: Ari and I were supposed to meet around 8 at the RER (rail into centre ville) bcause supposedly there was only one entrance. Alas, there were 2 entrances, one at terminal 1 where his international flight arrived, and one at 2 where my EU flight arrived. Add to that that his flight was a charter and therefore did not appear on any screens and one with similar numbers and letters appeared to be cancelled, by 10:45 I was in a bit of a panic. Had his plane been shot down? Had he been detained? Where would I sleep that night? Would my feeble French serve me in anything at all? So, just as my father was once again going to save my skin by booking a room at the Sheraton upstairs from me, Ari realized that he was at the other RER and found his way over to a very tired, very hungry me who was trying not to look too pathetic curled up in a ball on the floor, hugging my one and only overnight back to my chest and rocking myself on the cool marble floor.

After that, all was fabulous. We somehow managed to find ourselves on a free bus into town due to service on one of the metro lines, or the lack of service on the RER or I am not quite sure what. His French was decidedly rustier than he expected, but it was great to sit at midnight and catch eachother up on our lives in English, with no regard whatsoever for our linguistic vulgarity. I have decided that because I can now safely say that I speak three languages well and a fourth one meagerly, but learning, and that my crass Americanness will be a given regardless of how much or how little I attempt to dissimulate (I refuse to lie outright about my origin in most cases), I will allow myself to speak whichever language is the most efficient for communication with the largest number of people present.

Sigh. I got to see a very divy neighborhood somewhere in the banlieu, at 1 in the morning, the police officers with muzzled dogs inscribed large circles around the lighted metro stop, closed below, but peopled with a majority of African immigrants in brightly patterned shirts. Then on to another bus that the authority sent us on to the Gare du nord. Contents of stomach: small bottle of Bordeaux, and two cheese baguettes. We wandered about until we found a food-serving establishment and by three am, caught a cab to the decidedly two star hotel that AJ had booked us for 70€ a night. There was no air conditioning, nor fan, but a window that only opened a few inches from the top, and two miniature beds whose springs threatened to bounce me off upon any simple lateral movement. It was perfect!

In the morning, we decided to walk around, eat some pain au chocolate, and have the city be our museum. We walked from the 20ieme arrondissement all the way to the center, winding our way about, place de la nation, Bastille, along the Seine, Notre Dame, of course stopping for a photo op on the Ponte Neuf, Arc de Triomphe, past the Louvre and the Obelisk, to the Champs Elysees and finally to the Tour Eiffel at dusk just before they lit the sparkling lights that make it just a bit chintzier than it needs be. It was wonderful to see all the lugares comunes that I have come to know through years of French cinema, and while I behaved in no other way than that of a tourist, I tried to find the broken spaces too. The ugliness that makes a place real, the homeless lying listlessly behind the metro, the cracked and chipping wood, the famelic dogs. In contrast with Lisboa and Coimbra, in which the indigent animal population reserves itself mostly to the feline species, with a few notable exceptions, Paris was like most other cities I have known, canines ravaged by the elements and wizened by their years of scrap hunting, skulked about the underbelly of the city, hovering about the perimeter of the most widely peopled areas. The Seine had a terribly tacky and marvelous set up in which sun bathers lounged about and were offered fountains and misting machines with which to cool themselves. Food was far overpriced, and sadly, also not terribly exquisite. Granted, were I willing to spend hundreds of euros that I don´t have, I am quite certain that I could have had a wonderful meal, but I had to be satisfied with meat and potatoes, or salad, which, while different in presentation, is, sadly, not far from that to which I have been subject over the last month.
We talked, and talked, and walked and narrowly danced about arguments on politics and ethics, in which our views on the righteousness of violence in self defense differed, to say the least. When we finally took the metro back from Trocadero, found a late night meal which was decidedly unmemorable (as I can no longer remember it) and crashed around 2am, to be up in the morning for what he pleaded to be a day of less walking. We took the metro this time, over to Pigalle, to see the red light district, but he wouldn´t go into the Museum of Erotica with me. Ah well. We walked up to Montmartre, stopped for him to nap in a park while I listened to a street performer and was the only one who clapped, as the audience was mostly captive lunchers. I visited the Basilique de Sacre Coeur, and several other churches on the way, not because of any religious pilgrimage (let´s be honest) but because I wanted to see, and quite confirmed, that the French, for all their exuberance in l´amour, are a much more culturally staid (they would say refined) people. When we finally tired of winding our way back down through fake art, opting to eat in lieu of the Dalí museum, we found a restaurant (after multiple attempts to eat, hors de horaire, it would seem, because everywhere we went they told us that the chef had already left. Aside, AJ kept hearing them say that there was no chevre so they could not make anything but croque monsieurs, and it wasn´t until I pointed out that it was a "chef" that was missing and not a "goat" that it made much more sense). There we drank too much house wine and finally got into a full blown debate which was bound to end badly had we not both been more invested in reconstructing our relationship than destroying it. I insisted that he was a bigot, and he that I was incapable of taking care of myself, but strangely, it was ok, because we agreed to disagree, only to find ourselves smack in the middle of a manisfestation against Israel the US and all other nameable evils by an amalgamation of Libanese, Hamas and Socialist flag-bearing protesters. At this point, I just wanted to talk to I. which is exactly what I did, avoiding further argument about the duties of a government with relation to free speech.
At this point we were looking for a public bathroom, all of which seemed to be defunct, and a pleasant man from Morocco, tried to help, and then apologized by saying that Paris was shit, to which I smilingly replied, "just like the rest of the world" (of course this was in French). So, as we were all out of ideas, and in urgence of a toilette, we stopped at a café and met a couple from California, Jennifer and Jim, osha coordinator and aerospace engineer respectively, with whom we spent the rest of the afternoon drinking (not exactly heavily, but steadily). After they had several Kir´s, and I iced tea, we headed for the Quartier Latin, and started with tapas and red wine, at a small Spanish Tasca. I was highly pleased with myself because I got to speak all four languages in one place, as the owner was Spanish, and he sent me to talk to the bartender who was from Leiria, Portugal and somehow spilled the story of how he almost lost his arm, but due to his experience as a firefighter and the doctor who was formed in Coimbra, it was reattached and fully functional. I was privvy to a display of scars and then, politely excused myself. We then took it upon ourselves to cause three different bars to shut down, as we sampled several more bottles of vin rouge. By 2 when we were wandering home, thinking it might be a good idea to walk home to walk off the heady drunkennes, we stopped for the requisite midnight crepe with nutella. Ari let me download my 600 photos and burn them, along with a few other things to a DVD so that I could continue taking pictures, and he left for the airport at 5 am, at which point I went back to sleep until 9.

My last day in Paris was, admittedly, a bit lonely, but lovely nonetheless. And, as I tend to enjoy my solitude, it was just what I needed. I spent several hours in the Louvre, and saw the large format Italian, French and Spanish paintings that of course have been part of my cultural repertoire for years, and with which I felt I was having a happy recontre. There was a relatively small, but interesting collection of artifacts from Oceania and the Americas, and it was decidedly less crowded in that wing of the building. I was shocked (because I do no prior research) to learn that there is absolutely no modern art, nor impressionist work at the Louvre, but rather those things are housed in other places, so I felt no real need to spend my afternoon ogling classical statues, of adonnises, and instead headed, quite accidentally, for the closing of the Tour de France. In fact I might not have been inclined to stay for the grand entrance, were it not that I was avoiding an Egyptian man who had sidled up to me on my soiltary exit form the Louvre and who was quite vigorously insisting upon taking me to eat by the Opera house. I declined, in French, by determining, "Je vais rester ici. Tu partes." at which point I found an empty spot along the rail, to listen happily to my ipod, and watch the crowd, the floats, and then finally, in, quite literally, a blaze of glory, the bikers, flanked by motorcycles and cars.
After that I managed to find a way back across to the other side, and ended up eating at a small neighborhood restaurant, in which the waiters, cooks, and regulars, all intermingled, and coexisted with the tourists. St. Germaine, I think it was called. I had gratinee a l´oignon, poulet frite (that wasn´t really, but rather in a light brown sauce, edible but not fabulous) and after several caraffes of cool water, I felt ready for my last caraffe of red wine, which I sipped slowly over a mousse au chocolat, that took me two hours to finish, as I read, and was thoroughly amused by my waiter´s antics. I read a bit, and pondered their behaviour, imagining a short story whose setting would be there, or somewhere like it, and watching the character development unfold. I still might write that story, I spent a good deal of time watching, and in fact, I think it might have been the closest glimpse I got of actual French culture.

The metro was just in front (which, of course, is why I chose this as my final resting spot), and I managed to buy a ticket back to the airport, learn that I had to switch at Concorde, and get on with no problem. It was only once I was at Concorde that I realized that A) I was far more tipsy than I had initially realized, and B) I had no fucking clue as to what I had to take to get to the airport. Mostly this confusion stemmed from the fact that I didn´t know, or wasn´t certain, at least, that my metro ticket could be reused to get me into the RER station, which, I was informed by the gendarme that was making his rounds, was in fact possible. After that, all was well. I checked in to the Airport Sheraton, had a cup of decaf coffee, took a bubble bath and fell promptly to sleep. By 10 the next morning (having stolen back an extra hour) I was in Lisbon, on the bus 5, headed for Oriente, and back to Coimbra by 1.
After that, it was far less eventful until the evening, and my day consisted of washing my clothing in the bathroom and trying not to have it drip into pools on the floor (practically impossible), and then to film class at five where we saw «Recordações Da Casa Amarela» which I fully enjoyed in all of its quirkiness (imagine if Woody Allen had been born and raised in Portugal, perhaps more on this later). Kristina and I went out to dinner at the Indopaquistani restaurant down by the river, which ended up being far more amusing than we had expected, because our Brasilian waiter, who was certainly obsequious, ended up turning up the charm ten notches, ending in a marriage proposal to me (only partially in jest) and warm, hilarious conversation about the Portuguese and his view of their behaviour after living here for 7 years.
In the morning I had my last day of classes, and in the afternoon, I cooked a pseudo-Mexican dinner, at the program director´s mother´s house for Juli, Kristina, Sara, Gorauv and him. They were busily studying while I was enjoying the glory of a fully equipped kitchen and my own hand´s season. Yesterday the day was spent in language exams, for which I obviously spent no time studying, but which were fine. And after drinking (surprise surprise) red wine down by the river at our favorite Italian restaurant with Matthieu, Juli and Kristina, I wandered back to a café, read over my history notes, and meandered back to the Teatro Gil Vicente, where I watched «Lisboetas» a really spectacular documentary by SErge Trefault on immigration over the last decade into Portugal.

Upward spiral, or our adventures in the land of castles and monasteries

So, back in just enough time to get my head on straight, get homework done and plan next weekend´s trip. Lessons learned:1) carrying a small sari along with is useful not only for wrapping around hips as belt or skirt, wiping sweat from one´s dripping brow or carrying small backages, but also quite suitable, when tightened with sufficient force, as a makeshift knee brace. 2) A diet of advil while useful in combatting swelling and joint pain, is nothing compared to a few late night bottles of tinto.

Kristina, her friend Emily and I got up early Friday morning, too early, after staying out past midnight for an open air Fado concert under the Arco de Almedina, the outlying edge of the original walled city. The voices of men in black capes echoed into the melting night and people stood mesmerized, damp in the humid summer air, cloth sticking to skin, and breath held. We caught an 8 o´clock train to Lisboa, found our way through the metro to the bus station with service to Mafra, and met Emily´s very young (I mean that in the nicest possible arched eye-brow sort of a way when referring to a 21 year old) Austrian friend Stefi by 11. We spoke a muddled mix of Portuñol, English and German (no, not me) and managed to find ourselves, an hour and a half later, on the sidewalk in the town of Ericeira.

Now what? Stefi, it would seem, had the plan, there was a sort of girl´s surfing competition, and she had it in her head that she could learn to surf, in a day, there. Apparently she had been invited by a Brazilian videographer who was friends with her new (she arrived in Portugal last week) roomates, and was there to film it all for his company. Before consulting, or rather after a muddled response from some boys on the corner, Stefi started walking up the road, thumb stuck wide in order to hitch a ride. I limped behind with my very small pack and when we spotted the Bombeiros, just across the way, decided to stop and ask about the competition myself. It was 2-3 kilometers the other way, he said, at Foz de Lisandro. About face, sun beating down, packs growing heavier by the minute.

Is it socially acceptable to hitchhike in Portugal we ask ourselves, minus Stefi who his busy taking three large strides turning backwards and jutting her thumb out into the air. It seems harmless enough with the four of us, but, as it turns out, the Portuguese don´t tend to pick up hitchhikers. Nonetheless, a young Belgian couple from the Flemish side let us all pile into their tiny car as they were headed for the very same beach (according to the guidebooks, Portugal´s best surf beach.) Between managing to change into our suits and stumble across the hot sand, we settled in, the four of us, to varying degrees of communication. Stefi procured the use of a body board by flirting with the life guards, and even the free use of fins (they rented them) and then proceeded to ask for instructions about how to use it. The water was cold, Atlantic cold, but swimmable free of neoprene suit, and the cool felt so good on my knee that I didn´t even care about the force with which the waves were pounding against my firmly rooted feet. Probably did more damage than good, but, I did manage to escape unscathed by the sun. I must admit that I am rather prud of myself for remembering daily to apply sunblock before leaving the house, regardless of my plans.

By late afternoon it was quite clear that Stefi had no intention of doing anything, and was mortified that we might want to eat again after such delicacies as bad burgers (or in my case a strange baguette with tunafish, mayonaise, canned mushroom and lettuce) and ice cream. Things were not looking good. Kristina and I began to make contingency plans, as our desires (mine decidedly unimposed) were being quite ignored. What would you want to go to Belém for? Stefi wanted to know... You know, the cathedral, the tower of discovery, the Torre de Belém, the pasteis... Ah yes, young indeed, and fully set on spending the weekend at the beach. We all agreed, by 8 that it was time to head into the actual town to find accomodations, or a bus schedule, or food, or all of the above. And of course, Stefi was unwilling to walk back into town, when there was a parking lot half full of cars and people leaving. «Your Portuguese is better, you ask» she said. I replied, «I´m really not comfortable asking people for things» «Well, neither am I!» «Yes, but, actually, I am really just fine walking»... tense silence. Stefi procures a ride for two, tells me and Kristina to take it if we want, and that she will try to get another ride. We decline, and start the climb up the stairs cut into the cliff where we pause to take in the spectacular scenery. We had agreed to meet at 9. We walk back towards the town in the crepuscular light, laughing about what to do next, fully appreciating the view of the tiny beachside resort as we descended upon it. We stop and ask for the price of a night at a Pensão, it is 50€. We breath easier. We find the turismo office at the edge of the Praça da república (every town has one of these homonym plazas) and find that the last bus back to Lisboa leaves in 5 minutes, but the so-called express bus leaves at 8:20 am. We agree that this is the best plan of action. Under the bowry of the trees there is the thunderous noise of thousands of small, anonymous birds that are flapping wildly and chirping in a frenzy. If a dog barks, there is a full second of paused silence before the roar of their locomotion reinstates itself, stirring the leaves and showering the plaza with the white dust of their dried excrement.

After much discussion and various options, we all stayed together at a small hostel just up the street for 45€, in total. By 11 we were all showered, lotioned and back out for dinner, and finally met with Stefi´s friend for drinks at the «Luna Bar» a happening place, it would seem, with an equal mix of locals and vacationers from Lisbon and beyond. After just under 5 hours of sleep we checked out (I had to remind the dona to return my driver´s license), leaving Stefi behind to sleep and stay at the beach, but with the keys to her place in Lisbon, where we arrived just a short two hours later, post metro to the Bairro Alto.

The days seem to extend out into themselves, each one seeming like several distinct days, weeks feeling like months. It feels like years since I have been home, and while I am not tired of travelling, yet, I indeed feel like this pace cannot keep up. And still, I go... We made our way to the Praça de Comercio and from there, to Belén, visited the nave of the Jeronomite Cathedral, walked to the Torre de Belém and looked out over the city from the edge of the water. We wandered back past the Tower of discovery, commemorating the voyages of Vasco de Gama and the Portuguese incursions into the brave new world, which stood in front of the Ponte 25 de Abril (The Golden Gate´s identical twin). We lunched at a sidewalk café overlooking the park, drank too much sangría for the heat (at least Kristina and I did) and then returned to the center of Lisbon, so I could see the Rossio, afamed plaza, that housed several sculpted cows (which seem to be a recent and proliferating addition to the city, and I think a fundraiser not uncommon to to other large cities in the world). From there we went to the Castelo de Dom Jorge, high above, on top of one of Lisboa´s seven hills, and finally made our way down through the Alfama district, stopped to hear women singing Lisboan Fado in small taverns, and as the night was falling, around 10 pm, made it back to the Bairro Alto, to the house and back out for a late dinner at 11, weaving our way up the decidedly milder-than-Coimbra hills, between young (men mostly) in varying states of inhebriation. Our last stop was at a small park that overlooked the city, in which groups of disparate social classes and age groups congregate to sit, talk, drink and play guitar. We walked down the street and once more let ourselves into Stefi´s apartment, free of the other 7 roomates, and indeed, herself as she «missed» the last bus back in order to stay for the competition´s closing night fete. Just as well, though she was extremely generous to let us stay at her place.

In the morning Emily flew back to Frankfurt at 7, and Kristina and I indulged in the luxury of sleeping until we felt like it and then, exiting the uninhabited house after a nice morning shower. It was sometime around that time the morning before that I had thought to brace my knee, and though I must have looked quite silly, I was already feeling a good deal better, and able to ascend and descend stairs without having my leg buckle beneath my weight. We discovered that the guidebooks were not up to date as the Rossio trains station was closed, and trains to Sintra left from the Jardim zoologico. By noon we were on our way to Sintra where, after spending far too much (by Portuguese standards - 10€ each) on a decent but unstellar lunch (with one piece of lettuce masquerading as a salad) we decided to go up to the Castles that overlook the city. We should have taken the 434 bus, but failed to realize exactly what kind of an undertaking we had before us, and instead, walked for over an hour, quite probably 8 kilometers up hill with our packs (and lest we forget the excruciating knee) winding up the paved road through the (thankfully) high-ceilinged forest. The air was much cooler there than the 39 degrees in Lisboa, and while we were hot and sweaty (and I somewhat discouraged about halfway through the journey), by the time we reached the top, it felt as if we had actually accomplished something. At this point we realized that we didn´t have enough time to see both sites and split up, based on interest. She went to the Castelo de Mouros, which was the cask of a Castle that was mostly (from what I understand) in ruins. I opted for the Manueline Palace on the top of the mountain (as I like conquering things up high), which was extremely colorful, and at the same time a museum. I caved and took the 1.50€ tram up to the castle instead of walking another 20 minutes up, but mostly because time was short and we had a train to catch around 6 to make it back to Lisboa before 8, when the last bust left for Coimbra.

We met at the accorded 5:30 time and the bus was so packed that we were not charged the fare, as the driver just piled people in, mostly because they were all tourists and had bought the day pass. We made it back to Lisboa on the second half of our round-trip fare back to the estação oriente, where we got a 7:10 train back to Coimbra.

After stumbling out of the very last train (after transferring from Coimbra B) we decided once more for our favorite pizzaria and gelateria, when we ran into none other than our friend Juli with an adorable Parisian boy, Matt, who was instantaneously initiated into our club of the lude and inappropriate (being Parisian, I mean, come on). Juli´s friends found us there, and we drank red wine late into the night, an activity that Mathieu and I repeated last night as well. And now I am off to art history class, so the rest, as they say, is history.

Um mundo melhor???

It is always embarassing to have tears running down your cheeks (mixed with sweat, in this case... bestial, truly), in the middle of class, but, there I was, wiping indignant tears from my eyes, with the back of a hand still damp from a futile shower. And, incidentally, rather apropos of Sole´s last post. I did manage to pull myself together enough to finally explore the gorgeous Biblioteca Joanina just in front of my building, and even procured a special invitation back to look at some illustrated manuscripts because I took the time to ask the caretaker questions about the books and their care. But all the rest will be a story for another day, or at least another post.

Jorge de Sena «Cartas a meus filhos sobre os fuzilamentos de Goya» (1963)

Não sei, meus filhos, que mundo será o vosso. É possível, porque tudo é possível, que ele seja aquele que eu desejo para vós. Um simples mundo, onde tudo tenha apenas a dificuldade que advém de nada haver que não seja simples e natural. Um mundo em que tudo seja permitido, conforme o vosso gosto, o vosso anseio, o vosso prazer, o vosso respeito pelos outros, o respeito dos outros por vós. E é possível que não seja isto, nem seja sequer isto o que vos interesse para viver. Tudo é possível, ainda quando lutemos, como devemos lutar, por quanto nos pareça a liberdade e a justiça, ou mais que qualquer delas uma fiel dedicação à honra de estar vivo. Um dia sabereis que mais que a humanidade não tem conta o número dos que pensaram assim, amaram o seu semelhante no que ele tinha de único, de insólito, de livre, de diferente, e foram sacrificados, torturados, espancados, e entregues hipocritamente â secular justiça, para que os liquidasse "com suma piedade e sem efusão de sangue."Por serem fiéis a um deus, a um pensamento, a uma pátria, uma esperança, ou muito apenas à fome irrespondível que lhes roía as entranhas, foram estripados, esfolados, queimados, gaseados, e os seus corpos amontoados tão anonimamente quanto haviam vivido, ou suas cinzas dispersas para que delas não restasse memória. Às vezes, por serem de uma raça, outras por serem de urna classe, expiaram todos os erros que não tinham cometido ou não tinham consciência de haver cometido. Mas também aconteceu e acontece que não foram mortos. Houve sempre infinitas maneiras de prevalecer, aniquilando mansamente, delicadamente, por ínvios caminhos quais se diz que são ínvios os de Deus. Estes fuzilamentos, este heroísmo, este horror, foi uma coisa, entre mil, acontecida em Espanha há mais de um século e que por violenta e injusta ofendeu o coração de um pintor chamado Goya, que tinha um coração muito grande, cheio de fúria e de amor. Mas isto nada é, meus filhos. Apenas um episódio, um episódio breve, nesta cadela de que sois um elo (ou não sereis) de ferro e de suor e sangue e algum sémen a caminho do mundo que vos sonho. Acreditai que nenhum mundo, que nada nem ninguém vale mais que uma vida ou a alegria de té-1a. É isto o que mais importa - essa alegria. Acreditai que a dignidade em que hão-de falar-vos tanto não é senão essa alegria que vem de estar-se vivo e sabendo que nenhuma vez alguémestá menos vivo ou sofre ou morre para que um só de vós resista um pouco mais à morte que é de todos e virá. Que tudo isto sabereis serenamente, sem culpas a ninguém, sem terror, sem ambição, e sobretudo sem desapego ou indiferença, ardentemente espero. Tanto sangue, tanta dor, tanta angústia, um dia - mesmo que o tédio de um mundo feliz vos persiga - não hão-de ser em vão. Confesso que multas vezes, pensando no horror de tantos séculos de opressão e crueldade, hesito por momentos e uma amargura me submerge inconsolável. Serão ou não em vão? Mas, mesmo que o não sejam, quem ressuscita esses milhões, quem restitui não só a vida, mas tudo o que lhes foi tirado? Nenhum Juízo Final, meus filhos, pode dar-lhes aquele instante que não viveram, aquele objecto que não fruíram, aquele gesto de amor, que fariam "amanhã".E. por isso, o mesmo mundo que criemos nos cumpre tê-lo com cuidado, como coisa que não é nossa, que nos é cedida para a guardarmos respeitosamente em memória do sangue que nos corre nas veias, da nossa carne que foi outra, do amor que outros não amaram porque lho roubaram.

pleasure pain principal

All things enjoyable must end in pain?

Er. Um. Ok, so for some mysterious reason unbeknownst to me, my left knee has established a pattern of semi-constant pain, exacerbated, of course, by descending or climbing stairs and hills. You see my dilemma, of course.

While I have only a five minute walk to school, it is, quite literally, up hill both ways. Kristina, who is studying medicine, played doctor with me last night into the wee hours (no, no, nothing like that). As I hobbled about, injured from our excursion. There was a trip to the spectacularly preserved Roman ruins of Conímbriga (town which gave its name to Coimbra when systematically abandoned first by the Bishop and then by the townspeople with the encroaching Visigoth and Barbar invasions in their flight to AEMENIUM (now Coimbra). We traipsed about the baths and rescued mosaic floors, and surprsingly during said march, my body cooperated relatively well. Note to self: guided tours with knowledgeable guides, excellent idea. Much of the city (only 25% excavated) was knocked down by the inhabitants themselves in a desperate attempt to construct a fortified city wall with the stones, and yet, much remained. We watched a play by Aristófones: O Parlamento das Mulheres, a somewhat adulterated version of the classic theater, on a stage in the selfsame space of the Roman amphitheater, but with techno music and a song I recognized from I.´s children´s Putumayo collection as soundtrack. Strange but wonderful? Stage but sunderful?

Only complaints would be the attack of the killer mosquitoes, and the fact that when I tried speaking to a new student from Valencia, I was fully incapable of fending off the Portuguese. That is, of course I haven´t forgotten Spanish, but I have to consciously and deliberately think about my word choice to speak one language instead of the other, and what comes out is still a mix of Portuñol, leaning farther one way than the other depending on my intentionality, and sounding vaguely like Italian, especially when I start to say «mas» to mean «but» or «pero» which I know is also lexically available to me in Spanish, but not in common parlance and I am left saying «ma» as I catch the word halfway out of my mouth. When he suggested I speak in Portuguese I was actually relieved! Creepy.

Saudades

Things have finally slowed down just enough to catch my breath, and to begin having saudades. This is a particularly Portuguese language concept, sort of like nostalgia, and melancholy and missing someone or something, but at the same time a sort of a sweet tug, something to be cultivated. I was only to cry myself to sleep, lulled by the soft music and the inescapability of everything that I have loved and left behind, or perhaps from sheer exhaustion.

The coimbra fado that we went to hear the other night couldn´t do what a few neatly plucked cords and familiar voices could. In fact, Coimbrian fado, while beautiful, and in its instrumental form quite similar to Spanish guitar, is too intellectual. Only sung by men, still a privilege of academic riguer, and male privilege here in the heart of the oldest university city of Portugal. It was fun though, to go out with a large group of friends from such distant points on the earth as Tokyo, Extremadura, Berlin, Minnesota, Amsterdam, Korea and Paris, all communicating in varying mixtures of Portuguese with other languages. The restaurant was a converted Chapel, and afterwards, there was a misty damp silence that hung over the city, lights twinkling off the rust-orange roofs.

Juli and I went down to the river to see our friends at the provisional Biergarten (now closed post-mundial) for a few free beers and some company, and then back up at the crack of dawn to go on an academic excursion from hell. Cheyla had warned that they were lame, but damn insistent me wanted empirical evidence of the like, and was supplied with more than enough. I think the last time I was subject to so many hours on a bus for the sole purpose of driving by tourist attractions without stopping for more than 15 minutes for pee and shopping breaks was on the way to Ocho Ríos in Jamaica when I was 9. Do the math. Or don´t. I hope it is another several decades before I am lulled into the belief that a tour bus full of people with several stops will mean something other than cramped conditions and overpriced lunch.

Granted, we had fun, but in the way that you do when you are on a field trip in middle school and the fun is the bus itself. We were supposed to the Serra da estrela national park, but spent less than 15 minutes within its borders looking at a man-made lake and its accompanying dam (the Portuguese love their barragens). I was envisioning a hike among the rocky outcroppings, but alas it was not to be, instead we drove 5 hours to see a museum at the University of Beira Interior on none other than Wool. I could now tell you all far more than anyone should be subject to knowing about the fabrication of woolen products at this in situ factory museum... The only really interesting thing was that they used cochenilha (cochinilla) from Mexico as one of their color sources which, I think, is the self same bright red color obtained from nopal cactus parasites that was used to color the spectacular Teotihuacan murals.

Then another 4 hour drive back.

Juli invited me back to her house for a shower with actual hot water (we have been having boiler issues at our house) and her luxuriant body products (from Rituals, the store she works at in Amsterdam) and then to the game to see the girls. It was packed, for Portugale, and though Ricardo committed at least one «frango»-missing an easy ball between his arms, and hence upholding in the eyes of some, his epithet of «frangueiro» (newly learned slang, sorry, had to write it somewhere)- at least they got one goal in edgewise to muster some sort of a dignified exit. Daniel, and his other friends, attentive beyond all realms of normalcy (mostly because he wanted to see what would happen with him and Juli, but partly because there is a sort of code of gentlemanliness uncommon in our parts) and they actually procured chairs for me and Juli because we were standing even though there were over a hundred people there before us, all standing in the dust and straining to see the screen. Ah well. After the game we sat around and drank whiskey and coke and watched the last of the firework festival before all being convinced (along with Kristina and Sarah) to stay out (despite our decidedly un-out-going attire) and check out a local club on the other side of the river.

What have I learned? That I am far too old to stay out dancing all night. The dancing was great, if hot and crowded, we stumbled out all around 6:30 to a greyish sky . Portuguese people (and here I am going to make a crude generalization about an entire nation based on only several hour´s experience) are not particularly good dancers. I don´t know what I expected, and god knows I am no specialist, but people all sort of bunched together in a big knot and moved, not altogether arythmically, shifting from one foot to the other and moving their arms but not much else. We were shot dirty looks for taking up more than our allotted space or perhaps for gyrating too vehemntly, or maybe even for grinding (Daniel said that girls here don´t dance that way). The bouncers, however, get high marks for whisking away obnoxiously drunk men trying to rub up against unsuspecting backsides while unbuttoning shirts in lude excess.

I could not, however, sleep until I had done the handwashing of the tobacco permeated dress and undergarments and taken a cold (not by choice, but rather nice nonetheless) shower. By noon Kristina and I were up, and our day consisted of a compensatory behavior. Ok, that´s a lie to hide our ultimate dorkdom. We found an Adega típica and spent three hours over a breakfast of really great house wine, fish croquets, beans with a vegetable called couve (which is grown and used in abundance but as of yet, untranslateable - sort of like acelgas or swiss chard, I think). Of course we felt obliged to eat the chocolate mousse that came included, I mean, it would have gone to waste if we hadn´t, right? Then, our one big accomplishment of the day was finding a real bookstore. Yes, big, bright, black and white with foreign and national language titles, art books and novels. So what if I spent about half of what my housing for the month cost on books... (I feel the need to justify the purchase of books, something must be wrong). What I did not find, however, were guidebooks for Portugal in Portuguese... and I even looked through the whole entire section.

Before we left the house for the final, our senhoura de casa accosted us once more with bolo, or the Portuguese version of cake. We have come to the conclusion that this is the one way that she knows how to show concern. The park was desert for the final cup match, once Portugal was out, it seems, there was no more interest, save for a few highly obnoxious French tourists (who preceeded to try and have a drunken conversation with us after the game about how American tourists always go to France to drink because the legal age in the states is 21) and a pack of only slightly rowdy Italian families. Morning came far too early today, but I am looking to my class on Portuguese cinema, so I best go home for a nap before then, or else I´ll be crying myself to sleep again tonight.

Cardinal sins and other sundries

Giving a penalty kick on an iffy at best foul is one for starters. Not liking beer or football in a country that expects both of those things, another?

Juli, Kristina, Sarah and I have been, if separable, at least great companions, and steadfast visitors to the festival de Cerveja on game days. On the 4th I offered to the gods the gift of no longer biting my nails if only they would let Italy win, and drank far too much Sagres for my own good, but, well, we were having a good time, and it was mostly free because we have made friends with the guys running the show. And the gods responded. Two truly gorgeous goals in the last minute of extra play. The Portuguese were not so lucky though. Perhaps because I didn´t up the ante, offering my second born child or something of the like... Portugal played much better, and yet, lost with dignity (a cheap penalty goal hardly counts, only it does). So, I believe it is quite clear who must now win.

I don´t like soccer, our new friend Daniel affirms, or beer. Neither do I, but the World Cup is different, and because wine was not an option? Well, it is time that I at least learn to tolerate beer, right? Learn which are better and which are worse? Probably for about as long as the Cup continues, and then I shall lose interest.

The town is tiny and we are now running into familiar faces in the plazas and parks. Clearly we spend 90% of our non-class hours roaming the streets and being louder and more obnoxious than we would like to admit. Last night we spent 3 hours standing at the foot of the bridge on the side of the Rio Mondego opposite the Convento da Santa Clara in which the image of Isabel the Rainha Santa and Coimbra´s patron saint is housed. We are in the middle of her festivities, and so felt that out of sheer curiosity we should stand uncomfortably and watch for something, anything, to happen. Eventually it did, children dressed as medieval kings and queens, dispersed among many devoted, candle-bearing adults and few pilgrims crawling on their knees wound their way for hours towards the Rua de Sofia until finally the Rainha (not much to look at, in all honesty) was stopped twenty feet from us, a sermon broadcast over the darkened and hushed city, followed by an A capella liturgical chant by men whose beautiful voices boomed across the silent plaza. What we weren´t expecting was perhaps the most spectacular display of fireworks that I have seen in years. We shall ignore the fact that our backs, knees and feet ached from standing in one position for so many hours. The festivities only happen every other year, and we felt obliged to be there.

Friday, sexta feira, has come and promises to go with equal relaxation. I honestly can´t remember when I have felt so at ease, at peace with the world around me. Granted, I have stayed far from newspapers and television, so the outside world doesn´t dare to depress me in all its brutality and impossibility. It is as if I were in an enchanted temple to nothing but the pursuit of knowledge, and knowledge for its own sake, with no pressing deadlines, nor required attractions, no expectations. I may take a riverboat by myself this afternoon, feeling the desire to be alone for a bit, write some postcards, have a galão, wander through the park. I was tempted to explore another city by myself this morning, but decided that hand washing was a more pressing necessity, and besides, I can always do that Sunday with my friends.

There is a forgetting that I needed, that I didn´t know, or maybe did know subconsciously that was necessary, a letting go of self-imposed tensions and anxieties, responsibilities to others. I am finding how to be responsible to and for myself again.

Tenho sono

Tengo sueño. I´m sleepy, but I have no dreams. No tengo un sueño, nor sonhos, or anything of the sort. I feel a bit like a desert, long since the torrential downpours and far from anything new. I imagined the fecundity of writing poetry while sitting quietly, relaxing in the park, halfway back from an excusrsion for laundry detergent, milk and bread but suddenly realized that I have nothing to say. Surprising, I know. Well it isn´t so much that I have nothing to say, or even nothing to think about, but rather that when one flips the switch to reception it is extremely difficult to then porduce anything of value for posterity. Last night I realized that it had been weeks since I dreamed. I stayed up late talking with Kristina about what she did over the weekend while I was gone. I tried to evoke some kind, any kind of description of the overwhelming peace that I found in the country, but it just comes out like a soporific stew of blanched landscapes and crumbling castles.

Sara was my first Portuguese professor at school. Her cousin (who had no business looking so good for 40) Dulce picked me up on the corner, rescuing me from a somewhat uncomfortable conversation on the street corner. We waited at her parents house in Sao Martinho do Obispo, a «freguesía» (she explained that it is the smallest governmental unit in Portugal) just outside the city. Manela, her cousin arrived and I had my first taste of pizza (of course I never would have tried this on my own, although my new friend Juli, from Amsterdam, was clamouring for it). Portuguese pizza, is all its own. We left for Idanha-a-nova around 10 and pulled in around 1 in the morning. After about fifteen minutes of sitting in the back seat, I zoned out, fully capable now of understanding anything (practically) in Portuguese, but detached enough to be able to disconnect if not being directly addressed. Sara was outside waiting with their 93 year old grandmother, tiny white-headed woman, with misty eyes and a warm smile, who each time she saw me, tried to lift up my skirt because she said I had beautiful legs, unlike her granddaughters who, in her opinion are too skinny. (I realized of course that it was indeed time to procure a razor and did so promptly today.)

Sara's father is the presidente municipal, and we stayed at the newly remodeled house, so new that light fixtures had yet to be installed and though the workers came the following day, they abandoned ship to watch the game. And what a game. The Portuguese were fully unable to attack and each time they had an opportunity for a break they thwarted it with a pass backwards. Absolutely infuriating and could be likened to the technique used in torture and certain relationships in which tiny scraps are offered, and then rescinded, only to be offered in greater or lesser degrees, maddening the victim or lover. But, I digress.

We saw the large dam, built in 1930 under Salazar (insert brief history of Portuguese dictatorship), and we attended, briefly, a colloquium on cultural patrimony of the zona raiana (frontier with Spain). I was initiated, finally, to the delicacy that is bacalhau, afraid that it would be as horribly salty as I remember, but rather amazingly tender. I spoke Portuguese until I felt like my tongue would fall out of my mouth, drank my first sips of Porto, traipsed to the top of a castle ruin in the «most portuguese town in Portugal» Monsanto, and finally went to the Feira, the town festivities, which seemed like Yautepec´s carnaval, or any other small town in which the motive of the celebration becomes much less important than the celebration itself, a rare opportunity for the town´s young and old alike to parade about, mixing smells of cotton candy, popcorn and chouriço and frango grelhado...

And now, after a day in the sun, reflecting on all this and nothing at all, I think I will sleep for a bit until I go to this night´s festivities.