First day in, we trekked over to a famous indoor market that was on the waterfront. Unlike the Sawmill Market in Albuquerque it sported cooking show chefs dolling out precious portions of highly decorated seafood (except for one tiny booth offering octopus hotdogs, which intrigued me but at 12 Euros and a long line, I demurred). For some reason, maybe it was the high hangar-style ceiling, or the line of fashionably cute nooks serving first dibs food court tables, or the packed international gathering of in-transit people, but I had a zombie induced time-slip moment where I actually thought I was still in the terminal concourse at the Newark airport.
Making it back to our BnB, I hit the sack around 5 and woke up at 11 hearing loud conversations at the coffee kiosk in the park across the street. Looking out the window I saw young slickly dressed couples arranging taxi rides and sitting around tables having a jolly time since the kiosk not only serves coffee, but beer and wine. It always happens when I travel overseas that with observational jolts like this it feels as though I’m returning to civilization. It’s as if for some karmic reason (I did a bad, bad thing in a previous life—I’m thinking as a deranged monk I might have performed blood sacrifices in a neighboring convent) I’ve been relegated to spending the majority of my days in a country dominated by Puritan values.
So up in the morning after about ten hours of sleep, and after taking advantage of the creatively constructed cappuccino from the kiosk of my dreams, we went on what was described as a fairly “flat walk” that would take us to Castelo de São Jorge (known for its dominating view of Lisbon and possible haunt of my former monkish horrors—every castle has to have had its suitably demented resident monk).
No longer zombies, as lively as anyone could expect from two jet-lagged 70+ travelers, we rambled our way down Dom Pedro IV until I noticed a statue of a man with his face hidden in a book. Could it be…. Yes! It was a bronze statue of Fernando Pessoa, Portugal’s most famous 20th century poet. He wrote poems that he never submitted as if he wrote them, but as if they were the creations of different people; not pseudonymous in their devising, but, as he claimed, “heteronomous” because he believed that he actually was that totally different person who wrote the poem. And this statue is particularly fitting since Fernando, who died in his forties—a virgin!—wrote less from what he experienced (no Wordsworth, Whitman, Lowell, he!), and relying more on what he read.
The castle? Right. Great view, wonderful impregnable stonework with big rusty guns poking out from its crenellations perfect for blasting cannonballs on sundry barbarian hordes. Upon noticing the uninvited piratical fleets, I’m sure all the defenders had to do was fire off a few warning shots and watch the ships turn tail.
The thing about castles from my limited experience is that one is rarely allowed inside any rooms. You’re allowed to walk the ramparts and mill about the courtyard, but do you ever see where the king and his knights slept? Or ate? Don’t bother about where they worshipped—enough already! I want to know where my demon monk roamed at night. Where did he slake his thirst? Commit his unpardonable acts? He wasn’t scuttling around on some inner court exposing his evil for all the world to see, no, he was hidden behind thick castle walls cloaked in darkness.
Castles are very romantic to think about. I loved visiting castles in England. But they must have been ghastly places to actually live, cold and drafty. I don’t remember sleeping places either but I do remember the stone seats with holes and 100 feet drop into the moat. Anything less would have been a security risk.
And you are definitely right about the European countries seeming much more civilized and not weird about alcohol. On the other hand there is the Spanish Inquisition, but that was a long time ago and no one expected it.
Your impressions of Spain and Portugal are colored by your relative youth and the fact that you started visiting the Iberian peninsula some time after 2010 or thereabouts. For many years Portugal was ruled by the dictator António de Oliveira Salazar who died in 1970, and Spain was ruled by Francisco Franco who died in 1975. I don’t know what Franco’s position on alcohol or cafe life was, but during his reign women were forced into roles that met with approval of the Catholic Church (essentially, motherhood) and were prohibited from wearing “immodest” clothing. This only began to change when female tourists insisted on wearing bikinis at the beach in the 1950s. Maybe no the Inquisition, but very backward. I don’t think you would have enjoyed walking the Camino in those days.
Really enjoyed the Lisbon photos and enjoying your diary of your daily life in Portugal.
Living vicariously through you on the ice cream Ella! H
In that case, I will have to keep up the daily intake!
I decided to go with the Monty Python Spanish Inquisition reference. I could have gone with a SNL/Chevy Chase Franco reference but, as you know, you get extra points for a Monty Python reference.
😂