Fernando and the Monk

Speaking of masks, not devil masks, but the Covid masks that are still required indoors in Lisbon, I can’t resist including a shot of a woman exiting a somewhat formal event a few days ago as we were somnambulating towards the riverfront. It’s not a closeup, but if you look closely you’ll see the lady in red wearing what appears to be a rhinestone mask. The glamour of being in an international destination! The cars might be as beat up as they are in New Mexico, but the dress is a tad more a la mode.

Recalling another modish presentation of self, on the same day that we found a restaurant with outdoor seating that met Ella’s Covid-wary standards, I observed a woman scooting up to nab one of the few remaining open tables as she chatted uninterruptedly with one of her friends—a friend that wasn’t there but connected to this woman through her earbuds. Without skipping a beat, this woman continued talking to her invisible friend as she ordered a burger and a bottle of wine. Was anyone going to show up to share the wine? Apparently not; she had a grand time having an amusing talk with her friend (at least I sincerely hope the interlocutor on the other end was real and this woman wasn’t insane). And who cares if she quaffed the entire bottle in one sitting? What happens in Lisbon stays in Lisbon, especially if you dine alone.

Regarding her behavior I couldn’t help flashing on Sartre writing (I think in “Being and Nothingness”) about the existentially icky feeling one gets waiting in a cafe for someone who hasn’t shown. How can anybody understand him now? No shows are not an issue anymore! Just jam in your earbuds, call someone who wants to hear from you, and order a recommended merlot. No one joins you? C’est la vie! You were a pleasant surprise for the person who heard from you, and, after all, it was a fine merlot.

Day four in Portugal and there’s no getting around it: falling in love with Lisbon requires a certain amount of flirting with Fernando Pessoa. This morning (sunny sans rain) I took it upon myself to lead Ella on a search for a bronze statue of Fernando sitting outside the cafe where he once held court among Lisbon poets. After a plunging down Dom Pedro IV and taking a few wrong turns (hey, with all due respect to the spirit of Henry the Navigator, Vasco da Gama didn’t exactly take the direct route to India), I glimpsed Fernando’s bronze hat glinting above the crowd seated outside the Brasília do Chado. Pessoa might have been one of the most unread poets of the 20th Century, but he’s a rock star now. There wasn’t a seat available al fresco, and there was a line outside the door.

From paying Sunday morning tribute to Fernando then moving on to the Contemporary Art Museum was only a few minutes walk. The tickets were cheap. The exhibit, sparse. We were underwhelmed and somewhat perplexed to see that most recent artist presented died a few years ago; the rest were Twentieth Century. So maybe it should have been called the Museum of “Modern” Art, still, it seemed as if it wasn’t anything to write home about until…we entered the sculpture courtyard (looking for an exit) and there he was, lying passed out clutching a jug of wine, my distant, dissolute self solidified in volcanic ash, the slumbering recipient of karmic retribution.

I’d like to say I fled the building, but the next stop on our day’s ramble was the Tile Museum in the Alfama district which didn’t open until two; since we had plenty of time to walk the distance, going at a brisk clip would have been useless. So the idea was to stroll south along the riverfront, but the route skirted a rail yard next to a long series of docks stacked high with shipping containers. And it was a schlep. Before we knew it , we weren’t strolling anymore, we were toiling, laboring along a seemingly endless expanse of graffiti covered walls.

Anyway, that’s what I remember. Compared to the The Trudge, the Tile Museum was almost anticlimactic. I’m not as big a fan of tile art as Ella, but I was pretty impressed by the sampling of past centuries. And I found the depiction of 16th Century dogs in tile work fascinating. They’re always in attack mode, snarling. Bernal Diaz’s “The Conquest of New Spain,” along
with Bartolomé de las Casas’ “A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies,” both describe how the 16th Century conquistadors used ravening dogs to terrify native tribes into submission. In the 18th Century tile work, the dogs are docile, curled up at the feet of seated ladies. Gotta love those Enlightenment dogs!

You’d think that a tile museum wouldn’t threaten me with past karmic embarrassment. No way. So what possessed me in a tile museum to stop and look at a murky 16th Century painting? Where, in the lower left hand corner the Queen, depicted as a most holy Sister, looks out upon an unseemly scrum of disreputable filth. Peering closely, I think I recognize my monk clawing among the other wastrels.

Quick, let me find some innocuous tile work! Slip into the hallway lined with modern examples and what do I find? Do I need to even say? That’s right; there he is entiled: Fernando!