Skip to main content

Posts

Diary

Each morning begins with a stroll through Alfama, climbing to this vista or that. The people of Alfama are not blessed with good humor and do not naturally make eye contact with outsiders. They do seem grateful to be able to get up and do a day's work, or to greet their neighbors on their way to the corner store.  Outside my tiny windows after midnight I can recognize some of their voices without peeking: The washroom attendant delivers a searing staccato of insults when she has been slighted, and the local madman howls for deliverance. When dogs need to be wrangled, the restaurant workers at Antu Alfama take up the mantle. But the conversations that stick with you ―the ones that escort you to dreamland ― are tender, muffled exchanges that seep almost transcendentally through the walls from unknown directions. These murmured confidences continue until about 5 a.m., followed by two hours of true silence before the wagtails and sparrows awake.  What you never hear in Alfama, an unpre
Recent posts

Europe's art racket

I just wanted to get in the door marked "Europe." Lisbon is great, but I'd be equally happy in Split or Bucharest or Lubeck, were the fare as reasonable. The blood and soil of a place, its creeds and ancient loyalties, are not intrinsically interesting. The castle on the hill behind me was really important to people trying to stay alive 800 years ago, but it's just a  bilheteria and a turnstile today. Now, when a shady art collector like Calouste Gulbenkian wants to serve up his collection on any number of leopard-spotted, hyacinth-embossed platters ― this is when things get interesting. Bring it on. I am a porous visitor, here to soak up the continent. He was a strange dude. The day after the Earl of Carvanon died in 1923, Gulbenkian was on the phone trying to scoop up his collection of antiquities. A prominent art dealer reminded him the body was still warm. Gulbenkian was born to a family of wealthy Armenian kerosene merchants in Istanbul. Under the tutelage of a

Lisbon perks up at night

The thing about the 1974 coup is that it could have been far bloodier. Civilians filled Largo do Carmo, where Prime Minister Marcello Caetano was barricaded inside the secret-police headquarters. Jittery cops fired into the square, killing four people. The crowd dispersed, but then returned when insurgent army officers rolled up with an armored personnel carrier. Photos from the time show people climbing the square's jacaranda trees to watch the standoff while others nonchalantly leaned against the armored vehicle. After nearly 50 years of being terrorized by their government, they would not be denied a front-row seat. Portugal's fascist regime had come to an end. Correction: Carmo Square is claimed by the bookish Chiado neighborhood, not Bairro Alto.

That glazed look

Iberia's tiles are everywhere. The peninsula is one big Scrabble board. I have been photographing these ceramic squares, or  azulejos , during my time in Lisbon.  Tiles are from Islam. They tend to be repetitive. In centuries past when they were not ― when the tilemaker dared to make unique pieces, he ran the risk of being seen as a dilettante rather than a craftsman. Why then, if Portugal is a veritable outdoor tile museum, should one visit the Museo Nacional do Azulejo? To that question, I got nothin'. But if you walk there, you'll get a good look at the docks and adjoining train tracks. Even more enticing: The former convent in which the museum is housed is open and bright, cool and quiet, and has a nice a gift shop. In 1500s Europe, Islamic knotwork and geometric motifs were gradually replaced by plant and animal themes, but repetitive tile patterns continued to be a great solution for churches that needed to cover entire interior walls. You could tuck small religious s