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 unpredictable labyrinth of curious doorways and people, are fits of laughter.

Each day begins with a croissant, pastel de nata and cappuccino from Alfama Doce (Rue da Regueira 39). Settling on this place was easy because its custard tarts are reliably crispy and warm. By now they know I want my croissant plain and my pastry without cinnamon.

Living near the river, there is nowhere to go but up. Each ascent rewards the eye. Here is a view of the Castelo de Sao Jorge from the upper limit of Calcada do Duque. In 20 minutes, low clouds drifting in over the sea will obliterate this blue sky. 

The rain comes and goes, mostly comes ― sharp needles of it. Doubt is a main theme of this Week 2 story: not knowing where you're headed or what the skies will bring. So when a church door is open, you walk inside. A ceiling painted in 1588 promises to keep you warm. And really, is there a better place to sort out your doubts?

The Church of Sao Roque was built at the end of the 16th century. Architecturally, it is austere, as Jesuit joints tend to be. But its eight chapels are richly decorated with gilded woodwork. The Chapel of St. John, below, was built in Rome and transported to Lisbon in sections.

 

Time passes with infinite slowness in a church, which is helpful when you are trying to extend a vacation.

On the wet streets outside is the working-class neighborhood of Bairro Alto. Favela funk pumps through an open window in the middle of the day.

There is a dish that was invented in Bairro Alto called bacalhau a braz: codfish, matchsticks of fried potatoes and finely sliced onion, all bound together with scrambled eggs and garnished with olives. It is salty and crunchy and filling and unforgettable.

This particular portion was purchased at Restaurante O Canthino (10 Rua de Santa Marinha), which has earned my repeat business because the no-nonsense couple who run it force me to speak Portuguese, and because it has no tablecloths or menu to speak of. This is what you are looking for in a Lisbon restaurant. If you ask them what they have and they mention only two or three things, you are in the right place.

Walk far enough and you will be the only person with a camera hanging from your neck. This is the Estrela Garden, halfway up the hill between Sao Bento and Campo de Ourique, and it is the prettiest park I have seen in the city. Behind this kid is a Moreton Bay fig tree.

But Pl@ntNet cannot tell me with any certainty what the tree below is. (It wants to say pink ball but is only 33% sure.) While I sip a Super Bock and ponder this riddle, a blue-necked peacock approaches, pecking for grubs in the wet soil.

Rising like a cobra outside the park's gate is the Basilica da Estrela, one of Lisbon's most important 18th century buildings. 

It was constructed as a result of a vow by Maria I, after her wish for a son ― an heir to the throne ― was granted by Jesus, the Sacred Heart, or whoever grants these things. She eventually was diagnosed as insane and was known in Brazil as Maria the Mad. But not here. The Portuguese never referred to her as anything other than Maria the Pious.

It is enormous.

I sat here quite awhile. For a nonbeliever, European churches offer a great deal. As mentioned, there is protection from the elements. Moreover, there is a concentrated drama in the devotional arts. A profusion of imagery in various states of decay. Statues of people in agony look directly at the visitor. Everywhere you turn, something is happening. One damn thing after another, you might say. 

Best of all: With their open-door policy, churches (on this continent, anyway) ask nothing of you. Come and go as you wish. Take out your phone and pay your gas bill. Fire off an angry email to your city councilperson. Light a candle. Don't light a candle. Doze off, if you like.

Darkness falls swiftly in December. At an overlook on Rua Joao do Outeiro, I speak with a young man from Angola (also named Joao) who politely asks that I not take his picture. 

"Why not?"

"Because it's one thing after another." 

Uh ... OK. Let's talk about something else. How about fado? Does anyone really like it? It sounds kind of whiny.

He assures me the guitar music derives from Angolan influences. I apologize and promise to investigate.

We shake hands. "Watch your pack," he says.

"I will. Should I be worried?"

"Probably not. But you want to protect your valuables. If you continue this way," he said, pointing to the northeast, "you will be offered drugs."

Kid should be a tour guide. I was indeed offered "spliff" and even "glass" on Rua do Benformoso, below, but have never felt unsafe in Lisbon. These menu boys are no different than the ones on Rua da Augusto.

One more stop before calling it a day: a monkfish rice stew with prawns at Flor de Lisboa (Rua Andrade Corvo 7), another bedrock Portuguese dish.

With a flan dessert, sparkling water and espresso, it came to 10 euros. While working the counter, the owner Zoomed with his child, making faces and funny sounds.

I asked him how old his boy was. 

"Dois anos," he said, turning to look at the ceiling, "e tres messes." Two years and three months. It was the "and three months" part that told me he's a great dad.

I have surely consumed 3,000 calories and walked 15 miles today. Below is the taxi line at Rossio. My bed is near.

In the elusive hunt for the mythology of Lisbon, I have closely frequented the places that truly interest me, but it is time to go home. Before saying goodbye, here's a bit of local lore having to do with maybe the world's most mythologized creature. 

Benfica, the storied local soccer team, has taught an eagle how to fly around its fucking stadium before its games and land on the club's crest (without the eagle symbol), thus completing the symbol. I would not have believed this had I not watched it with my own eyes. I didn't know at the time about the landing detail, so the video cuts out early. Still. 

Her name is Vitoria.

In 2018, Vitoria went off script and flew out of the stadium, The crowd was stunned. 

Thinking back, I have accomplished little of what I set out to do in my opening monologue. I never went to Sintra, much less leave the city limits. 

Vitoria returned the next day. Like me, she had sights to see, but in the end we were both profoundly satisfied with the beating heart of Lisbon and did not want to leave.

See you in the spring.

End

[Editor's note: I spoke with five of Antu's employees tonight. All are Brazilian, here on one-year work visas. They are aghast at the 50F temperatures but remain for complicated reasons, including the fact that the risk of sexual assault here is somewhat lower.]