One o�clock on a Saturday afternoon and the streets of Lisbon
are quiet. A few cars and one large yellow bus whoosh down
the Avenida de Liberdade towards the Rossio. From his vantage point 40ft above me, left hand resting theatrically on a lion’s
mane, Sebastiao de Melo, Marquis de Pombal, watches them on their way. What a name. Pombal. Pom-bal. Pom-ba-line. I like this town already.
Strolling down the Liberdade, it’s hard to believe that most of this city was wiped out in the 18th century. On November 1, 1755, All Saints�Day, an earthquake believed to have measured nine plus on the Richter Scale shook Lisboa for four minutes or more. The little that was left standing after earth and fire was soon destroyed by water. Forty minutes after the earthquake, a tsunami in three waves swept over downtown Lisbon. In the aftermath of destruction, Sebastiao de Melo, Marques de Pombal, came into his own.
Given a free hand by King Joseph I, the Marques rebuilt Lisbon on pragmatic lines (and came up with one of the great quotes from an administrator. Asked what should be done after the catastrophe, he said phlegmatically, “Now? Bury the dead and feed the living�. The Lisbon disaster also spurred the first survey of seismology �the Marquis circulated a questionnaire about phenomena that might help to warn of an earthquake. The downtown area, or Baixa, now has large squares and wide avenues in a rectilinear grid. This is the area where I am heading, down the Avenida. Past palm trees, flower beds, wrought-iron railings on sleeping buildings, the mouths of cobbled alleys leading uphill, languorous hotels, statues of cardinals, contemplative old men on sun-warmed stone benches.
Even the pavements are special in Lisbon. Where other cities might have cement or, at most, cobblestones, Lisbon has mosaics. Everywhere. The Romans are to blame for this (as indeed for most things in western Europe); they started it all by paving their vias with it. It’s a little slippery underfoot at times and I’m told it doesn’t wear well. Yet the art of calcada, as it is locally known, produces not just a curiosity but works of art underfoot, so the pavements and piazzas of Lisbon seem to flow and undulate with patterns. Sadly, it is a dying art: low pay for the craftsmen, cheaper alternative materials and the arduous construction process are discouraging its perpetuation. I consoled myself that the mosaics will at least last my lifetime, so they’ll still be around when I return to this endearing city.
Across the Rossio, through an old archway and down the Rua dos Sapateiros, the Street of the Shoemakers, I find curlicued balconies musing in the noonday sun which has crept into this canyon of quiet. Turn right at the first crossroad (cross-alley?) and you face the Elevador de Santa Justa. This metal fantasy with a viewing terrace on top was built in 1902 by Raoul Mesnier de Ponsard, but its appearance has spawned the urban myth that it was designed by Gustav Eiffel. Not surprising, since Ponsard was Eiffel’s student. The Santa Justa is the only vertical elevator in Lisbon �the rest are funiculars �and has little purpose other than to provide a view of the town. But surely that’s a good enough raison d’etre?
Turn left, cross the Rua do Ouro or Street of the Goldsmiths,
and you find yourself in the Rua Augusta, a magnificent paved promenade that leads across the tramlines down to the Praça do Comercio and the sea. Vasco da Gama sailed from here, as did Ferdinand Magellan. After 1755 it was rebuilt on a grander
scale and its several acres are now ringed by ornate Pombaline architecture. This used to be one of the symbols of Portugal’s
maritime might and it is grand indeed, even though the space
overhead is scarred with electric wires and tramcar cables. Now, as I rest my legs on a convenient bench, a seedy man with piebald stubble and a leprous leather jacket sidles up and tries to make a quick buck. Time to move on.
In the opposite corner of the Praça, a red tramcar serves as a tourist office. I get directions, and then walk down the crazy cobbled street to catch a real tram, the fabled Number 28. This route goes all the way up through the winding streets of the old district, down the other side and ends in a square beside the Rossio. (I discovered that this square is about a five-minute walk from where I boarded the tram on the other side of the Alafama.)
Some 800 years ago, the Alfama was Lisbon. Its name, drawn from Al Hammam, ‘the baths� reveals the Moorish influence (still visible in some of the architecture). As the city spread to the west, the Alfama (like Chandni Chowk in Delhi or Whitechapel in London) became the district of the poor and the fisherfolk. Unlike the more fashionable Baixa, it survived the 1755 calamity because it was built on a hill. This heritage district is honeycombed with steep cobbled lanes, some so narrow that I flinch as the tram rattles headlong through them. On some stretches the tram runs on a single line, stopping and checking for traffic in the other direction. Alonso, the driver, never loses his smile, and throughout the journey flirts
scandalously with an old lady who affectionately taps him on the head with her bag. We pass bakeries, front parlours, tiny shopfronts, and two old ladies quarrelling in genteel fashion on a miniature terrace. The window of a second-hand bookshop provides a tantalising glimpse of a Portuguese edition of Red Rackham’s Treasure.
Round a corner, a huge church appears, looking down over the sprawl of tiled roofs to the sea. On the landward side, a building’s cheery red façade is punctuated by a cheeky line of washing. This, I am told, is the Museu de Artes Decorativas or Museum of Decorative Arts (notwithstanding the drying clothes). A chance foray across the road yields an epiphany. The Alfama is studded with
little terraces or Miradouros: on the one I have found, the Miradouro de Santa Lucia, sits an old man who could be the Spirit of Lisbon. Eyes closed as he picks at his guitar and hums almost
to himself, he is immersed in the spirit of his music. The open
guitar case in front of him is a technical detail, almost irrelevant, and I hesitate to throw in a coin. Lovers stand by the wrought-iron railing, holding hands as they look at the sea and a lone sailboat
tacking in the afternoon light. A sonorous bell in the church tower strikes the hour, the deep notes somehow accentuating the dream-like perfection of the moment. The church, the sea and an old man’s music. Lisbon.
As the light lengthens and the day fades, I bestir myself in search of the Castello. Round a corner and up another series of precipitous lanes, past a little square where a couple while away the late
afternoon under an awning on a terrace, and finally the gateway to the castle is in sight. The gatekeeper, musing on the line of tourists filing past his window, is an equally interesting relic. As are the two ladies who chat through a window, framed prettily by the ceramic tiles, azulejos, that adorn the façades of so many houses here. The Castle of St George is a Moorish pile dedicated to an English saint
in the 14th century by John I, probably influenced by his bride, Philippa of Lancaster. Once the centre of Lisbon and the home
of royalty, the Castelo de Sao Jorge is old �very old, the first
fortifications date back to the second century BC �and now it is tired. Battered by sieges, rocked by earthquakes, forsaken by
monarchs (Manuel I shifted the royal residence to the Ribeira Palace on the banks of the Tagus), the Castelo has not been restored since the 1940s. Now, dreaming on its hilltop, it offers perhaps the best
views of Lisbon.
Evening is drawing in as I pick my way down from the castle. My sense of direction, confronted with the serpentine meandering streets, soon gives up. The lane is deserted �there is nobody
from whom I could ask directions even if they understood English (which is not very likely considering my experiences through the
day. Friendly, yes. Helpful, yes. Charming, yes. Intelligible, no. The
vigorous hand-waving is reassuring, though; they mean well.)
As I pause for breath, a most intriguing doorway catches my eye. I push the door ajar and peek in. I am initially confronted by a male posterior, which soon turns into a friendly Irishman who assures me that I can get some, ah, refreshment on the premises. I find a table in the colourfully kitschy mess, a coffee appears, Eamon joins me and we light up our cigarillos. His Portuguese friend Paula, who runs the place (“I don’t work here, y’know, I’m only press-ganged when Paula needs the place done up�, wanders over. Time passes. I am offered, in quick succession, something from Czechoslovakia, something from Bulgaria, something from France and several
somethings from our very own Lisboa. I am unwise enough to accept. Paula’s daughter drops in and helps me print out my ticket for my flight next day. More time passes. The floor seems suddenly distant. A plum tart appears and is ingested. Eventually, in one of the increasingly rare interludes of clarity, I realise that (a) it is dark outside; (b) I had better leave before the shops close, or risk the wrath of a Better Half Deprived of Souvenirs; and (c) in any case it would be wise to leave while I can still walk.
Paula and Eamon refuse to accept any payment. Even for the
coffee, which I had ordered ‘before we were friends� Phone numbers are exchanged, e-mails addresses traded. As I step out, the cool of the evening clears my head somewhat. Footsore but happy, I head homewards under the emerging stars with my hat at a rakish angle, adapting Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s lines for my new love, “How do I love thee, Lisbon, let me count the ways…�
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