I am walking through the streets of Lisbon, Portugal. Amidst the animation of pedestrians, peddlers, and pubs, I am whirled around in a cyclone of color and sounds. Music from a nearby guitarist floats above the buzzing heads of chattering people. They step in and out of quaint shops lining the street. Sardinaries, boutiques, and eateries alike are adorned with vibrant azulejo tile mosaics, a reminder of the city’s historic past. The sun shines overhead, and in the distance the shimmering blue of the Rio Tejo river catches the light.
There is an opening between two buildings, only a few feet wide. Stairs lead upward through the alleyway, called a beco, appearing to be a secret passage of sorts. I step upon the first stair, feeling sucked inward by curiosity. As I ascend, the clamor of the city dissolves below me. All is quiet now. Listen. A bird chirps, a door rattles, and somewhere far off in the distance a dog barks. The light is more diffused within these walls. The streets are narrow, paved with dipping cobblestones. The buildings seem to bend inward, slouching with the weight of centuries old age. T-shirts, towels, and sheets dangle overhead, drying in the open air. All around I can see open doors, open windows. A stone fountain sits on the street where in the mornings men may come to shave.
Up ahead there is a lady perched in front of an open window. She wears a shawl of scarlet red atop a sweater of crimson red, and her grey hair is tied back in a bow of ruby red, with ears adorned by large spheres of cherry red. Her wrinkled hands clutch an unamused cat, who balances upon a slim pillow of a rather pink hue. This striking image is made all the more curious by a petite hat of cardinal red, resting delicately atop the head of the miffed cat. As we near the lady, she beckons to my family and me. She reaches down and retrieves a large wicker basket and brandishes the contents. The basket is full of dozens of dainty homemade cat hats, and they spill over in a deluge of red tones. She plucks a hat from the basket, and replaces the hat of cardinal red for one of candy red. We say goodbye and continue on our way. As we leave, I glance over my shoulder to get one last look at the hat lady and her cat.
As we zig-zag through the alley, a lady pokes her head out of a window. Behind her, her living quarters are visible. There is one room: a modest bed, a small television, a desk, and two sizable white containers near the window. She tells us she is selling ginjinha, a traditional Portuguese liquor, an unofficial national drink, both sweet tasting and sharp. We buy some ginjinha for one euro a pop. The lady smiles and fills small cups from the containers with a dark mahogany liquid. She makes this drink herself. As she reaches out to hand us our cups, she must duck around the pink, lacy bloomers that flap in the breeze above her window.
Up ahead, an elderly woman speaks to us from her second story window. She loves the Alfama. She tells us she didn’t always live at this house. In fact, she used to live down the street, the house where she was born.
It is evening now. Darkness settles, and a hush resounds through the empty streets. We make our way through the tangle of roads in search of food. This neighborhood is a maze. Originally, this area was designed to confuse and frustrate invaders. Now I am the one confused, yet I do not feel frustrated, nor like an invader. I remember hearing that two hours spent lost in the Alfama is really not two hours lost at all. I forget where I heard it, but the line sticks with me. Around each corner is a secret treasure waiting to be discovered. On this corner, there is a plaque with a black and white photograph of a smiling old man standing upon a doorstep. Next to it there is a description of the man’s life and his lasting home in the Alfama. This plaque is a piece of the artist Camilla Watson’s project, “Soul of Alfama”, dedicated to celebrating members of this community. The photographs are placed in areas where the person may often be found. You will find these tributes scattered throughout the area, capturing a snapshot in the life of Alfama residents.
We stumble across a lonely art gallery on Rua Escolas Gerais, and are greeted by a young receptionist sitting quietly by the entrance. Inside everything is bright. Bright white lights and shiny surfaces. Various displays of modern art by Portuguese-speaking artists hang from the ivory walls and abstract sculptures stand boldly over the glossy floor. As our footsteps echo and our words whisper, the art propels us briefly into modern day. The gallery is an unexpected flash of contemporary culture. Even in the Alfama, change is inevitable. As we circle back around to exit through the glass doors, I am brought back in time to the cobblestone streets and storied alleyways from which I departed.
Finally, we arrive at our intended destination, Parreirinha de Alfama. It is a small restaurant, walls tiled white and blue, decorated by hanging guitarra portuguesas, oddly shaped guitars. The air is warm, too warm. The tables neighboring us are close, too close. Our orders are taken and we sit chatting and waiting for the food to arrive. It is early yet in the night, only nine o’clock. We talk of the day we had, and the day that is to come.
This evening, we have come to listen to Fado, the traditional Portuguese music that originated in the 1800s in the Alfama district. The Alfama dates back to the ancient time of the Moors, and it is one of the only areas that survived Lisbon’s devastating 1755 earthquake. The Alfama was a poor district, consisting of bars, brothels, and fishermen. The word “Fado” directly translates to “fate”, evoking the feeling of saudade, or yearning. Women sang their despair in this place by the ocean, a large, cruel, empty ocean - empty to a fisherman’s wife. Persisting through the generations, Fado is heard today drifting to your ears from a nearby bar under a moonlit sky.
The room is animated with the sounds of eager conversations. A bell chimes, and the light slowly falls away until all that is left is the flickering warm light of the candles. A hush descends. Two of our waiters walk to the center of the room, where a space has been cleared. They sit down and each pick a guitar off the wall and begin to play. The song is slow and lyrical as it begins, gradually quickening as it continues, intensifying and building and strumming and strumming. The fervor increases and draws the audience in, my vision focused now on a tunnel of light that encapsulates only the guitarists. Suddenly, it ends. One of the men stands, and introduces the singer of the evening to the makeshift stage. She shuffles across the room, stepping around the tables and chairs that scatter the floor. She centers herself, thanking the guitarist who resumes his seat once more. Then, she begins to sing.
At once the room is filled with emotion. The melodies roll across her tongue, swirling and diving in the small space that is ever shrinking. Her eyes are closed. She no longer can feel the ripple of her flowing dress or the heavy weight of the knitted black shawl, nor does she see the dark eyes glistening with reflections of candle-light staring intently at her. She is lost in the story she imparts to us, transcending the physical confines of her stage. The lyrics are sung in Portuguese, and yet I do not need to know the words she speaks to understand the story she tells. I can feel the passion of love and loss, of bliss and despair, warbling, trembling, and flowing into my heart. The heat and the dark mingle, and all I can see, hear, and feel are her sweet, sad words, and the timeless soul of this alluring place.
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