We arrived in the European sister city of San Francisco only to discover that aside from a few bridges, and several hills throughout the landscape, these two sisters have very different personalities. The oldest neighborhood in her American counterpart is a century and change of age; while the slightly more matured neighborhood we called home for the week, could trace it’s origins thirty centuries yonder. The Alfama they called it; meaning hot fountains. Both sisters however, are frequent victims of some infamously shaky ground. San Francisco’s most notorious one hatched in 1906; while her older sister had the shakes back in 1755, and had the added misfortune of brining with it a tidal wave that erased nearly the entire city, save for our 3000 year old neighborhood on a hill.
Maybe from effect of receding tidal waters, or from the persistent glazing summer heat; or possibly from the centuries of feet that have pounded and polished it’s surface; the sidewalks here are shiny and smooth to the point of denying traction to even the most rugged trekking boot. Although their utility can be perilous, their visual effect is entirely unique. And so again, on new old ground, we trod our way down grand boulevards, along water fronted sea walks, and lost ourselves on ancient pathways training up and down the old neighborhood.
What we originally assumed was just the beginning of the summer bustle, turned out be what was to become a much more consistent theme for our jaunt through Europe these next few months. Our first night in Lisbon was marked with the opening day of their month long Festas de Lisboa. Pop up food stalls were assembled; buckets of sardines were hauled in to be grilled; all manner of banners, market lights, and bright paper streamers were strung up overhead. A jimmy-rig of outdoor speakers and miles of wires completed the fiesta effect. They played the same monthlong soundtrack in unison like one gigantic block party. And the party never stopped. Crowds in numbers only befitting a festival, drank, ate, danced, and did it all over again each morning until 7AM. Some friends for a night took us on a midnight walking tour of the area; past gated castle walls, through plazas shoulder to shoulder with all of humanity; and to a hilltop view of the seven hills; where hipsters strummed at guitars and drifted off in clouds of smoke. This was like their Christmas they said; only better.
After a few days of endless festival fun, another friend suggested a day trip to the beach forty five minutes away by train. A welcome reprieve offered cool water and whole grilled fish deboned and served table side with noting more than a wedge of lemon and not a sardine in sight.
And then there was Sintra. Another day’s trip by train dropped us back in time to where Portuguese royalty would spend their time away from the capital. It’s the place fairytales and children’s stories are fashioned after. Walkways twirled their way through living gardens and past sparkling fountains. Rock grotto’s gave way to secret passageways that tunneled in all directions. One exit would lead to the spiral staircase coiled around an underground well tower through which sprays of sunlight occasionally pierced. Another passage would lead us to the crypt of a small empty chapel. The castle, with its lion’s head door knockers and carved rose spires, amongst the majestic beauty of its grounds, didn’t tower over them; but managed to appear and disappear at will.
On our last morning in Lisbon we woke in the early morning darkness in search of some solitude and a sunrise. Wiping the sleep from our eyes we walked up our old hill, stepping over last night’s festival remnants. Fading embers still sizzled from the barbecues wafting the permanent stench of charred sardine. We stood atop a cement vista looking at our neighborhood and further to the water where the sun would rise. We stood in the company of last night’s party goers also waiting to welcome the new day. Together we watched as the sun slowly rose and so did the old city. We stared at it and it glared back; and we tried with all our might to remind ourselves that this is not a dream.
