Fado, Festival, Farewell.

The overcast sky wasn’t quite enough to keep us from our habitual cultural exploits. We had lunch in a snug ‘Tibetan’ restaurant before visiting the Museu Nacional de História Natural e da Ciência. Our disappointment at the closure of the Botanical Gardens (for the purposes of renovation) was quickly subsumed by our surprise at the variety of the science museum. We gawped at huge blocks of crystal, meandered through the history of the universe, and were unsettled by the (un)convincing taxidermy of lynx, bears and wolverines. However, the best part was the interactive experiments in which we could participate. We were bemused by the suspension of a beach ball in a jet of air, incredulous at the demonstration of centripetal force, and utterly befuddled as to why Mariana is a much stronger conductor of electricity than myself. At 17:00 we were gruffly told by the security guard that the Museum was closing, and after failing to come up with a plan for evading him and seeing more of the museum, we decided that it was probably best to leave.

We walked back to the centre of the city along the leafy Avenida da Liberdade, and wound our way up to the castle. The terracotta roofs of the city tesselated like the scales of an enormous serpent, crouching by the Rio Tejo to quench it’s thirst. We navigated the battlements, grateful for the cool breeze that our vantage point afforded us, and watched as the sun began to dip behind the bridge. We then followed the cobbled streets into the Alfama, and chose a restaurant in which the spend the evening.

The restaurant we chose was empty, which is usually something I try to avoid, but the cracked white tiles were clean, and the fire in the open kitchen was crackling contentedly. We had just taken our first sip of wine, when the lights dimmed, and a shimmering fadista in a black shawl appeared in the middle of the floor. Slowly she began to sing, the melancholy of her soul erupting from the depths of her powerful frame. Her voice engulfed us, the room, the street, filling every particle of the space. The twanging melody of the guitars took feverish steps, moving contrapuntally across unresolved minor chords that hung heavily in the air like velvet. As the fadista began to build to a yearning crescendo, I felt the vibration of her voice in my chest, the hairs on my arms prickle, and three salty tears coat my eyelashes. And then, abruptly, in a superficial perfect cadence, the ballad was over. The lights came up, and I saw that imperceptibly the restaurant had filled; hypnotised patrons sat at every table, forgetting their fish and wine. We spent almost three hours in this trance, before floating back to the apartment with the swell of the fadista’s laments echoing in our ears.

The next day was spent mostly in the apartment; it was our aim to conserve as much energy as possible for our nocturnal exploits. As the sun dipped we took the metro, and then a second train to Algés. We were swallowed by a tide of people moving towards a huge multicoloured archway, and were greeted by the groans of distorted guitars and the raspy slur of a cover band. We were swept along into a tarmacked plaza, bordered by the flashing lights of various sponsors and food stalls. Just as we arrived, ghostly riffs announced the arrival of Alt-J. We swooned to the ephemeral melodies and were captivated by the psychedelic detachment of  ghostly voices. When the set finished, we did a circuit of the park before settling in to watch Royal Blood, The XX and The Weeknd. We also had time to try out a flight simulator, which involved being strapped to a frame and navigating through hoops on a virtual reality headset, using our core strength to tilt our bodies left and right. Much to Mariana’s chagrin I seemed to get the knack of it quite quickly, securing third place on the leaderboard. In the early hours we made our way back home.

On Friday morning I received the results for exams that I had been sure would render me jobless, homeless and destitute. None of these things happened, so we celebrated by going to the beach. We took the train to Cascais and followed the gentle trickle of people heading towards the sea. We dutifully set up camp and prepared to plunge in to the cool blue water. Unfortunately, the blue water was a bit too cool, so instead we read our books, listening to the inconsequential chatter of children as they played in the sand. After a couple of hours we remembered that neither of us like the beach very much, so we went to get an ice cream. We then followed the jagged coastline to the Boca do Inferno; a small cave in the dark cliff face. Moody clouds swept across the horizon, framing a distant lighthouse. The waves sparkled as the sun dropped, whispering secrets to the cawing gulls. We then turned back towards the town, and had dinner in a tiny restaurant that clung precariously to the rock. Pastel strokes of grey and blue swept across the horizon, slowly dimming until the bright eye of the lighthouse began to blink in to consciousness. We finished our meal and took the train home, leaving a trail of sand behind us.

We spent our final day in Lisbon cleaning the flat and packing our bags. After our final meal in a small restaurant full of locals, we sauntered down to Nos Alive to listen to Kodaline, Cage the Elephant, Fleet Foxes and Imagine Dragons. We lay on the fake grass entirely consumed by gratitude for our friendship, and started to make plans for our next trip.

My time in Portugal was intense, immersive, and unforgettable. I valued every second of spending time with a close friend, and being able to fleetingly forget the vagaries of adult life. Mariana helps me see causality in everything I do, feel, and am, and after spending some time in that mindset, I’m leaving Lisbon with a sense of power over my own destiny, and a subversive determination to live as the person I want to be. Every time I see Mariana she manages to teach me more French, make me laugh until I cry, and restore me back to my true self, and for all of these reasons she’ll be a friend for life.

That time we almost forgot to go to Porto.

I woke up with a jolt and a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. I checked my phone, then burst into Mariana’s room.

“On va à Porto aujourd’hui.”
“Really?! I thought we were going on Tuesday! What time is it?”
“06h56.”
“What time does the plane leave?”
“08h00.”

Within ten minutes we were in a taxi with half-packed bags. Within thirty minutes we were running through security. Within forty-five minutes we were boarding the plane. Within an hour we were taking off. The flight was a short forty minutes, and by some absolute miracle we landed in Porto.

We took the metro through the green verdure of the suburbs, the sun already beginning to prickle our skin through the glass. We arrived at the hostel, laughingly recounted our dramatic morning to the incredulous receptionist, then headed into the city, armed with our free map. We grabbed a quick breakfast, before orienting ourselves via various churches, and the calm blue ripples of the Douro river. The city was impossibly beautiful from every viewpoint, perhaps made even more so by our gratitude to the universe for colluding to bring us there. We had lunch at a beautiful vegan café, and were flabbergasted by the variety and taste of the buffet on offer.

We then crossed to the other side of the river and made the sweaty ascent to Graham’s wine lodge, for a perfectly academic and not in any way alcohol-motivated port tour. Felipe talked us through the history of Graham’s, and the differences in the oxidation process between ruby and tawny port. We then reluctantly sat down to a tasting, somehow demolishing six well-proportioned glasses. We challenged ourselves to a blind taste-testing, but the results were far from complimentary to the sophistication of our pallettes. We could easily distinguish between the silky full bodied rubies and the light, aromatic tawnies without the aid of sight, but the finer nuances of a ten year versus a twenty year eluded us. The other tables had slowly emptied, but instead of gently prodding us to take our leave, Felipe brought over two more glasses; this time of white port, which was so light and refreshing that we probably could have necked the bottle.

At this point we agreed that it was a good time to go if we wanted to stagger back rather than crawl, so we graciously took our leave and turned towards the city. We attempted to soak up as much of the alcohol as possible with a Francesenha (a molten mountain of meat, bread, cheese, gravy and egg), before returning to the hostel to sleep.

One of the most impressive parts of our day was the utter serenity with which Mariana and I realised our almost-grave mistake. We didn’t shriek at each other, or flap, or fluster; we just became super efficient and practical, and were lucky; we found a taxi relatively easily, there were no queues at security, and the airport in Lisbon is very small. We also trust that everything always works out in the end, and this time it did.

The next day, after broken hostel-sleep, we explored more of the city. We visited the Centre Portuguêse de Fotographia which was a slightly disappointing collection of cameras (not the historic photographs we expected). We did, however, enjoy the spy cameras hidden in rings and coke cans, and seeing the development of the tiny micro cameras that preceded the GoPro. We then ambled along the arts district, and accidentally stumbled upon a tiny café indicated only by the ornate wrought iron teapot hanging outside. We tentatively crept through a corridor dripping with Hindu and Buddhist symbology, before emerging into a shaded garden. Squat cushions were slumped around low tables, nestled between gnarled trees, carved teak beams and stone Buddhas. We sipped tea in the shade, and made wispy plans to create our own hippy cafes in our respective countries.

We then walked around the Jardins do Palácio de Cristal, avoiding the groups of squealing school children and trying not to disturb the muster of peahens with their gangly chicks. The sun was obscured by a thickening mesh of cloud, so we walked back to the city centre. All too soon it was time to head to the airport (this time at a comparatively leisurely pace), and transport ourselves back to Lisbon.

Porto is a beautiful city, and our time there would only have been improved by having more of it. We saw pretty much everything we wanted to see, and drank enough port for a lifetime (well, a day), but the calm pace of the city instills a desire to lounge, linger and relax. Unfortunately, these are all things that Mariana and I find pretty difficult to do; we are wired to be active, but a few glasses of port can soon remedy that.

How many pastels de nata can you eat in a day?

We had a slightly slower morning, as we decided to do as the locals do and linger over a coffee and pastel de nata. The crisp base and creamy filling melted on my tongue; I felt the start of a passionate and enduring love affair. We sat overlooking the small square near Mariana’s apartment, wondering what games the old men were using to while away the years, and itching to join the zumba class blaring in the corner.

A little while later, we were cycling past the harbour, tracing the line of the river towards Belém. Mariana had found a cheap place to rent bikes, and after a little haggle we sped away, gliding along the smooth bike lane. The azure sky stretched above us in a dome as we approachedCrCristlde abril bridge. The dull hum of the cars rumbling across the grates swirled across the breeze, modulating like a swarm of angry bees. The heavy sun beat down on our arms and legs, broken only occasionally by the transient shadow of a plane coming in to land.

Before long we arrived in Belém. We did a brief circuit to see the towering prow of the Padrão dos Descobrimentos, and the squat structure of the Torre de Belém, before turning down a couple of backstreets and sitting down to a lunch of grilled sardines. The flesh of the fish was salty and juicy; my second Portuguese culinary discovery of the day.

After lunch we spent an hour or so wandering through the palmed boulevards and winding bamboo trails of the botanical garden (Mariana and Paolo share my tendency to consider a garden to be a key attraction in any city). The peace was broken only by the occasional caw of a peacock, and the niggling cheeps of disorderly chicks. We exited one paradise in favour of another; the Antiga Confeitaria de Belém exudes the scent of fresh pastry and cinnamon. Unable to pass by, we were drawn into the cool shade of the tiled arches, and sucked into the current of people crashing against the counter. We left the pasteleria with a bag full of pastels de Belém (the original pastels de nata), and only got about ten metres down the road before finding a small step on which to savour each mouthful. Still high on sugar, we turned back towards Lisbon to return our bikes.

We attempted to combat the guilt of our pastry glut with a vitamin-drenched smoothie from the Mercado da Ribeira. We then somewhat impulsively decided to take a boat across to Cacilhas. The rippled waves were ineffectual against the ancient stern of the vessel, and we were safely transported to the south side of the river. We walked along the water’s edge, imagining the hipster bars and restaurants that are sure to open in the next few years, to replace the murals of graffiti and the conclaves of rotten timber and crumbled plaster. We sat in a small park looking across at Lisbon, as the sun cast its long amber rays over the rising hills. We then paid a man one Euro to take us up to the top of the cliff that jutted above us in a Dahlian glass-elevator, which eventually leads to the Cristo Rei.

We found ourselves in a small village, silent except for the crackle of a sound system a few streets away. We curiously traced the noise until we came to the base of a town hall; we’d inadvertently stumbled upon a street party. Utterly bemused, we selected some empty plastic chairs, and watched as an elderly band warbled a repetitive tune. They were soon replaced by clomping organ music – the kind that is pre-set in electronic keyboards. We drank beer as we nibbled on bifanas and impressively realistic vegan substitutes for sausage, watching the interactions of the local community. Toothless old men leaned over balconies, gyrating energetically to the oom-pa-pa rhythm. Children pressed their noses against stalls selling waffles and churros, and tiny dogs danced on their hind-legs, trying to earn a bite of their owners repast. As the light faded, we took a boat back across the river, and accidentally fell into a couple more festivals, this time headlined by a dour old man playing techno-keyboard, and a more professional show of twanging Spanish guitar and fluttering senhoras which filled the Praça do Comercio.  Grateful for the variety and spontaneity of our evening, we returned to the apartment in our habitual state of fatigue.

The next day, Paolo sadly had to return to Geneva to work and do grown-up things, so our little trio was reduced to two. Mariana and I did some washing and went to the supermarket in the morning, because life admin. We then decided to visit the Museu Nacional do Azulejo, partly because it was close, partly because we were interested, and partly because it was free (being the first Sunday of the month). The carefully thought-out museum carried us through a chronology of the distinctive Portuguese tiles that are ubiquitous in the city. We were mesmerised by the infinite geometric patterns and amused by the lopsided two-dimensional faces, often giggling disrespectfully at the accomplishments of the craftsmen. We then took a leisurely lunch under the green canopy of the courtyard garden, watching as small birds dipped in and out of the tinkling fountain.

Refreshed and at peace, we blindly stepped out into the burning street. We traced a mangled route through the shadowy lanes of the Alfama, in an attempt to avoid the fiery glare of the sun. The scent of fresh laundry mingled with the heavy musk of incense and the salty tinge of cooking fish as we turned each corner. We then aimed west, and walked along silent streets to the LX Factory; a hipster hub of creativity that wouldn’t be out of place in Shoreditch. We mooched along the stalls of bespoke jewellery and lingered over walls of books, before choosing a bar and sipping Sangria into the night.

Mariana and I both appreciated having a slower day after the ceaseless activity of the first part of our trip. We travel well together because we have similar interests, and similar energy levels, and this means that we tend to know when the other is flagging. However, we also have an immense fear of missing a key monument, or not trying a particular regional delicacy, and while this means that we have a full and rewarding experience, we also sometimes forget to look after ourselves and take a break. Today was as close as we get to a rest day, and we both benefitted more from it than we realised.

Scintillation in Sintra

Our FOMO didn’t permit us to sleep in too long, and after a quick breakfast we caught the metro to the centre. We glided by the queue at the ticket machines in a cloud of smugness (having purchased ours the day before), and boarded a train to Sintra. The landscape quickly melted from white cubic tower-blocks to verdant forest, and after just forty minutes we emerged in a different world.

We squeezed through the hoards of people that had also decided to escape the city, and found ourselves in the middle of an emerald valley, curving round in a graceful panorama and topped by a perfect castle. It was like waking up in a fairytale. We quickly ascended the steep path, and headed for Quinta da Regaleira. We spent a couple of hours exploring the jumbled gardens, which circle a twenty-seven metre well, and fumbling through the labyrinthine caves. We occasionally managed to find pockets of peace, but a lot of our time was spent trying to dodge coaches of elderly American tourists. I also struggled conceptually with the park; I appreciated the imagination and the playfulness of the palace, but couldn’t shake the after-taste of inauthenticity. It was Disneyesque in its stylised perfection and unscrupulous commerciality.

We had lunch in a cafe, managed by Mariana’s cousin. Her boundless energy pricked us with guilt and shook us into action, so after a queijada or six we began our next assent. We followed cobbled backstreets up to the Castelo Dos Mouros, which gazes down benevolently on the valley from its imperial perch. The town rolled out below us towards the hazy sea in the distance. We stopped frequently to absorb the vistas (and catch our breath), and after a while we reached the top. We circled the exterior of the immense walls, but were somewhat reluctant to pay for a view we’d already seen, so instead we turned towards the Parque da Pena. The grounds of the park sprawled in every direction, their scale making them feel much less like an amusement park than Quinta da Regaleira. The bright colours of the palace were unashamed in their garishness, and the fusion of styles seemed much more cogent as a result. We traced a route across the park, stumbling upon small oases where we could appreciate the setting, and feel pleasantly engulfed by the jungle around us.

Eventually we managed to tear ourselves away from the tranqil woods, and stumble back towards the town centre. We loaded up on regional pastries (including a travesseiro), and downed another ginjinha (in a teeny chocolate cup) before arriving at the station and heading back to Lisbon. We nibbled on some Alentejan specialities but soon realised that exhaustion was setting in, and all we wanted to do was sleep.

Sintra isn’t like anywhere I’ve been before. It is magical, or at least would be if no one knew about it. The heart of its magic lies in escapism, seclusion and reflection, and whilst these themes are visible, they are not accessible to bumbling day-trippers like myself, as a direct consequence of the town’s (merited) popularity.  There are a few thousand other bumbling day-trippers who visit to see the same things, so while I can appreciate Sintra on an aesthetic level, for me it’s true magic was just out of reach.

Reunited in Lisbon.

Lisbon’s been on my list for a long time; ever since I first met Mariana and learned of her Portuguese heritage. A few years down the line, and we’ve finally been able to sync our diaries and plan a trip.

Long-suffering readers may remember Mariana from our Thai escapades, which were characterised by excessive piercings, a precarious adventure in a rented tuktuk, and inordinate amounts of mango sticky rice. Whilst I’m expecting our Portuguese adventure to be a little more restrained, I know Mariana like I know myself (because she is my Swiss/Portuguese self), and therefore fully anticipate days squished full to the brim of activity, laughter and shenanigans.

Stansted airport at 07:00 is a glorified holding area for raucous Ibizan hen dos. Herds of glamorous women canter towards the gates, calling behind them for stragglers to “Get a shift on!” I sip my bitter black coffee and watch the world, remaining unconvinced that I will ever be able to sink a pint at Spoons at such an ungodly hour.

My flight is short, and after minimum fuss I am greeted by Mariana and Paolo at the entrance of a metro station on the outskirts of the city centre. We talk incessantly as we trundle back to her family’s apartment, quickly resuming our habitual Franglais hybrid. No sooner do my feet touch the cool white tiles of the apartment than Mariana informs me we’re heading in to the city to catch a free walking tour. I change in a flurry of urgency, before we return to the metro and shuttle along in the tinny carriage to the centre.

We greet Pedro in Chiado square as we snaffle some croquettes and pão com chouriço. His black eyes glitter from papery creases, and his slight frame belies the number of kilometres across which he coaxes ignorant tourists. By some miracle we are the only people who arrive for the tour, however Pedro’s enthusiasm is not dented, and for the next three hours we navigate the city, learning about the history of the earthquake, the idiosyncrasies of Fernando Pessoa, and the everyday reality of the dictatorship. The charred bones of the Igreja de São Domingos seemed like something out of a Tim Burton film, as the old structure carefully cradled the pink plaster of the more recent rebuild. At the other end of the spectrum, the dripping gold of the Igreja São Roque was refulgent in its splendour, but somehow made less of an impact. We finished our tour by grabbing a cheeky Ginginha (cherry liqueur), and looking out over the “Golden Gate” bridge.

Mariana permitted us roughly thirty minutes to wolf down some petiscos before leading us down an unassuming alley into an Escape Room. Although these are becoming increasingly popular in London and across the rest of Europe, I haven’t yet delved into the mysteries of a Room for fear of claustrophobia and meltdown, however Mariana and Paolo are seasoned veterans, and patiently assuaged my misgivings. In fifty-six minutes we emerged triumphant, and I was converted to an enthusiast. We wandered the streets to breath in the evening, before returning home and crumpling into a coma.