A Walker in the Suburbs

When Portugal ruled the seas, Belem Tower was the last sight Portuguese sailors glimpsed as they left their native land. It sat in the middle of the water, protecting the harbor.  When I saw it today, I thought about the courage it took to sail off into the unknown. What fueled it? Curiosity, greed, necessity, faith? Probably all of the above, depending upon the sailor.  

Less than a mile away, the Monument of the Discoveries celebrates Portugal’s seafaring tradition and the famous explorers, like Vasco de Gama (who’s buried in the stunning Monastery of Jeronimos located nearby), who made it happen. It’s a grand display. But far more moving to me is Belem Tower. Many looked upon its ancient stones, shed tears and mumbled prayers. Some of them returned, but many did not.

This morning Lisbon woke up and went to work. There was a down-to-business hustle-bustle that was missing on Sunday. Men in dark suits gathered across the street in front of what I just realized is a government building with an official-looking crest to prove it. Shops threw open their doors and displayed their wares.

Tourists have to work, too. We set the alarm for 8 a.m. to make a 10 a.m. walking tour, which we did, with time to spare. 

Our guide, Marta, not only showed us panoramic views all over the city but also clued us in on little “cheats,” such as taking public elevators to avoid walking up stairs in this hilly town. As a special treat she delivered codfish cakes and custard tarts (more on these later) to revive our flagging energy.  It worked! We reached Commerce Square revived and ready to visit a museum this afternoon. 

Touring Lisbon: It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

This walker got a late start this morning — I’ll blame jet lag — but once we got going, we made up for lost time. From Chiado and Bairro Alto to this panoramic view at Maradouro de Sao Paulo de Alcantara where one of us (not me) ate the much-lauded national dish of grilled sardines. 

From there down the funicular trail to the neighborhood of Baixa, Lisbon’s “downtown,” where we saw Rossio Square, the Riverfront and the Arch of Triumph. 

Lisbon was destroyed by a powerful earthquake, fire and tsunami in 1755, and much of what we saw today was built after that catastrophe. But one place survived the quake: the church of Sao Roque, which was built in the 16th century and named for the saint that provides protection against plagues and disease.  It seemed like a good place to spend some time today … and that’s just what we did.

Not “gracias” or “grazie” or “merci.” In Portugal, it’s “obrigada” — or at least it is if you’re a woman. Men say “obrigado.”  

It’s a lovely, musical word, this “obrigada.” It has more heft than “thanks,” as if the additional syllables hold additional appreciation.

I’m saying it to myself now: Obrigada for the safe flight here. Obrigada for this lovely city with its red tile roofs and its glimpses of blue water.  Obrigada for the hotel with its warm shower and tiny balcony.

Obrigada for the chance to explore this lovely country …. starting tomorrow. For now (11 p.m. in Portugal), it’s time to sleep. 

We leave for the airport in two hours. The list of to-dos has been whittled down to the final item: “taxi to Dulles.” Traveling to Lisbon will be a three-stage process, involving an overnight flight to London, a layover, and an afternoon flight to Portugal. 

Whenever I embark upon a holiday like this, I think back to my first European trip. I had saved and planned for months, had dreamed of it all my life. In the back of my mind was the possibility that maybe Europe, which I first learned about in fairy tales, was a fairy tale itself. Maybe it didn’t exist!

I can still remember standing with my friends in Luxembourg, mind addled by sleeplessness, ogling the castle and marveling that what I had hoped I would find was actually there. It was the beginning of two enchanted months in France, Belgium, England, Austria, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. 

But not Portugal or Spain. I’ll be seeing those countries … soon.