Preface: Wednesday evening a friend who’s been following my trip pretty closely wrote to me “I don’t think you’ve enjoyed Portugal particularly. I’m not even sure you enjoy being abroad.” I responded to him “No, and I’m sorry to have made that impression. Portugal has yielded its riches to me — but this trip is also teaching me a lot about myself that is not happy.” This adventure has run on multiple tracks: Portugal Itself, vibrant, fascinating, crowded, and steep; Me in Portugal, by myself, eager to absorb everything around me while not knowing the language and anxious to do things correctly while not standing in someone’s way; and Me with Myself, confronting depression, aging, and parts of me that are Not Very Nice. I promise it has been a wonderful trip. All that’s what’s going on when I have to wait for the check too long or can’t figure out how to use a machine.
1) Thursday was always going to be a big day, for two reasons: the Gulbenkian, and a dinner invitation from an Instagram friend in North Lisbon. But how the day got structured didn’t crystallize until breakfast in the hotel’s little breakfast room, and I saw on the map that there was a Banksy museum not far from the Gulbenkian. I resolved to walk to the Gulbenkian and have lunch in their cafeteria after touring the galleries, then walk to the Banksy and see that, return to the hotel, and then take the metro to my dinner engagement. Finalmente, a plan!
With Pombal.
2) This meant turning right as I left the hotel instead of left — taking my trip in a new direction, the direction of a spacious and less steep section of Lisbon. Before long, I came to the roundabout centered by the enormous monument to the Marques do Pombal, who rebuilt Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake, among many other achievements.
3) This was at the foot of Edward VII Park, a wide green incline beautifully kept. Walking up in the sunshine, I saw groups of students clad in their black capes chanting (as part of a team-building or school spirit exercise, I guess), locals going about their business, and very few tourists.
4) A block away from the other side of the park I knew I would find El Corte Ingles, the Macy’s of southern Europe. I stopped in to see what they had in socks and underwear (one always needs to resupply while traveling). I generally prefer to look for underwear on my own, but this young saleslady stuck to me like a Portuguese chestnut. (Fernando had shown me chestnuts on the ground in Sintra the day before, their thorny husks looking like hedgehogs.)
5) This trip has taught me to become more comfortable with ye Gyygle Myps, and it got me to the Gulbenkian with minimal trouble. It amused me to arrive while one of the groundskeepers was immersed in the pond by the entrance, wearing his fishing waders to clean it out.
6) Calouste Gulbenkian’s taste and discernment were apparent from the very first gallery. If a museum could be called both subtle and sumptuous, this is it. Coins, textiles, tiles, paintings, what one friend would lump into the term “housewares,” everything was exquisite. I kept wishing my gramma was with me because it was the sort of collection she would have loved. This could have been Manderley, with Rebecca de Winter going from room to room saying “This I shall have, and this, and this,” just as the second Mrs. de Winter imagined.
From the Housewares Department. I would gladly have this in my home, except that it's about the size of an entire room.
6a) The galleries were not crowded, but of special note were two groups of very young school children, each in their own uniforms (navy blue and white gingham for one, some sort of polo shirts for the other), with the children very eager to answer questions. That always gives me hope for the future.
Can you imagine the effect of this orchid on a lady's costume?
6b) The best was planned for last, as the small and self-contained Lalique gallery was near the exit. I’d seen photographs of Lalique jewels before, but never like this! Revolutionary. I was especially taken with a very large white orchid that was part of a hair comb. The rest could be from a sensuous dream — or nightmare in equal parts, considering some of the insects Lalique modeled in jewels.
7) My English friends are fans of the Gulbenkian cafeteria, so downstairs I headed for lunch. I have to hand it to the cafeteria staff: it isn’t easy dealing with a population of guests who could speak any of a dozen ore more languages and maybe don’t understand Portuguese food. A French couple in front of me in line, maybe ten years older than I, were clearly anxious about how to order a sandwich; the lady kept walking back and forth in front of the counter to the sandwiches at the end, and the cafeteria lady had to keep repeating in English “Two slices is one baguette.”
Or this?!
7a) Even I had my troubles, as the daily special was not salmon (as it was on the chalkboard at the entrance), but perch. Oopsie! At the Gulbenkian, you pay first — they make that very clear — order, and then take your order number to a table. All the outdoor tables were taken, so I sat inside contentedly and pretended to read Fernando Pessoa.
7b) I had ordered sparkling water, the daily special (perch, potatoes, and something else beige), and a coffee. First the water came out, then about ten minutes later my perch, beautifully done. And then . . . Life passed by without my coffee. I had been ploughing furrows in my brain over an old problem, finding my eyes a little wet at times, observing the increasing crowd in the room, and in the line at the entrance. They would need my table for this influx, and I was just about to give up when I caught the eye of a waiter — and shortly I had my little espresso and could leave. It was very good.
7c) Museum shops can go either way. The exhibitions I’d just seen were so encouraging, but the gift shop didn’t offer as stimulating an array. Still, my ears perked up when I heard the cashier tell other customers (in English) that she had lived in Boston! So she and I had a nice exchange about New England (though she really lived in New Bedford).
7d) I almost missed the gardens, which were quite spare and beautiful and modern.
8) Residential Portugal is composed of a lot of tall apartments buildings on streets wider than where I’m staying.
9) All I really knew about Banksy was a) graffiti, b) cult following, and c) anonymous. The museum collection shown here impressed me more than I expected. Delicious, delicious irreverence.
Delicious, delicious irreverence.
9a) Their shop was better than the Gulbenkian shop, lots of tote bags with Banksy designs. But I still didn’t get anything.
10) I actually walked all the way back to my hotel and was I glad to get out of my shoes and put my feet up. The construction noise from next door was pretty bad, but I solved the problem with my earbuds and a Youtube loop of meditation music. I lay back in bed, and I think I actually slept a bit.
11) And when I woke up I started writing — and nearly missed my departure time for dinner. This was also going to be my first trip on the Lisbon Metro. The stations are so clean! I didn’t have many stops to take. One advantage over Spain’s system: the doors open automatically.
12) When traveling abroad, it’s an honor to be invited into the home of a local resident for a meal. Bruno and I had been Instagram friends for some time, but I had no idea he lived in Lisbon. He was really pleased to find out I would be in the city and almost immediately invited me to dinner with him and his husband at their home. Of course I accepted. And stepping out of the elevator to see the open door of their apartment and an unusual illuminated work of art began one of the most special evenings I’ve had in a long time.
12a) Bruno received me with a big smile and a big hug and introduced me to Carlos. The conversation started on exactly the right note. I was offered a glass of white wine and we enjoyed some hors d’oeuvres before Bruno retired to the kitchen to dish up.
12b) Our evening of conversation covered everything: American politics, recent Portuguese history (both of them were born just before the Carnation Revolution), my trip, their recent travel, our parents, Ava Gardner, art, stories so delightful and ephemeral I hope I get to hear them again. Entertaining at home was decidedly a theme — they love to welcome guests, and so do I.
12c) Bruno has mastered many traditional Portuguese recipes, and tonight he served a creamy shellfish soup and bacalhau a braz, the famous codfish dish. And I noted that they had actual fish knives with pointed blades for that course, so rare in the US. For dessert, pastel de nata and another Portuguese pastry called “cushions.” And I had brought a small box of chocolates from a chocolatier next door to my hotel.
12d) This was the first real conversation I’d had in a private room (as opposed to a car or a restaurant or a shop) in nearly three weeks. We kept it going in their sitting room after dinner. My enduring image of Bruno is of him sitting cross-legged on a beanbag chair, smoking a cigarette and talking and smiling.
13) They kindly and hospitably sent me home in an Uber. Driving by that large statue of Pombal, we saw a lot of cops, a busted motorcyle, and then a car with a caved-in windshield. Wow! The ambulance must have come and gone before we drove by. After I expressed my astonishment, the driver told me that three people had been killed the day before — but he meant with guns. It makes me relieved and anxious both that I haven’t followed the news much.
14) When I walked into the hotel foyer somewhere between midnight and 1 AM, I was very surprised to see the nice man at the desk. “Aren’t you supposed to be off at 8 PM?” I whispered. “Nine,” he whispered back. “But some guests had their flights cancelled, and they are arriving at 1 AM.” I felt bad for him. I’ve been in that place before.
15) This was a really special day, right up there with my excursion to the Douro Valley 300 years ago. I fell into bed, very happy.
A fountain in Edward VII Park.