Lisboa
Postcard #4 - Talvez nunca tenha sido tua / Com certeza já não és minha*
As you may have guessed by the title, this will not be a letter about clay, although there’s been plenty going on in the studio. This week’s letter is the postcard I owe you since July, a postcard from Lisbon. Although I describe a walk I took on my last visit, it’s not meant as a guided tour. Some of the pictures are from my walk and others were taken on a previous visit, last December.
Join me again next week for an update on the pieces I have been working on, a kiln loading and possibly unloading, and all the glazing prep work that I will be doing.
For now, though, follow me…
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If you haven’t already, you may want to read a bit more about me and what to expect from Clay on my mind here and in the About tab.
When I decided to write a postcard from Lisbon I thought I would have a lot to say. After all, I was born here. I grew up in Alcântara and lived there until I was 11 years old, then again between ages 14 and 17, and then again aged 19 and 20 (check out my post Allow me to introduce myself if you would like to find out more). I remember walking in Baixa and Restauradores with my grandfather since I was maybe five or six, maybe a bit older. And then, in my late teens and early twenties, working in Amoreiras, studying in Cidade Universitária and enjoying the night life in Bairro Alto…
Turns out, it’s not that easy.
Those days seem far far away, but even more so now that I took a stroll from Chiado all the way to Príncipe Real and then down to Rato. Of course, in 35 ºC it’s quite probable that my senses were not all that acute, and my sight may have been clouded by the sweat streaming down my face.
But Lisbon looks and feels different. I, of course, am also different. If nothing else, we are both older, and if we hadn’t changed… well, that would be weird.
My main reason for going to Chiado was to visit a place called Icon Shop, a gallery/shop that showcases Portuguese artists. You can find ceramics there, but also paintings, drawings, photographs, cyanotypes… It’s a rather small space but it is worth a visit. I was looking specifically for cyanotypes from Be Brave in a Blue World — beautiful photos of Lisbon processed into blue tones. I will admit to being completely ignorant when it comes to this technique, but I find the end result fascinating.
I took the Metro to Baixa/Chiado and then came to the surface closer to Baixa so I could walk up. Not sure why I did this…
You wanted to remember…
… it was so freaking hot I would have been better off underground.
I am walking with my grandfather. One of my hands holds his and the other some sort of sweet, a pastry or chocolate, or perhaps ice cream. We climb the few steps to elevador Santa Justa and go get a ticket from the person at the counter (was it a booth? was there a glass window?) There’s no queue. I think he pays with a single coin or maybe just shows his public transport card... We wait for a few moments, enter the elevator, and go up.
I quickly walked up Rua do Carmo, then Rua Garrett, and continued up Rua Nova da Trindade, trying to ignore my surroundings.
A less pleasant but clearer memory. Packs of stray dogs roaming the streets. Streets dangerously peppered with dog poop. Lots of it. Walking the streets of Baixa takes some eye-feet coordination. And it doesn’t always end well…
I found Icon Shop and went inside with a sigh of relief. After browsing for some time and day dreaming of having my work sold here one day, I asked the girl working there for the cyanotypes. I was disappointed to hear they were sold out and at the same time very happy for Raquel, the hands and eyes behind Be Brave in the Blue World (you can find her work on Instagram and on her website). I lingered around, trying to gather up the courage to ask about having my day dream come true… Finally decided I had nothing to lose, asked, got the name and contact of the curator, bought some postcards and left the shop.
I wasn’t sure where to go next. I felt giddy from my own boldness and I didn’t want to go back home quite yet. And I was enjoying my time on my own, despite the heat, after a particularly difficult morning. I checked my phone — where was I, exactly?
Really? It’s your city, the city where you were born and you don’t know where you are? Lame…
I didn’t want to turn left and walk back down to Chiado as it is probably my least favourite part of Lisbon nowadays. It’s truly a tourist-trap at its best, lined with fancy looking shops full of overpriced goods and even the coffee is bad. There are maybe two good things in Chiado: the bookshop Livraria Bertrand, “the oldest operating bookshop in the world” (founded in 1732 and selling books at this location since 1773), and the trip-down-memory-lane-shop Vida Portuguesa. Actually, I think the latter no longer exists in Chiado. So, one good thing. OK, two if you count Icon Shop.
Anyway, I decided to turn right and headed up Rua Nova da Trindade. Soon I was in Bairro Alto.
The streets look familiar somehow. How many times did you walk these streets? Did you really walk here before? Memory fails me. I remember but not really. I feel I should remember, so I think I do.
There was nothing touristic about Bairro Alto when I was a student. There were tascas1 and bars and night clubs. I think it looks cleaner but otherwise hasn’t changed much. It’s unlikely I will be re-visiting to experience the current night-life. I felt old.
I kept walking, it was hot and the streets were still crowded. I took a wrong turn and started to go down Rua da Misericórdia.
Shouldn’t be going down, down is the Baixa and the river; You want to go up. You’ve forgotten.
I smelled chocolate and entered Arcádia. It was cool and dark inside. I marvelled at all the different chocolate bars and reached for one… Then I thought of the temperature outside and of how much I would still need to walk… I looked at the hopeful shop assistant and sighed… I apologised, explained my pedestrian condition and left the shop feeling silly.
Dazed and confused, and still rather embarrassed, I failed to correct my course and continued heading down, admiring the tiled façades of the buildings, the art nouveau shop fronts…
Why does it have to be so hot? Was the sky always this relentlessly blue and the light so blindingly bright? You’ve forgotten.
I was trying not to look like a tourist and so did not take pictures at every corner, which is what I felt like doing, and now regret I didn’t. What should I care what I look like? Somehow, I didn’t want to look like I didn’t belong…
Nobody cares and the city knows the truth…
I stopped in front of a pottery shop that spans the whole width of a tiled building. WOW. Everything is written in English — not for the locals, then.
Of course, I should have known. My wrong turn took me on a loop of sorts, and I was now on Praça Luís de Camões, dangerously close to Chiado again… It was so hot… I considered just giving up, getting on the Metro again and going back.
No, don’t. We are not done yet. Just cross the street, don’t look down to your left, look right, go up… It’s going to be ok.
I walked up Rua do Loreto, ignored Rua do Norte because too trendy, and turned onto the second right. Rua da Atalaia.
Shade. The street is narrow and, though lined with parked cars, was empty of people. I pushed on, and the welcome silence felt eerie given how close I still was from the hustle and bustle of Chiado.
This is more old Lisbon, more… authentic? What are you looking for?
And still there is no sense of belonging. There I was, looking at everything and it might as well be the first time I was in this city. I heard Portuguese voices but not only. Not tourists though. I could tell.
They can tell — you’re the tourist here.
Almost at Príncipe Real, I suddenly didn’t want to emerge onto the main street just yet. I turned left at random and just kept walking. I had no idea where I was and, this time, knew for a fact that I had never been here before.
But this is Lisbon… You know, the city where you were born and grew up?
Rua da Vinha. Nice street. Very narrow. Mix of small houses in need of some tlc, and renovated properties, not airbnb, though. And one house covered, and I mean covered, in vine. Makes sense. I wonder if the vine is so old as to have given the street it’s name or if someone just thought it would be funny to oblige. I guess I’ll never know.
By this point, I am getting tired and hungry. I found myself on Rua da Rosa and then, suddenly, again surrounded by people and cars, and I knew I had reached Príncipe Real. I considered for a moment going to a café but gave up and headed to the garden instead.
If you visit Lisbon and like trees, you must go sit under the 150 year old cypress at the centre of this garden. Its 26 meter wide canopy is supported by a metal frame that surrounds and incases this monumental tree (the picture is not mine, I took it from an article about the tree). It’s an impressive sight and, in Summer, a welcome respite from the heat.
This picture must be old, because the tree, which (I found out when writing this) was thought to be dying some 10 years ago, looked much more dense and cast a much thicker shade. I’m glad that’s the case. I sat there for some time, sweat dripping down my back. I used to come here as a student, not so much to the garden, but to this area. But again, there was no feeling of being back, no sense of recognition.
The city has moved on, just like me. It has let go, you need to let go too — it’s not your city anymore.
I drank the last of my water, listened in on some random conversations and got up to continue, though I would have liked to stay longer. The garden wasn’t exactly empty — all the benches around the old tree were occupied — but the sounds were hushed and the conversations conducted in quiet tones. I couldn’t help thinking that it was like sitting in a room with a revered grandmother, imposing enough not to be ignored but no longer really participating in the conversations around her.
And so, I got up, discreetly bowed down to the tree and went on my way, now just eager to be back at my parents’.
I thought for a moment about taking a taxi and looked around. Too much traffic, too many people. The way down to Rato is one I know and remember well because I have walked it many times during past visits. So, again, I walked along Rua da Escola Politécnica and, again, like every other time I walked this street, I asked myself how it is possible that I have never visited the botanical gardens…
There is so much I don’t know, so many places I haven’t been to. How could you have ever thought this city yours?
The Largo do Rato (literally Square of the Mouse — I should look into the origin of that name, really) has changed a lot since the Metro was extended here. I used to have Italian lessons at the Italian consulate on Rua do Salitre (I assume it’s still there but didn’t go check), and back then I would take a bus to Rato from Alcântara. I must have been 15 or 16 at the time. I closed my eyes briefly.
I am with my mother now. When? We are having English-style tea and scones at a tiny place, on the street that goes down on the other end of the largo. Did it happen just once or more often? Is the place still there? Scones…
I entered Papelaria Fernandes, desperate for some connection to the past in this once familiar city I no longer recognise.
You wish… You fool.
All hopes of connection were totally chattered as soon as I passed the door… this Portuguese institution of all things paper, almost as old as the monumental tree in the garden, has seen better days. This shop in particular, in its attempt to keep up with the times, I suppose, looks white and sterile and lifeless.
A fleeting memory of wooden panels, old shelves and paper, pens, pencils… Are you sure you remember correctly? Maybe you just made it all up.
Fine. I get it. Unable to get hold of the past, I took out my phone and called the future instead. Having spotted in the corner some markers my daughter likes, I will ask her what colours she’s missing.
“When are you coming back, mamã? You’ve been gone ages!”
Yes, I have been gone ages. The past is out of my reach, and now, to use another ancient reference, I can only go back to the future.
As always, thank you so much for reading, and I will see you next time.
Sara xx
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*Perhaps I was never yours / You are definitely no longer mine
tasca: small place, tavern or bar, that also serves food
Lisboa...Lisboa... sob o impiedoso sol de Verão... Lisboa é a minha cidade - antes de ser tua - mas também eu não lhe conheço todos os recantos e é bom que assim seja. Um ângulo de rua, a luz numa fachada, um vislumbre do Tejo e eis-me em casa - mesmo que nunca tenha estado naquele preciso lugar. Ah! E lembras-te dos chás nas "vicentinas" da rua de S. Bento!... Fomos várias vezes. Obrigada por me teres feito percorrer algumas das também minhas memórias "desta Lisboa que eu amo".
Your writing is enticing and I feel a book growing as you meander from present to past recollections. You describe so well the feeling of nostalgia I have for visiting familiar places and memories.