Saturday, June 24, 2017
Arriving in Lisbon, I see warmth all around the airport.
People stop to hug, two kisses, one on each cheek, long hugs that take time. Flying
between countries, from France to Lisbon, midday, feels a bit like flying
between much more exotic places—I feel on a frontier—as if I am much further
away than I really am. Interplanetary. I suppose for people who fly between multiple countries
often, this is something they get used to.
Flying into a new country for the second time in a
week, first Paris and now into Lisbon, I see the pattern of coming to a new
place. There is the touch down. Getting baggage. Heading out to take a cab or
metro. Always these first encounters with the new culture are funny. Things you
will look back at later and laugh at, so full of urgency as
they are. Can you take me to this address? How much? And then the looking
around as you go from airport, usually on outskirts of city, into the downtown
that is more familiar, via travel books, postcards, history.
For Lisbon, there is much development and buildings that are half down or cinderblock in quality. The driver goes fast over narrow roads. He informs me that he will not be able to go down my road—the Bairro-Alto is not accessible by vehicle. My typical NYC attitude makes me think he is trying to pull something on me. But I concede. And I know I will be able to find my direction.
As we get into the city, the water spans out on the left of the cab. It is a much larger expanse of water than I realized. This is a port, truly.
People celebrate. There is a gay pride parade going on. Then, my drive drives into the narrow streets, and I see what the driver means. He has no problem going down one street that looks like it would be inaccessible, and he goes fast, not slowing for the woman and man who barely move to the side. Up cobblestone roads. Finally, he stops at the corner of a street. Here it is he says. I get out, lifting my bag from the cab trunk. Are you ok? he asks. You feel safe to find it alone? I say yes.
I begin my walk down this cobblestone street with my suitcase. Come on suitcase, I think. These are some rough cobblestones. I may break a wheel on this suitcase. But gradually, the numbers get smaller, and I arrive at my address. I go through the now predictable encounter with the woman who will meet me to show me the room. These first meetings are always a bit harried and awkward—I am harried from getting here from the airport and bringing my luggage up the stairs. The woman does not speak much English but shows me everything. She has been sent by my host as he is not here to meet me.
For Lisbon, there is much development and buildings that are half down or cinderblock in quality. The driver goes fast over narrow roads. He informs me that he will not be able to go down my road—the Bairro-Alto is not accessible by vehicle. My typical NYC attitude makes me think he is trying to pull something on me. But I concede. And I know I will be able to find my direction.
As we get into the city, the water spans out on the left of the cab. It is a much larger expanse of water than I realized. This is a port, truly.
People celebrate. There is a gay pride parade going on. Then, my drive drives into the narrow streets, and I see what the driver means. He has no problem going down one street that looks like it would be inaccessible, and he goes fast, not slowing for the woman and man who barely move to the side. Up cobblestone roads. Finally, he stops at the corner of a street. Here it is he says. I get out, lifting my bag from the cab trunk. Are you ok? he asks. You feel safe to find it alone? I say yes.
I begin my walk down this cobblestone street with my suitcase. Come on suitcase, I think. These are some rough cobblestones. I may break a wheel on this suitcase. But gradually, the numbers get smaller, and I arrive at my address. I go through the now predictable encounter with the woman who will meet me to show me the room. These first meetings are always a bit harried and awkward—I am harried from getting here from the airport and bringing my luggage up the stairs. The woman does not speak much English but shows me everything. She has been sent by my host as he is not here to meet me.
And then, I rest.
Tonight, is my night to make the transition. I will have downtime. And
what is this? My host has cable? I sit down for two American movies—which already
feel like culture shock, even as they allow me some brainless time before
turning my attention to the heart that is Lisbon.
Below me, as I write, Bairro-Alto is alive with shouts,
yells, clapping and laughing. The roar of crowds below is comforting. A promise
of conviviality.
Good night.
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