Lisbon is in fashion. It can be checked at any travel agency. This summer its streets were boiling, flooded by a multi-national crowd. Perhaps bored with other destinations already too frequented, the masses of Europe and other parts have rediscovered the westernmost capital of the Old Continent. And one of the quietest.
The Portuguese, as you know, are peaceful and serene. Faced with the phenomenon of tourism, they are divided into the two traditional sectors: those who hope to benefit from it and those who learn to bear it with resignation. Be that as it may, by calculation or by patience, they treat the visitor wonderfully, who feels a bit like home in Lisbon, that is, sheltered and desolate at the same time.
At the mouth of the pachydermic Tagus River, as gentle as it is indifferent, one can confess to a Portuguese that one must live each day as if it were the last. The Portuguese, then, will return a skeptical and leisurely look, and assure: “It may be, but without losing perspective that it may not be.”
A city must be understood immediately from a certain height. That first perspective is fundamental. In Lisbon, there are many viewpoints from which to contemplate the urban fabric: Santa Luzia, Santa Catarina, San Pedro de Alcantara, Senhora do Monte… A very interesting location for urban picado is the one offered by the castle of San Jorge, of Arab origin and a national monument since 1910. From any of these points the Portuguese capital bivouacs flirting with the Tagus.
A square that stands out in these views is that of Martin Moniz. It is one of the most thriving leisure and restaurant spaces in current Lisbon. Visitors, however, choose it for a very compelling reason: the famous tram 28 departs from there. It is already known that the yellow trams are an emblem of Lisbon.
These charming little gadgets allow you to overcome the many slopes of a city with many hills. The 28 runs through the Estrela, Bairro Alto, Chiado, Graca and Alfama neighborhoods (with a stop in front of the National Pantheon, the Se-Cathedral, the Portas do Sol viewpoint and the São Jorge Castle, among others). It only has one drawback: the vehicles have little capacity and the queue to get on takes forever. When the last tourists get a seat, a plane has calmly departed from Valencia and has arrived in Lisbon… If you want to avoid this wait, the best thing —and more expensive and less picturesque, but more practical— is to get on a tuk-tuk.
Some visitors may be drawn to the memory of Fernando Pessoa, Portugal’s most legendary writer. The Portuguese language acquires with Pessoa anti-metaphysical depths. To evoke his figure, it is advisable to stay, as I do, in a hotel in Praca da Figueira, the one sang by Alvaro de Campos. From here starts the quintessential street of the people, Rua dos Douradores. The writer lived there and worked in a seedy office. Today it is an exquisite road, perfectly rehabilitated, with trendy shops and cafes. Pessoa’s other home, where he lived between 1920 and 1935, is located on Rua Coelho da Rocha. The building today houses the House Museum of the writer. Of his personal belongings, only his bed and a replica of the chest where I keep the 30,000 posthumous pages that constitute his work are preserved.
Once the Pessoan journey is over, it is possible that the visitor will get hungry. In Lisbon you have to eat fish, especially cod (for a reason they have the formidable pantry of the Atlantico). However, its two most peculiar gastronomic emblems are minimalist. It’s about sardines and pasteis de nata.
What the Portuguese have done with the sardine is a metaphor for their evolution as a country. Less than half a century ago, this clupeiform, gregarious and modest fish was part of the misery of the sea, both in Portugal and Spain. It was the food of the poor: it had no more value. Today, canned sardines are sold in stores that look like jewelry stores (for example, the Mondo Fantastico da Sardinha Portuguesa chain). And it is that its price is jewel: a simple can of 115 grams costs 15 euros; 22 if it contains edible gold flakes. Sardine roe is priced at 52 euros per can.
It is advisable, however, to try the fresh grilled sardine, which is offered in many Lisbon restaurants as a delicacy, which it undoubtedly is. This method of cooking was already recommended by Josep Pla in his time: “Never eat grilled sardines, always grilled,” exhorted the author of El que hem menjat (1972). The Portuguese, without knowing it, are very flat. A very reasonable objective is to go at night to one of the alleys of Chiado (the most bohemian neighborhood in the city, but also the poshest, with its pastel-colored facades and its high-end shops). There you can dine while listening to live fado singing.
In the Tasca do Chico (Rua do Diario de Noticias), with a bit of luck, you can attend impromptu concerts by professionals with a lot of tradition. Other restaurants in the city where very good fish are served are Merendinha do Arco, Ultimo Porto, A Baiuca, Tasquinha do Lagarto or Ze da Mouraria.
As for the pastel de nata, it is a small puff pastry tart filled with cream. It really is a delicious dessert, whose elaboration is disputed by the best sweet shops in the city: La Manteigaria, Fabrica da Nata, Pastelaria Santo Antonio, Pastelaria Batalha… There is no mystery to puff pastry, so the key is inside. It seems that the original recipe -which is jealously guarded- comes from Belem.
Two places in the city deserve careful comment. For art lovers, your appointment is with the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, on Avenida de Berna. It is the most important cultural institution in Portugal, the product of the generosity of an oil tycoon of Armenian origin —Gulbenkian— who lived in the country after taking refuge there in World War II. The complex is made up of works from all periods and includes a thematic library with more than 160,000 titles.
The most unique site, however, is undoubtedly the Carmo convent, in the Baixa. It is a church partially demolished by the earthquake of 1755, which devastated Lisbon. A part of his factory is still standing. Today it is part of an Archaeological Museum and it is a strange place, perhaps a liminal space in the anthropological sense. There is something of interrupted ritual in these ruins. It is the skeleton of a sacred space, which resists being considered exclusively profane.
