ego rub

from an interesting online book. note that this is merely the arrival, I dare not read the follow-up, afraid the picture might get just a bitsy bit darker. He did leave, after all. (I changed paragraph alignment for an easier read).

- - -

ARRIVAL
Mel Sewell in How To Be Portuguese-ish

I had no pre-conception of what Portugal, its capital Lisbon and its surrounding suburbs and villages would be like. Yes, I had travelled in Spain, Italy, France and Holland, so expected it would be sort of European/ Mediterranean.

Bear in mind I was in Portugal in late September. In England the weather would have turned chilly, the sky would be grey and warning us that winter’s depressing chill would soon be upon us. And here I was only a few hours flight away, in glorious sunshine and warmth.

Lisbon’s architecture blew me away - a heady mixture of the ornate, Rococo, Art Deco, Art Nouveau, Ultra Modern and their own invention called ‘Manueline’ - replete with themes of the sea and Portugal’s maritime discoveries. Long, wide, tree-lined avenues, open spaces filled with statuary to poets and writers and ancient electric trams added to the uniqueness. The heady smell of ‘expresso’ coffee was everywhere. Avenida da Liberdade boasted one of the most expensive property rates in Europe and all the top fashion houses and five star hotels were there. I was impressed even though I don’t frequent such establishments anymore.

Then we cruised from Lisbon along the ‘Marginal’ - one of the main thoroughfares which runs immediately adjacent to the Tejo river out to sea and all the way to the ‘new-rich’ town of Cascais, about 35 kilometres from Lisbon. What a beautiful drive, with the sea always at the side, accompanied by beaches, ancient forts, tropical gardens and palm trees. We passed through Estoril, now known mostly for its huge Casino, but more recently the home of the exiled Spanish King during the rule of Franco and onto Cascais - once a cute fishing village, but now the home of the wealthy middle-class. Beatrice kept talking as we drove - here was the Boca da Inferno (mouth of hell), waves pounding into the rocky grotto, there the edges of the fabulously wealthy Quinta da Marinha and then Cabo Raso, with its small, delicately pebbled cove.

Finally we arrived at the zenith of the day’s sights - Guincho. By now it was evening and the wafty, milky, cloud covering had absorbed salmon tones from the sunken sun. Guincho, home to surfers, wind surfers and sun-worshippers gained its name from the screech of the seagull. And wild place it is - even with the Range Rovers and Mercedes’ parked along the roadside. Strong, seasonal winds had whipped the sand dunes into a skin-abrading blanket across the road and motorists, bikers and pedestrians alike fought their way from the beach to their vehicles. But I didn’t see the discomfort. I saw raw nature doing what it does whilst reducing us to mere specs of insignificance in the process. In my mind’s eye I was already living there and making photographic studies.

That evening Beatrice and her husband Diogo took me to a ‘taverna’ in their local village of Almocageme, where we dined on barbecued pork ribs and drank a musky, full bodied red wine from the Alentejo. It was well after midnight when I fell asleep - as though I was cocooned in a fantasy - doves and owls called out in the wild forest around my cousin’s quinta. ‘So this is Portugal.’ I woke, muttering to myself, with a slight hangover the next morning.

A strong black Delta-brand coffee and several slices of toast later and Beatrice was showing me around the garden that was her labour of love. Although in its infancy I began to sense the wonderfully wild contrasts that would evolve through the combination of pretty English and exotic Portuguese flora. Then we were in the car again and off to the precipitous village of Azenhas do Mar, where the little, white-walled houses clung to the cliff-top and threated to plunge, lemming-like, into the tidal pool below, at the slightest puff of wind.

At Sintra, Beatrice found a parking space, despite the multitude of tourists and we began our mini-exploration of this tiny, yet perfectly formed, royal village, with a visit to ‘the best tea room in Sintra.’ Here I was baptised into the exquisite combination of jet-black, bitter expresso coffee (called ‘bica’), creamy pasteis da nata (a very delicate custard tart made with fila pastry) and queijadas de Sintra (another kind of tart, but using cheese as the filling - more like cheese-cake). I hadn’t Beatrice’s experience of other tearooms in Sintra, but I was quite prepared to accept her diagnosis as it being the ‘best.’ [Sapa, Lawrence??] As we ambled about the town admiring the architecture I noticed the ‘scrim-like,’ diffused, cloud formation, which in combination with the strong sunlight lent a peculiarly studio-effect to the tree-lined, cobbled streets. I had the weirdest sensation that I was in a film set - the fairy-tale castle of Sintra adding to the Disneyland fantasy.

The next day I was back on the plane to the UK with a serious dose of Portuguese-ness in my system. (Instant saudades.) On reflection I considered that the Brazilians were very poor, possesed little and managed to be happy. The Brits had three of everything (three houses, three T.V.’s, three wives) and were a miserable bunch of gits. Perhaps Portugal, being between the two extremes would offer the best of both, with the minimum of the worst.