Lisbon

Lisbon is a maze of hills. Every bit of sidewalk an irregular mosaic of white and black rock. This is not a city for high heels. The streets meander, leading up and down and around. They are narrow enough that every corner brings a little surprise. Highly ornate stonework, round windows, endless staircases, four story buildings with tall windows and elaborate ironwork to frame the bottom half. Hues of pink and cream and yellow beneath terracotta roofs. The polished rock of the sidewalks are uneven, faceted so they shimmer in the sunlight like fish scales. The roads are dark grey — matte square cobblestones. Grand boulevards, some streets just wide enough for a small car, some narrow enough you feel you could touch both sides of the street if you stretched your arms wide. The buildings are narrow and tall, french windows in lines that stretch from corner to corner, the top floor windows are often tucked into a gable cut into the terracotta roof. Many windows have a rack fitted below with strings of clothesline and pulleys at one end so people can reach out the windows to hang their washing. A hell of a walk if you drop a clothes peg. So many of the buildings are tiled — each with its signature pattern. Geometric patterns in every colour under the sun. No two alike. Some of the tile work is more elaborate —  hand-painted scenes in blue and white that span the whole façade. A city of 500k people invaded by over 19 million visitors a year, I am relieved to be here in the winter. There are still packs of tourists wandering around hunched over their google maps but the thought of heaps more, in >35 degree weather, is terrifying. There is little occasion to practice my terrible Portuguese as everyone speaks great English. My usual chitchats with cab drivers foiled because most of the drivers we get are immigrants whose English is miles better than their Portuguese.

So many empty buildings. It seems there’s at least one on every block. A regal grand dame of a place, or a tiny home with windows boarded up or a collapsed roof. Lisbon recently passed a bill — following a citizen petition that garnered ten thousand signatures— to outlaw airbnb as of this summer. You can see how the short-term rental market has gutted neighbourhoods. Graffiti on buildings being renovated bear messages like "speculation doesn’t make homes”.

Our days are punctuated by hours-long visits to the Quiosque, ubiquitous stalls with their classic green dome, around which are scattered a handful of tables and chairs, to be found in seemingly every park in the city. We sit together early in the morning drinking coffee and munching on pasteis de nata, or in the evening sipping Apérol spritzes and Super Bock beer on tap. The waiters move chairs around to follow the path of the sun. It is glorious to be together. Everyone settles into group-travel mode, making few demands and lots of concessions — following whoever’s pitch for the next activity is the most winning, which means Wil and Henri are usually leading the charge. We eat like kings. A lunch at Cervejaria Ramiro was a highlight. We all came from different directions to meet up at the little lectern by the front door where an older man checked his reservation book. He shouts unintelligibly into his walkie-talkie, then hands us a tiny piece of scribbled paper to hold on to. A few minutes later we were led up some iron stairs, and weaved our way through a corridor bustling with wait staff and led to our table tucked into a window.

The room could not have held more tables, most of them groups of six, families off all varieties, generations at a table, many of them dressed in their Sunday best. A long room with a curve at the corner of the building and grand French windows that faced the street. Clattering plates, clinking silverware, waiters hustling around, a group of women in their forties having a ball, laughing and singing loudly. As they left their table, they flirted with the kitchen staff, pouring their drinks into plastic cups to take the party with them. The menu was all seafood and we tasted as much of it as we could. Giant shrimp, little shrimp, crab, barnacles, little steamers, razor clams, all simply prepared, steamed or boiled, served in their juices with melted butter, lots of garlic and bread to sop up the drippings. The waiter demonstrated how to eat the barnacles, which to me looked like clumps of tiny witches’ fingernails. Surprisingly delicious. We followed up the heaps of seafood in the traditional Portuguese way, (don’t ask me why) with a steak sandwich, fine slices of beef heaped in a round bun, slathered with mustard and hot sauce. The dessert was sundae glasses of ice cream generously drizzled with shots of vodka.

We get some tickets to go see a soccer match, Lisbon’s Benfica against Porto’s Boafica. Crowds wander around outside the massive stadium trying to get as much beer in as they can before the game. No alcohol is served once the match begins. Multigenerational families pulling their young kids along, couples out on dates, packs of giddy young men jostle each other, everyone in red. The energy is electric. We head up to our seats in the nosebleed section, over 50,000 people packed into their seats. At the end of our row, a ten-foot high wall of plexiglass topped with fencing separates us from the Boavista fans. The plexiglass to keep us apart, the fence to keep flying projectiles from making their way over. They have a separate entrance and exit. There is no mixing. Serious business. Lovely scenes all around — a father dips his head down so his daughter can place her sparkly headband on his head. A man in his sixties in the seats in front of us leans over to chat with his tiny granddaughter while her parents are off looking for better seats. The local team is introduced with much fanfare. The announcer calls out the jersey number and the first name of the player and waits for the crowd to shout the last name. Everyone stands for the national anthem but the singing only really starts when the Benfica fan song comes on (with lyrics in lights all over the stadium) to get us all in the spirit.

Anytime the opponents touch the ball there is whistling. We had a moment of discomfort when we realized that Adèle was wearing a black & white checkered jacket (coincidentally the colours of the visiting team). Thankfully the inside was black so she turned it inside out to reassure our seatmates that we weren’t the enemy. The small Boavista crowd waved massive flags and sang their songs but were quickly drowned out by the Benfiquistas. A fistfight erupts around the margins of the away team zone but the security guys quickly have it in hand. Boavista is outplayed, not helped by a red card early in the game that had them scrambling one man down for 75 minutes. Our seats hung high over the Boavista goal and we got a great show. Each of the three Benfica goals was rewarded by everyone getting on their feet, spinning their rally scarves overhead and singing. When there were changes to the lineup, the announcer called out the names to huge cheers, in contrast to the away team’s subs which were comically whispered as quickly as possible into the mic. When the game ended we emerged from the stadium into the dark washed along the boulevard in a sea of red.

On my birthday we went out to a neighbourhood far from the tourist zone. We got out of our Bolt at a little park lined with ancient trees, hoping to try out another quiosque before walking over to the restaurant we’d booked. When we stepped out of the car, the park was heaving with people, all standing around a group of musicians  playing what sounded like Brazilian music, lots of drums and instruments of every variety, the musicians all dressed in green, swaying in time to the music. A curly-haired woman wandered around among them with a mic and sang her heart out. The crowd sang along. A warm up for Carnaval, a man explained as he sold us tiny brigadeiros, small balls of chocolate and condensed milk rolled in sprinkles, like a truffle tucked into a colourful tissue paper which he pulled out of his big, rectangular Tupperware.

People swayed and danced. It culminated in a conga line with everyone moving in a big vortex around the musicians. And then, without fanfare, it was done and the crowd dissipated as we made our way to Tati.

An amazing meal. Tucked into the back of the small tavern, our table was right beside the kitchen and watching the buxom chef and her tiny sous-chef quietly hustle in the minuscule kitchen was great entertainment. Henri had some pointed questions about the wine. The waitress hemmed and hawed and then went to get the expert, who turned out to be the chef. She came out of the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron, hair piled high on her head and chatted with Henri about wine. She came back a few minutes later with a few bottles and introduced them to us. She spoke quietly, wringing her hands a bit, but she was so patently jazzed with her offerings  that she relaxed, telling us a story about each of the wines. We ended up with three glasses each on the table, one for each colour, because it was all so good. She was obviously tickled. We all had a crush on her by the end of the meal. The food she served up was delicious and creative and spot on. The beauty of dining with seven people is you get to try everything on the menu and we did. We feasted and drank and made merry.

Saying goodbye to our team broke our hearts.