Althea Romeo-Mark
My daughter, Cassandra and
I wished we had done some thorough research regarding the location of Rua Da Bica De Duarte Belo before we booked
an apartment there. Not doing this meant that we would soon discover the
vibrancy of this street which was comparable to other streets in Bairro Alto in Lisbon, Portugal.
Cassandra, her fifteen month old daughter, Edith and I arrived at our
apartment in Rua Da Bica De Duarte
Belo at 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon after a three hour flight from cool Basel,
Switzerland. Cassandra was in Lisbon to attend a conference and I was there to
look after my granddaughter. The conference was slated for Thursday through
Saturday and we had come one day early to acquaint ourselves with our
surroundings.
During
the first few hours of day one in apartment four, I sat in an armchair surveying
the local. An older man in apartment nine opposite us sat in a black chair, its
back facing us. The gray-haired man wore a checkered shirt. He wore a variation
of this patterned shirt each day. I suspect he was watching me watching him
through our single white window. I felt too self-conscious to take his photo.
It was as if he had taken up station, the first shift of a street watch. Later
in the day the number of street watchers increased by three gray-haired men.
Sometimes an old woman sat with them.
We
were probably the new curiosity on this street and they were indulging in a
favorite pastime. I imagined they have made bets depending on their
observations as to how long the guests in apartment four would stick around.
Camera-ready, I observed
people trudging up and down the hill. Cars and trucks were ingeniously
maneuvered by drivers on this one way street. They had learned from experience
to be gracious in this tight world so that life could flow.Trams, one painted in brown and beige waves, another in a variation of purple and white tile-like patterns, rumble, clang up and down the metal rails like tired old folks that have done the climb too many times. Regular oiling is not enough for the rusty machines. Someone must be frequently called to the peak of the steep, narrow hill where the trams stall. They are jolted into action like a weak heart shocked back to life by a defibrillator.
Clanking trams are not the only noise that we must learn to live with.
There is constant hammering and drilling, coughing and sneezing, shouting and
barking that bounce between the pale painted houses that line the incline. It
is something they have to share and we must hear.
In our first venture out we see dried washings hung out on lines extending
from tiny metal balconies. Clothes flap like colorful flags and interfere with
the view of the clear sky. Shuttered cluttered, buildings huddle together along
the cobbled street. A small shop or two line the way. We buy water to quench
our thirst and fruit to starve off our hunger as we learn restaurants do not
open before seven at night.
At the top of the hill we discover a main road which, if you stay on it,
leads to another section of Lisbon which offers a variety of colorful trams and
taxis, large official looking buildings and the familiarity of Brand names:
Zara, H&M, Nike, Footlocker and Starbucks, where we take advantage of their
free Wi-Fi. We discover the local pastries and jam-packed ice-cream parlors.
Later, back in Bairro Alto, the narrow crisscrossing
streets are crawling with tourists. Patrons of restaurants stand outside their
doors to grab out attention and entice us with menus and Fado, traditional
music. Some restaurants spill out onto wide steps where customers sit with
tray-like tables over their laps. Above us rainbow-colored decorations from a
recent festival still hang. We mingle with other tourists. Most have American
accents. Like us they roam the hills in search of food and drink. The young
find themselves in cocktail heaven. We settle at Restaurante Bota Alta and
order a dinner of codfish (Bacalou), boiled potatoes, salad and wine. We went
on to have a different type of fish three nights in a row.
On the way back to our apartment, sunlight gives the impression that it
is day. But it is night and after 7:00 p.m. and ordinary sleepy-looking
buildings have thrown off their disguises and have come to life. A spontaneous
carnival begins. Every other house is a nightclub or a restaurant. In between a
hairdresser, a boutique or some small business compete against the other to
make a living.
It was the beginning of the first sleepless night. Our street had turned into a string of
nightclubs. After a day of climbing hills, our tired limbs still cannot
overpower the music, singing and loud laughter that seep through tiny cracks in
the door and window, despite their soundproof guarantee.
Our short visit did not allow us much time to see Lisbon outside our
immediate environ. During the afternoons, we did walking explorations of the city
and on Friday took a vintage tram tour which revealed the red-roofed houses of
Lisbon that looked down from haughty heights on the blue Atlantic. A frigate
ship in the distance reminded me of my own red-roofed, hilly island of St.
Thomas, Virgin Islands, snuggled between the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic
Ocean. Something about seeing the Atlantic Ocean touched me. There was a
spiritual connection to this ocean shared with my island home. My legs and
heart were trained on the hills of St. Thomas. I had to scale a hill every day,
pausing midway to take deep breaths before continuing my climb up that Mariendal
Hill to my home. Lisbon brought this to me, a tiny sliver of my past life that
I visit now and then. 
After a three day wrestling match with our noisy neighborhood we threw
in our towel to find sleep in a soulless but quiet, air-conditioned hotel on
the outskirts of the city. Here our bodies fell defenseless to the luxury of
sound of nothing.
   |
| The tree reminds me of our roots and the African slave trade across the Atlantic. |
On our return to Switzerland, we learned from Wikipedia that, “Bairro Alto (literally the upper
quarter in Portuguese) is an area of central Lisbon. It functions as a
residential, shopping and entertainment district: it is the heart of the
Portuguese capital's nightlife, attracting its
youth. Lisbon's Punk, Gay, Metal, Goth, Hip Hop and Reggae scenes, all count
the Bairro as their home, given the specialization of its clubs and bars.
Although fado, Portugal's national music still survives in the new nightlife,
the crowds in the Bairro Alto area are a multicultural mix of cultures and
entertainment.”
Bairro Alto is not a place for
families with young children or adults who have already been through and
survived the partying phase of life. But if you are young and ready for
boundless drinking, partying and sleeplessness, then this is hellish heaven.
I would definitely visit again. There
is a lot more to Lisbon than Bairro Alto. There is a lot I haven’t seen and I
need to explore my connection to the Atlantic that flows all the way from Portugal
to my island home. I won’t miss the heartburns from late night dinners which we
discovered is the norm of this culture. But my heart and calves are stronger
from uphill climbs and I wish I had gone to the water front to make a splash
and send a ripple home.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 03.07.2013
Althea, sorry to hear you had such a noisy time but it is already making for some memorable words here and will be unforgettable.
ReplyDeleteAnd remember: you can dip your toes in the Rhine and the water that touched your skin will eventually splash onto the shores of the land you call 'home', and then return again to Basel :)
Lovely photos – thank you for sharing!
Hugs
M