Largo Do Carmo

Where the kiosk plays all Bob Marley albums, one after another. Customers get big, juicy cocktails served with a soft smack on their tables. All in the rythm of the reggae. They feel like being somewhere exotic, with palm leaves waving and music playing sweet songs of freedom. When I close my eyes, I can almost touch the ocean with the tip of my toe. But no closed eye can hide the fact that it's a popular beach for tourists. I hear English and German and realize I'm still in the touristic heart of Lisbon. I find myself almost becoming one of them. But not really. Because I'm not. I'm a traveler, exploring and discovering the world one place and face at a time. 

This place is different. I've been here before. I remember how a lovely free-city-tour guide told me about this square last year. He pointed at the seats and parasols, smiling. These are all tourist attractions, we don't go there. I liked that. We. As if I'm a local too. Then he told me about a place where all the locals went, a restaurant nearby, hidden in an alley on one side of the square. Super Mario.

That one was easy to remember. I don't remember much from the rest of the tour because I was checking my watch to meet a friend. I politely told the guide I had to run, and that I liked his tour a lot. So much I gave him a banana. You know these free city tours, they run on donations. If you enjoyed it, you give a coin or a note to thank the guide. I don't like the idea of stuffing money in someone's hand, especially if this person is a guy who I wouldn't mind seeing again. So I gave him a banana with my number written on it. I told him to call or text me, that I would be happy to take him out for drinks or lunch. If this idea would give him the creeps, he could still eat the banana.

That night he texted me. If I wanted to go have lunch at Super Mario's the next day? I met him at Largo Do Carmo at noon. He took me to his favourite place and I immediately understood why the restaurant is called Super Mario. The owner is an exact copy of the game hero. It's a family business, that's clear. With dad (Mister Mario) serving you one fine dish after another, mom in the kitchen and son behind the bar. I let the guide do the ordering, as I don't speak even a slight hint of portuguese. He knew the Super Mario family, because they recognized him as soon as he walked in. 

Trays of bread with olive oil were brought to our table, and plates of fresh fish and salad and rice. The bottle of wine loosened up our tongues and we talked about everything. Things got blurry so I don't remember exactly what we talked about but it was fun and by the time espressos and creme brulees were being ordered, I lost my heart to Lisbon with its hidden Super Marios and tour guides. 

Tiny adventures of the unexpected

Don't you just love it when your bladder screams out to you in such a way there is no ignoring possible and you are forced to walk (or run) into the first bar you see? Often this is not a place you would choose yourself. But it's your bladder who makes the decisions. You think it's rude to just use their toilet and leave, so you stay. You order something you know, so you have a little point of recognition in this unknown place. Clumsily you take your pot of tea and pastel de nata and choose a seat in the middle of the action. 

You settle, take off your coat, breathe in and look around. The only language spoken is Portuguese. The place is filled with locals of all age and size. Three grandmas with golden earrings and comfortable shoes catch up over strong coffee and sticky cakes. Behind me, an older man with large glasses reads the newspaper. He does it so passionately, he seems to forget about the world around him. It's like everything stopped. The ladies chatting, the rain pouring. 

Next to the cigarette machine, a young couple is talking slowly with next to no sound leaving their lips. Then there is this loud voice, a woman asking questions left unanswered. Sometimes she yells, leaves a bit of time for silence, then yells some more. I wonder if the person on the other side of the line is screaming too, or trying to calm her down. Above everything, there is the zooming of the fridges, dripping of the rain and shouting of orders behind the neon lit counter. 

And in the middle, me. 

Out of place but fitting in. Using my hands to wipe off the cinnamon from my face, smiling at the old ladies with a mouth full of pastel. Recognizing myself in each and every one of these customers. Blending in like a regular and thanking my bladder to lead me here.

Mornings in Lisbon

Oh, yes. The adventure started. Wandering around early morning streets, slowly recognizing patterns of tiles and Portuguese names. Choosing alleys with my nose. The sweet smell of freshly watered plants takes me to a park. Angel's trumpets and massive aloe veras are the setting for the beginning of a sunny day in a city that speaks to my heart. So many memories have been created here, it's hard not to feel at home.

Rows of colourful houses unfold before my eyes as I follow my feet. Every corner holds a surprise, a stimulus that tickles my brain. The feeling I've been here before, the smell of coming home. Of knowing I used to lived here, or visions of settling here in the future. Maybe it's just a dream. Reality seems to stay in one place as I keep walking and take unexpected turns. The reflection of the sun on the white mosaic tiles makes me see stars. 

I look down and catch a glimpse of my dirty shoes and muddy coat. Souvenirs of planting bushes and picking veggies from the garden. I tried to wash and scrub my hands but the earth wouldn't leave. So I decided to not even try and clean my shoes. And Lisbon, with all her parks and flower filled squares, doesn't care. She likes people in every state they find themselves in. All made up and brushed off, smelling like the party from last night, straight from the country side, straight from the airport, or just straight lost.

Lisbon mantra

Lisbon! Paint me with your colours! Decorate streets with flags and turn every day into a celebration. Dance under giant trees until your feet can't hold it any longer. Fall asleep on the grass, wake up with moving clouds and watch sunsets. Look at butterflies. Find yourself in them. Leave your cocoon. Do what you love. Pretend judgement doesn't exist. Fall down and get up again. Give someone a banana with your number written on it. Invite a stranger for tea. Lose yourself. Smile big. Go on little adventures. Be a poet. Invent rituals, like drinking ginginha every time you end up in Lisbon. Always end up in Lisbon.

Oh Lisboa

The last two weeks of August I spent mostly in and around Lisbon. This beautiful city brought back memories of old loves, late night dancing, meeting friends from all over the world in the narrow alleys under street lights and loud music. It felt great to recognise places and their faces from years ago. Many hours were devoured writing letters in my favourite green space Jardim Das Amoreiras, smelling flowers in the botanical garden and drinking bottomless cups of tea.

While writing this I'm going back to summer mornings in Portugal. The smell of strong coffee, pasteis de nata and pink flowers started my days. There was lots of wandering around aimlessly. I talked to strangers. Bought expensive bras. I don't wear bras. I didn't care. I was lost and the city carried me to the places I needed to be. I sang to a tree. Ice cream was sweet and wine was cheap. Jazz festivals in a park and fado in a tiny restaurant. Story telling nights in unexpected places. Lisbon showed me her poetry. I lost my heart somewhere along the way.