Escadinhas de São Miguel
There are worlds within worlds that coexist in one and the same city. Always next to each other, almost touching, side by side, one on top of the other, but never embracing.. In our Bairros we are neighbours, all nationalities, strangers,.. All making up the great story of Lisbon, separated by more than just walls, floors and invented structures. We pass one another in the street and cross each other’s little windows. Always piercing in, catching brief glances of different urban tales, but never crossing the threshold into one’s homes. Glimpses of stories, love, intrigue and hardships. Faces, flavours, languages, backgrounds, people,.. We pass along, all day long, every day anew, in Avenidas and Becos, riding in buses and trams, ordering in pastelerias and sitting across from each other in sunlit praças.. We stroll next to the Tejo river, never nodding, never exchanging pleasantries. All of us here, yet distant.. Living together, but worlds apart..
I’ve just ordered a 20 year oaked Port Tawny, as the thought cracks me up that this wine got maturing at the exact same time as when I first visited Lisboa. We meet again old friend! Saúde! I was only 20 then and such a stooge, barely starting to discover the brave new world out there and my own place within it, when I signed up for an Erasmus project at the Lisbon University. 20 years since then.. Fuck me, I’ll drink to that!
The Escadinhas de São Miguel are basking in that late afternoon sunlight. Bright yellow, with reflective shapes bouncing off the Igreja de Sao Miguel, a play of shadows that never gets old. The church itself reflected in white, sturdy and proud. A testimony of its resilience throughout time, much as the feel of Portugal as a whole. I can just make out Lady Justiça proudly judging me from top of the façade, scale in hand, ready to weigh my good with my bad. She’s got her work cut out for her.. Good luck!
No clouds pierce the sky and the heat is falling down mercilessly now. It’s relatively quiet, safe for a handful of brave tourists, puffing and sweating their way up the stairs, taking photos of the old church and curiously halting at the improvised Ginjinha stand, operated by an 80 year old Alfacinha just up the stairs to my right. She’s sweet as her liquor, but persistent in her sales as the lingering of the cherry on the tongue. “Muito bom”, she exclaims! “Só 1,5 in a chocolate cup! Muito bom.” Her accent resonates with the old time character of the Praça. She’s been slinging her devil juice longer than any can remember and she has become an integral part of the scenery that is called Alfama, Lisbon oldest Bairro..
Sweet, though powerful! The flavour of my port hits my lips and ferments the moment.. I’m drinking now till I forget. I’m not sure anymore what I’m supposed to forget, so maybe it’s already working. The Café Antù offers a welcome shadow under the wineranks that span the terrace and gives it that old time vibe, with a sleek modern twist. I’m a sucker for that kind of romantic set-ups.. From here, I got a great view of the people passing by. So that is two for two on the guilty pleasures..
People of all corners of the globe trot the Escadinhas, engulfed in that old time charm, flanked by the little house stacked 3 or 4 stories high. Through their typical small doors, no modern gringo can pass without a humble stumble.. Or out of respect. The little windows left and right host some older men smoking or some ladies survey the passing of time. If two of these Alfama originals make even the slightest eye contact a familiar shouting back and forth starts with sounds resembling Portuguese, but yet the exact words I can never retrace in my ever growing vocabulary. Ooohhllaaaa, Marriaaaaa.. Aaaiiiieeee. Esttáááá, oiieeeeeee. I pride myself these days of having got to a certain level of Portuguese, yet the lingo here in Alfama will be forever lost to me in translation. Or time..
Still, this place remains.. You feel a certain energy here.. It evokes a real gratitude im me to be part of a bigger story than myself, if only for a brief window here this afternoon. I need little checks and balances from time to time. Alfama is Alfama. You don’t want it to be different, you just need it to be.. I hope it will.
A startled pigeon escaping the daunting footsteps of the inbound waiter flaps just shy of my head. I nod slightly to the right on instinct. My ever-present winged companion has to temporarily suspend its scavenging activities around the little French bistro-style tables that make up the small Terrace on arrival of this disruptor. Still time is just evaporating, I sit in silence and let it.. But I’m present for a moment, so I’ll just order one more! Why not.. I’m in Lisbon on permanent holiday. No need to stop my flow..
My eyes meet the only 2 people on the terrace behind me as I turn to wave the pigeon disruptor over. A German couple, sturdy, upright and symmetrically seated almost, sharing my silence almost as if there are no longer words needed to compliment their sweet Vinho Verde. We have all embraced the peace of the moment and the afternoon here and just sit back as we take it all in.. We are in agreement..
Suddenly my attention shifts all the way to the left, just up the Escadinhas, to the sweetest laughter. The girlish giggles are bouncing off the Igreja wall as three girls are putting down their bags against the old church. Their working day is done. Their laughter is still reflecting outwards now into all spaces and is infectiously making me smile along, unbeknownst of the topic of banter. They are on their own little island, amidst the scenery of Sao Miguel, continuously going back and forth and exchanging jokes and one-liners at an accelerated pace. Faster than my reality can handle.. But it’s contagious, and light. It warms me, even more than the subsiding sunlight. They seem unaware of outside influences , young and vibrant, free and innocent almost. As I shift my focus towards them I direct my vibration to speed up and get level with theirs.. I try to focus in on their conversation, but they are too distant and talking way too fast, bouncing from one punchline to another, impossible for me to pick up the stream of words. The only thing that becomes increasingly clear as I involuntarily try to determine their language first, filtering words and intonation, is that they are Brazilian. Dji dji dji, the dancing sounds of spoken music fill the space and are unmistakable.. Dji dji dji.. It’s almost like the samba itself, swelling on a rhythmic percussion with tones that make you sway, tones that make you move. There is something about the cadence that draws me in, makes me want to join in and breathes a slight envy in my proto-programmed Belgian soul. To feel a bit freer of time and etiquette, not to be too stiff and rigid. Sometimes you just got to dance to the beat! And they are dancing now.. Dancing with words. Dancing with time, dancing in this place far from home, dancing shadows on the church, dancing with the spectators eyes, dancing with the city, dancing with me..
