The Age of Discovery

Rua do Chafariz de dentro. Fotógrafo: Estúdio Horácio Novais. Fotografia sem data. Produzida durante a actividade do Estúdio Horácio Novais, 1930-1980.

By Andrew Kyriacos-Messios

Lisbon sprawled below us bounded by a golden flowing coastline and cut through by the broad and shimmering Tagus. Like most tourists, there were many places we could have chosen to go, the point was only to go somewhere else. And so here we were, six miles above the capital of Portugal, falling upon it like a paper plane caught in a wind, full of the best hopes, full of good intentions.

The plane arrived with a thump on the tarmac, and we went through the motions to escape the airport. We met our taxi driver, who was very polite: direct, but with a goodness about it, unlike his driving. He told us he was born in Lisbon, supported Benfica, and had only been driving for the last few years, on the side. Of all the beaches he recommended Santa Marta to us, because the water was clear and had small fish in it. 

As we talked, the suburbs of Lisbon sped by. We looked out at the bushy mediterranean fauna, punctuated by electric bursts of flowers, neon pinks and deep blues, and the tall, patterned period buildings that seemed never less than five stories high, replete with intricate crafted balconies and doors, and outer walls adorned in pastel hues or patterned tiles. Across the motorway, a juggler was entertaining the stopped traffic for some change. As we were absorbed in the passing scenery, our driver pulled over.

“Just one moment, please. The driver will come.”

We were puzzled. Wasn’t this man our driver? A few minutes later, a new man, tall, light-haired, dressed in a bleached white tee, jean-shorts and Birkenstocks, opened the driver’s door and got in.

“Boa tarde, guys. How are we doing? Going to Graça?”

He spoke in a flat, precise, and completely jarring German accent. We nodded and, after initially jamming the gear change, this new man took us back on to the road. He drove slowly, conservatively, repeatedly checking his satnav for assurance. In another fifteen minutes or so, we arrived at our apartment.

“This the place, guys? Great. You will love Lisbon, no doubt. In fact, you might never want to leave! Enjoy your trip.”

We gave polite smiles and thanked him. What was that about? Never mind. We were excited to see our apartment.

It was the perfect base, cool and sheltered from the heat. Books by Pessoa, Saramago and Camões filled the shelves, mixed up with mainstream spy thrillers in various languages. There was a bottle of Portuguese wine left on the dining table and a handwritten welcome note from the owners. Outside the apartment, we heard televisions changing channels through open windows. An orange cat, indifferent to our entrance, groomed itself in the sun. A little lizard climbed the wall. We dumped our bags, changed clothes, and headed straight for one the city’s famous seven miradouros. 

Many cities are built on hills, but in Lisbon you are most rewarded for climbing them. The miradouros are terraced viewpoints scattered throughout the city. Each is different but with features in common: a shelter of tall stone pines buzzing with cicadas, improvised cafés and motor-carts selling coffee and pastel de nata, music filling the air in one form or another, through speakers or instruments. And there’s the panorama of Lisbon itself. We found they also buzz with foreigners taking pictures of themselves against the vista, forming queues and generally milling around. Tuk-tuks swarm the nearest streets, ferrying tourists up and down the hill.

After dwelling on the vista and enjoying the sun for some time, we saw one of the city’s iconic yellow trams and decided to take the next one down to the city centre. The tram arrived soon after, and so we squeezed ourselves inside the small, musky, mahogany carriage, among the crowd. As I went to pay, I awkwardly extended myself to reach the machine. The tram lurched forward, I lost my balance, and fell onto the plastic screen of the driver’s compartment.

“You OK, mate?” the driver said, as he looked at me with an amused expression. 

“Yes, fine,” I said, taking a few seconds more to process what I’d heard.

“Sorry, are you British?”

“Yeah, from Manchester, mate. You?”

“Er, Essex. Cool job?”

“Haha, yeah. Just came a week for a wedding. Now I’m driving a tram. It’s mad.”

I gave a polite laugh and left him alone to concentrate, but continued to watch him operate the tram with curiosity. The young Mancunian pulled at the vintage industrial handles that drove the tram along its rails, occasionally yanking the bell handle as we passed through the narrowest of Lisbon’s streets, with the fronts of the houses and shops so close that you could reach out and touch them. I felt as if I was watching a cowboy run a Venetian gondola, or an Irishman lead a camel caravan through the Sahara. He would sometimes look nervously at the controls, as if not quite sure how they would respond. I forced my attention away from his operation of the tram and to the view of the streets through the open windows, which the seated passengers hung their arms out of leisurely. 

As the tram slowed down to stop and passengers jostled to get off, I felt the back of a hand press firmly against the back pocket of my shorts. The pressure was firm and specific enough to alert me but natural and quick enough to have been nothing at all – just another passenger trying to get past. I almost dismissed it. But I checked my back pocket to be sure, just before the tram set off. My wallet was gone. Outside, I saw a figure sprint away from the carriage and down the street. My partner jumped off the tram with me, as she knew I intended to run after him. I caught up fast as he had begun to walk leisurely once he'd turned a corner, not expecting a chase either. Capped and sandaled passers-by watched agape, wanting nothing to do with the situation. The thief was a block ahead of me. Suddenly, he stopped. 

He turned to face towards me, breathing heavily, and took the wallet out of his own pocket and theatrically placed it on a plastic table next to him, so I could see his intention clearly. He then sat down on a chair and, catching his breath still, took a disposable vape from his pocket and dragged on it. I was dumbstruck at his sudden and absurdly casual surrender. Once I caught up, I had my first glimpse of him up close. He was clean-shaven with bleached white teeth, the curled-up physique of a long-distance runner, and wore a smartwatch tightly bound to his wrist.

“Oh boy, I need to quit this thing!” he said. An American. I could not believe it. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I said, catching my own breath. “You rob me and then sit down here like it’s a joke?”

“Yeah,” he paused. “Pretty bad, isn’t it? Well, here. How about I give you an extra fifty euros for the trouble.”

Out of a small bag he pulls his wallet and drops a fifty euro note on top of the fifty he took from me. 

“I don’t want your money, you prick! Are you even a thief? What are you doing pickpocketing if you can afford to give me fifty euros! You’re not even from here!”

“I know! Well, the long story short is that our cruise stopped here – and I never went back! Haha. Lisbon, boy, really has that European charm, doesn’t it? Totally. Blew. Me. Away. Oh, and the lifestyle,” he winked at me. “Don’t get me started, right! They let you live like a king!”

I gave no reply, but he continued. 

“As for the pickpocketing – well, it happened to me once, on the same tram you were on. I was so mad! Then the next day, I got the same tram, saw a lady’s bag open and thought, why not. Caught the bug. That’s why you travel isn’t it? To really get out of your bubble!”

His philosophy on travel briefly stunned me into silence. “You’re not a thief, you idiot. And you clearly don’t need the money. Aren’t you worried about getting arrested?”

He reflected for a moment. “Arrested? No, I hadn’t thought of it,” he said.

At this point I turned and walked back towards the tram with my wallet back in my pocket and his fifty euros left on the table. I didn’t explain the conversation to my partner as I could scarcely believe it myself. I just apologised profusely and assured her no-one was hurt. 

We spent the next few days finding our feet in the city and enjoying the sights, doing our best to forget our strange start to the trip. We visited the fado museum, the tile museum, the modern art museum, the warehouse district filled with trendy independent shops and bars, the botanical gardens and parks. One evening, we walked along Lisbon’s principal promenade, the Rua Augusta, with its ornate Pombaline arcades filled with café terraces under umbrellas. At the end of the street, perfectly framed under a pristine neoclassical arch, we saw the statue of Portugal’s claustrophobic king astride his horse, towering majestically and forsaken amid a huge wide-open plaza, the bronze arse of horse and king directed at the city, but his feathered and crownless head facing outwards: towards the Tagus, and towards other lands. 

We visited the towering neo-Gothic elevator of Santa Justa, the Castelo de São Jorge with its wandering peacocks, and the Carmo Convent – its roofless naves a reminder of the fury of God, and its historic square a reminder of the greater courage of people. We walked to Belém, which was home to the colossal Jerónimos Monastery, lavished in intricate Manueline stonework, the Tower of Belém, which stands prettily on the Tagus’ riverbank like the world’s largest ossified sandcastle, and the Monument to Discoveries, a soaring tribute to Portugal’s Age of Discovery. We ate at every nata pastelaria we found. We saw the olive tree that buried Saramago. 

But the longer we stayed, and the closer we looked, the more uncomfortable we began to feel. Something was deeply wrong here, and nowhere was this more apparent than in Alfama, one of Lisbon’s oldest neighbourhoods – an old fishing quarter, a Moorish labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys, hidden vine-covered courtyards, trees laden with green oranges and figs. We looked forward to visiting the area, having read Pessoa’s essays on Lisbon, where he said “no other place can give him [the Tourist] the idea of what Lisbon was like in the past,” and described the residents as living lives “full of noise, of talk, of songs, of poverty and of dirt”.

But in Alfama we found none of these things. The windows were shut, the washing lines were empty, the fountains were dry, and the only noises to be heard were the clamorous voices of tour guides followed by the shuffling of large groups being corralled through the alleyways, or the eager overtures of restaurant owners inviting foreigners to the night’s fado show and selling shots of cheap ginjinha in little chocolate cups.. On many of the walls of Alfama, we found monochrome portraits printed onto the limestone. These urban artworks are well known. A travelling artist drew them to memorialise the faces and lives of the people who lived in Alfama. But, on taking a closer look, we became puzzled. The portrait depicted a pale woman in her twenties or thirties, named Fleur, with a thin nose, sharp cheekbones, and wiry light hair. In the background of the image were her friends, all standing at angles with one of the city’s yellow trams. At the corner of the portrait, I saw a thin piece of film upturned. I tugged on it, pulling more until the portrait of Fleur slowly came away like a ripe scab. 

Underneath the film, a new portrait emerged of an olive-skinned woman, sturdy and matronly, with short, pitch-black hair, and a grandmother’s loving presence. She stands in front of the door of her home, an Alfama home, with her neighbours in the background. Her name is Maria. 

Once a boisterous place full of life and strife, so we had been told, Alfama had turned out to be a far more fragile ecosystem than it must have appeared, for it had wilted on the vine and died, its fruit plucked, and its roots poisoned. 

On check-out day, the owner of our apartment arrived to turn the flat around before another couple arrived. His name was José, like the claustrophobic king, and he was born in Lisbon. It was cathartic to finally speak to a Portuguese. He was charming, respectful, and with the same directness I liked in the taxi driver. He asked what we thought of the city.

“It’s beautiful,” I paused. “Do you miss it?”

“Yes,” he said. “I miss it very much.”

Andrew Kyriacos-Messios is a London-born writer of British and Cypriot descent. He has a BSc in Physics with Philosophy and is particularly interested in ethics, technology and the natural world.