I’m convinced most of the socialising in Portugal takes place on the balconies of the row houses. It’s difficult to watch where you’re going on Lisbon’s streets when there is so much theatre unfolding above you.
While Joel checks the map, movement on a balcony across the street draws my eye. An elderly woman with skin the colour of cedarwood appears, cranes her neck to see into the window of her neighbour’s home, retreats back into her own and reappears with a broom. She raps twice on her neighbour’s window with the handle and another woman with wild, wiry, grey hair bursts out with a wide, toothless smile. The first woman wordlessly lifs a tangle of wet, white sheets from a basket at her feet and passes her smiley neighbour an end. They work together to shake them out and peg them to a thin wire strung along the edge of both balconies and it bows under the damp linens’ weight. Our protagonist nods her thanks but before withdrawing, she chances a coy look across the street. I follow her gaze to find an elderly gentleman on his own balcony, wearing a plaid waistcoat and sipping espresso from a tiny yellow cup. His lips are pressed into a thin smile and he’s watching her with something that looks like longing. He lifts his cup to her, she waves and retreats.
‘I think we take the next left,’ Joel says.
We make our way to the TimeOut Market, stopping only to marvel at the Ascensor da Glória funicular railway, which we discover is technically not a funicular railway, but which ferries people up and down the steep hill between the Restauradores Square and the Bairro Alto garden in spite of the confusion surrounding its name. We opt to climb the hill instead, believing we are earning an extravagant breakfast, but when we arrive at the TimeOut Market we learn that we can only purchase coffee and gluten-laden pastries before 12pm. We spend quite a while hunting around for something to eat and eventually find a tiny outdoor kiosk beside a playground where we order coffee and a cheeseboard. It’s sunny, and behind us, a little boy is chuckling and sometimes breaking into squeals of delight as his mum pushes him on the swing. She’s crouched in front of him, and she kisses the air near his face on every up-swing. Another cutie with a bob haircut, maroon tights and a natty mustard-coloured cardigan is only brave enough to climb the ladder for the slippery dip when her dad is behind her. She tries, but her legs prove too little—she turns to dad with a furrowed brow and he scoops her up, lifting her and tapping her feet on each rung as she ascends. She’s ultimately unimpressed by the slippery-dip, however. At the bottom, she pulls dad by the sleeve over to the see-saw (two yellow dinosaurs on springs). She likes that much better, even though dad can only fit his knee in.
We take the train to Algés where we stroll along the waterfront to Belém Tower, a fortified 30-metre Lioz limestone construction which was completed in 1521. The tower is a UNESCO World Heritage Site owing to the significant part it played in the Age of Discoveries, a period of European maritime exploration in the 15-17th centuries. It’s a prized example of Manueline architecture, a style that celebrates the nautical through stone ornamentation depicting sea elements like barnacles, pearls and seaweeds, as well symbols relating to ships and sea navigation such as anchors, ropes, and the armillary sphere. We wander along the waterfront—observing sailboats and boundary-hugging jellyfish the size of human faces until we reach the Padrã dos Descobrimentos: The Monument to the Discoveries. It was built in 1940 for the Portuguese World Exhibition, and commemorates those who contributed to the Age of Discoveries. It’s an awe-inspiring construction that appears luminous, with the tow and plaster statues seeming to draw and hold the light.
We continue on to Jerominos Monastery but it’s difficult to see where to purchase tickets and I am promptly overwhelmed and made cranky by the heaving crowds and insistent touts—all elderly women who approach me with warm smiles, but scowl and shower me with muttered curses when I politely decline their wares. We seek refuge and rosé at a nearby café, and Joel spends the time smiling at me patiently, patting my hand and saying kind things, and—as usual, he quickly succeeds at restoring my joie de vivre. Our second attempt at gaining access to the monastery is a success, and we enjoy the sun-drenched cloister and its harsh shadows, and an exhibition about the famed Portuguese historian Alexandre Herculano, a man with the most enviable epitaphs I’ve ever seen:
‘Alexandre Herculano was a renowned thinker, historian, soldier, writer, polemicist and journalist and is considered the founder of modern historiography in Portugal…He was an upright man in his actions, convictions and faith and kept up with all the social, cultural and political movements of his time. He did not shrink from active public intervention whenever he felt it was necessary to defend his romantic, liberal ideals…He was always ready to face the challenges of life.’
‘Alexandre Herculano was extremely erudite and had an encyclopaedic knowledge.’
There are virtual tours of the Monastery here.
The walk back to our hotel is long but lovely. We wander through the Botanic gardens, where we pause in front of a pretty gazebo to watch smiling couples of every age dancing to salsa music.
