From Lagos to Lisbon, to Sintra
Words & Photos–
Alana Potts
@alanapotts
I scan the radio like I know what I’m looking for. I settle on a channel, and sounds of Portuguese pop music fill the car with intermittent announcements of a man with a low voice and a laugh that completely contrasts his deep tenors. He speaks quickly and I hang on to each accent, looking for a hint of understanding. Nothing. Fields of pines moves into rocky and rural terrain, that moves to urban housing, to new city, to forest. The road climbs and the temperature falls as we drive into the mountains behind the capital. A town emerges, built on the foothills of something much steeper.
Morning light filters through the trees and the shadows play with the sun, still waking. The leaves are starting to feel the change of season. Locals begin to emerge from the warmth of their slumber, closing the front door and taking a left or right to the bakery, or the cafe, stopping for a chat, or lifting a hand out of the comfort of their pocket for a wave. They sweep their porches or get into their vehicles for work. Cars cough in the morning air, blow smoke and hum after a few turns.
The roads are cobbled, and barely wide enough for two Fiats. Its turns tighten, and the forest closes in, paving the way between moorish and romantic architecture that this place represents. A castle takes our eye through a gap in the foliage. If it isn’t touching the sky, it’s surely reaching for it, lifted by the top of the trees. Many near vertical steps brings us to the greater castle of many; The Palace of Pena – its history as colourful, and eclectic as its exterior. Exposures of grey rock build to striking red towers, bright yellow cathedrals, and entrances adorned in historic tiling and carvings of magic and mythology to warn the unwelcome. It is a bright and bold statement of difference to the land, the sky, and anything else that isn’t itself. It is striking, discordant, and simply beyond. We question if we are still in the same world – if our arrival here was a departure from where we came; we don’t have the words that exist in a place such as this. Moving through the entrance and into the main square it is a reflection of itself; front is back. We take the steps toward its highest point – a central place where the collective voices of the wind gather and circulate before gushing out, and onto the next. They return us to where we started in a departure from Sintra and an arrival at reality; a drive into Lisbon – watching the city build, from new to old, as the sun sinks into the sea and we arrive just in time to wave it goodbye. The Alfama is the oldest district of the city between São Jorge Castle and the Tejo river where the fisherman and the poor once resided. It is noisy; tram bells and church bells, and it is beautiful; tall, tiled architecture and religious influence. Withstanding the great earthquake of 1755, the maze of streets, cluttered and confused, still stand as they did, and we take to them; up and down stairs, climbing meandering alleyways, descending into small squares, and through winding lanes to a place we later found was named ‘Santo Estêvão.’ The view looks back on the more popular view of the Alfama, and we admire the other perspective we’ve stumbled across; of terracotta and white, and an endless pink horizon.
With a bottle of wine we toast and take-in.
Locals walk by with their dogs, artisan stores close up, and groups of youth park up, light up. Conversation flows and echoes against the church walls like it doesn’t want to hear it. A soccer ball is secondary entertainment to whatever they’re laughing about. They’re inspired, with dreams bigger than this place that I dreamt about.
Daylight becomes street light that spills onto the cobblestone and we wander with a different intention; of hunger and warmth. The alleys are busy; footstep percussion, impossible to avoid cracks, and we’re guided by the smells and sounds of kitchens. The way back is always different from the way you came. The night is as bright as the day; coloured streamers hang between buildings from a festival past and reflect the light just as the patterned tile facades of the apartments do. A distant melancholic vibration drifts through the evening air, and soulful female vocals linger. A journey of senses bring us to the beating heart of Alfama; a world alive with people, food, and Fado. Authenticity leads choice, and we weave through to a smaller back street. A small door gives way to a long dark restaurant. At its end, a lady in red and two men picking at Portugese guitars. Their faces are expressive but their eyes are closed. The woman’s voice is ominous and fateful, wrapping its hands around us, beckoning us inside. Together they play a mournful tune, filling every corner, and seeping out through the cracks. We become puppets for a moment, sharing in emotion, and we understand this more than the radio this morning.
Originally published in Paradiso Issue 10
