¡España! A Musical Sojourn in Lisbon
On the way to our next ancient Roman destination, we decided to make a pit-stop. In another country.
Actually, Portugal IS legitimately on the way when you travel south from Galicia to Mérida, which was our next stop. There is a strictly Spanish route, but the one through Lisbon, Portugal is more direct and besides, we'd never been to Portugal before. I had high hopes that this "layover" in another country would be much more successful than Amsterdam was.
Crossing into Portugal from Spain was essentially like crossing into Rhode Island from Massachusetts. There was a toll. An un-manned toll. That's it. I thought it would be more like crossing from the US into Canada: not a big deal, but some light check-in with a professional-looking individual. But no. We just drove on in. And it didn't look much different.
Pretty soon, we lost the Spanish radio stations we'd been listening too. I wasn't overly concerned about that as Spanish radio is VERY into dance-y, poppy stuff (and I am not). The way the radio in the car worked was, as soon as you lost a station it automatically searched to replace it with something else close on the dial. Before we knew it, the radio DJs were chatting to us in Portuguese instead of Spanish. And let me tell you. The difference between those two languages is STAGGERING. On paper they look pretty similar, but the SOUND of Portuguese is unlike any other language I've heard before. It's all ooshkas and shooshes. I likened it to ancient Atlantean. I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't even guess.
What I had no trouble understanding, however, was the music these Atlantean/Portuguese DJs chose to play. It was a mix of Top 40, alternative rock, and what sounded unmistakably like fado. Fado, we had previously learned from (where else?) Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations," is Portugal's answer to the blues. Usually with a melancholy theme and accompanied by mandolins or guitars, the little I'd heard before was just beautiful.
Like so:
Obviously, finding some live fado music was my main directive for our overnight in Lisbon. Luckily, Mr. Bourdain had already scoped a place out for us in his show. So after settling into our next hotel, we headed in the direction of the older part of the city for some tapas, some sangria and, if you're still feeling peckish (which we were), some of THIS:
That is vihno verde (green wine) and the famous black-hooved ham we had been hearing so much about. And HOLY GOD it was as tasty as advertised. Vinho verde was also a revelation. It's younger wine (thus "green"), very light and crisp with a little effervescence to it. I looooved it. Thank you, Portugal, for introducing me to my new Summer Wine of choice.
Once full of food and drink it was time to wander. We found the fado bar from the show pretty quickly...but so had everyone else. There was a line out the door. Disappointed, but undaunted, we hovered outside for a little while, just listening. Like in Spain, in Portugal every door and window of every shop, restaurant, café, and bar was thrown open to the outside. So the mournful strains of a man's voice drifted easily out to us standing on the cobblestoned streets. I probably would have just leaned against the wall listening all night, but the Esposo does not like to sit still for long. So we headed elsewhere. I was annoyed to leave the music behind.
Little did I know, there was music everywhere.
An older man in a three-piece suit strolled between the tables of one restaurant, singing to the patrons. A woman in a white apron stepped outside her restaurant, luring in new customers with her own powerful voice and sad siren song. It seemed like every place we passed had a singer, and that singer was vying for your attention along with every other voice on the block.
By now, the Esposo, having driven the Stressmobile all the way from Galicia earlier today, was starting to look a bit tired. So we started walking back in the direction of the subway. As we passed a standard looking bar, its entire front open to the street, I heard the very familiar sound of a lone acoustic guitar. There was a young guy perched on a stool, strumming and singing away. The bar was practically empty. I paused, looking in. Esposo stopped to see what I was looking at.
ESPOSO: Look at that guy, playing to no one. I've been that guy.
ME: Let's go in.
Two pints of beer later, we were sitting at a round table listening to a bar musician sing songs in a language we didn't understand. But he was happy we were there, and we were happy he was happy. Plus, he was very good. And because we are clearly trendsetters, it wasn't long before the bar started to fill up with a younger, local crowd - one that appreciated the musician even more since they recognized what he was singing. They even sang along. Loudly.
But of course they did. This was Portugal, and that is what you do apparently. You sing.
Actually, Portugal IS legitimately on the way when you travel south from Galicia to Mérida, which was our next stop. There is a strictly Spanish route, but the one through Lisbon, Portugal is more direct and besides, we'd never been to Portugal before. I had high hopes that this "layover" in another country would be much more successful than Amsterdam was.
Crossing into Portugal from Spain was essentially like crossing into Rhode Island from Massachusetts. There was a toll. An un-manned toll. That's it. I thought it would be more like crossing from the US into Canada: not a big deal, but some light check-in with a professional-looking individual. But no. We just drove on in. And it didn't look much different.
Pretty soon, we lost the Spanish radio stations we'd been listening too. I wasn't overly concerned about that as Spanish radio is VERY into dance-y, poppy stuff (and I am not). The way the radio in the car worked was, as soon as you lost a station it automatically searched to replace it with something else close on the dial. Before we knew it, the radio DJs were chatting to us in Portuguese instead of Spanish. And let me tell you. The difference between those two languages is STAGGERING. On paper they look pretty similar, but the SOUND of Portuguese is unlike any other language I've heard before. It's all ooshkas and shooshes. I likened it to ancient Atlantean. I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't even guess.
What I had no trouble understanding, however, was the music these Atlantean/Portuguese DJs chose to play. It was a mix of Top 40, alternative rock, and what sounded unmistakably like fado. Fado, we had previously learned from (where else?) Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations," is Portugal's answer to the blues. Usually with a melancholy theme and accompanied by mandolins or guitars, the little I'd heard before was just beautiful.
Like so:
Click to viewObviously, finding some live fado music was my main directive for our overnight in Lisbon. Luckily, Mr. Bourdain had already scoped a place out for us in his show. So after settling into our next hotel, we headed in the direction of the older part of the city for some tapas, some sangria and, if you're still feeling peckish (which we were), some of THIS:
That is vihno verde (green wine) and the famous black-hooved ham we had been hearing so much about. And HOLY GOD it was as tasty as advertised. Vinho verde was also a revelation. It's younger wine (thus "green"), very light and crisp with a little effervescence to it. I looooved it. Thank you, Portugal, for introducing me to my new Summer Wine of choice.
Once full of food and drink it was time to wander. We found the fado bar from the show pretty quickly...but so had everyone else. There was a line out the door. Disappointed, but undaunted, we hovered outside for a little while, just listening. Like in Spain, in Portugal every door and window of every shop, restaurant, café, and bar was thrown open to the outside. So the mournful strains of a man's voice drifted easily out to us standing on the cobblestoned streets. I probably would have just leaned against the wall listening all night, but the Esposo does not like to sit still for long. So we headed elsewhere. I was annoyed to leave the music behind.
Little did I know, there was music everywhere.
An older man in a three-piece suit strolled between the tables of one restaurant, singing to the patrons. A woman in a white apron stepped outside her restaurant, luring in new customers with her own powerful voice and sad siren song. It seemed like every place we passed had a singer, and that singer was vying for your attention along with every other voice on the block.
By now, the Esposo, having driven the Stressmobile all the way from Galicia earlier today, was starting to look a bit tired. So we started walking back in the direction of the subway. As we passed a standard looking bar, its entire front open to the street, I heard the very familiar sound of a lone acoustic guitar. There was a young guy perched on a stool, strumming and singing away. The bar was practically empty. I paused, looking in. Esposo stopped to see what I was looking at.
ESPOSO: Look at that guy, playing to no one. I've been that guy.
ME: Let's go in.
Two pints of beer later, we were sitting at a round table listening to a bar musician sing songs in a language we didn't understand. But he was happy we were there, and we were happy he was happy. Plus, he was very good. And because we are clearly trendsetters, it wasn't long before the bar started to fill up with a younger, local crowd - one that appreciated the musician even more since they recognized what he was singing. They even sang along. Loudly.
But of course they did. This was Portugal, and that is what you do apparently. You sing.