One marvelous experience

 Blog 07-25-22 Monday Ponta Delgada, Azores

If you’re lucky you get two sublime experiences on any trip. 

I arrived at the main Lisbon bus station on a hot Friday afternoon. The station is a somewhat shabby, almost-shadeless expanse of concrete in the northeast corner of the city. My heavy backpack (I’d bought some gifts in Porto that added new weight) made my lower back ache a bit, and my smaller backpack (which I wore in front of me) tugged at my throat enough to be uncomfortable. I carried a thin cardboard container that housed a painting I’d bought as a gift. Altogether I was very eager to reach the LX Hostel down near the Tagus River that gives Lisbon it’s raison d’etre. 

My Google directions to my hostel were encouraging — just walk a bit to the Metro Station nearby. Naturally I couldn’t find it for a few minutes until I realized the stop was beneath me, down two sets of stairs, thence to an expansive hall obviously intended to accommodate a sizable crowd of people. This was Friday at 3pm so no crowds were evident. I examined the system map and, naturally, took the train in the wrong direction. Once I’d corrected that mistake I was able to transition to a city bus, which got me to my destination. 

The LX Hostel was right underneath the bridge

The LX Hostel was actually a sort of hospitality industrial site complete with multiple restaurants (“Happy Hour 4-6”), fancy shops, a place selling magazines, a florist, and a mysterious building titled LX Factory. Hundreds of young backpackers and tourists buzzed about in the restaurants and shops. A cobblestone street bisected this little backpacker’s paradise. Lamentably this one lane avenue was hazardous since a steady stream of cars kept chugging through, casting pedestrians aside willy nilly. The heat radiated up from the bricks that formed the street and small sidewalk. 

Naturally I couldn’t find the hostel. My lower back insisted I find the place so I resorted to asking a waiter. He pointed to a set of nearby stairs where I espied a small sign confirming the hostel entrance was vertical. (In more ways than one since I got an upper bunk). 

I only had one full day in Lisbon so I had meager expectations of my time here. First duty was to find food since I’d not eaten this day so far. I was determined not to sanction the LX megacorp so I sought out someplace beyond the LX boundaries. I landed on a place run by South Asians that advertised all sorts of dishes. I pointed to a listing for spaghetti el pesto. The young guy behind the counter gave me a quizzical look as if he’d never heard of such a concoction. He whispered something to the other guy standing next to him, then the both of them retired to the kitchen area apparently to confer on the details of this strange repast that I had discovered on their menu.

“OK, we’ll make it,” the first guy informed me confidently. I settled into a sidewalk table to await what Lisbon-ese pesto might look like. 

What I got was a spaghetti dish bathed in shredded tuna. Every restaurant in Portugal I have discovered is mandated to have some sort of tuna dish on the menu. Atum is the Portuguese term. The meal was filling and tasty so I took no offense that nobody in the place knew what pesto was. 

I got a late start Saturday after I spent too much time surfing the web. I had two goals; first I’d visit a flea market that I’d enjoyed on my last trip to Lisbon, then I would investigate an art gallery that looked promising from what I’d learned on Google. 

Naturally I screwed this up due to my terrible navigational skills and an inexplicable stubbornness about money.

The bus system in Lisbon is extensive. You seldom need to go more than a couple blocks to find a stop, and Google has very accurate information. Just type in your destination and you get multiple easy ways to reach wherever you want to go. I had two buses to choose from, both available less than two blocks from LX. 

Like Amsterdam or Paris or just about anywhere in Europe there is an arrangement whereby you can procure a magnetized card that will admit you to buses, trams, cable cars (yes, and they are just as quaint as you might imagine), and the subway. Unlike  those other cities there are no ticket machines on the street. 

Three obstacles stood in the way of my partaking of the bus. First, the aforementioned cards (available online)  expire at midnight and cost twenty-one dollars, obviously far more than I’d need this late-starting day. If I could find a ticket vendor I could buy a ticket for one ride ($1.30), but……..

(Second), the only shop that locally sold bus tickets was closed until July 31st for reasons that were explained in Portuguese on the door. 

Here’s where my stupidity kicks in. I could give the driver a two euro coin for the ride. But dammit I wanted to pay $1.30 (dollars and euros are essentially the same right now). I fumed at the injustice of making me pay too much. I journeyed up and down the nearby streets searching doggedly for someplace to buy a bus ticket. There was no place. It was hot, the day was expiring, I was angry at the unjust world. 

(Third) I had only one euro coin in my possession, enough for one ride, but then, presumably, I’d be stranded somewhere distant from LX. 

The story would be more interesting if I’d stalked back to LX and boycotted Lisbon’s transportation system, or maybe if I’d pistol-whipped a bus driver and taken over the vehicle, but I did none of this. 

I bought a smoothie, providing me with some more coins, then gave the cable car lady three euros (they are more expensive) and headed out for the flea market (remember the flea market?)

I deserved to have a miserable day, and at first it seemed like this was my fate. There was no flea market. Google said it was open until 6pm but at 4:30 there was no evidence that a market ever existed. This left me desolate in a charming Lisbon neighborhood of narrow, hilly, cobblestone streets. My footing was shaky as I descended slowly, carefully securing my foot to each slippery brick. I had vague plans to find that art gallery but for the moment I was simply taking in the scenery.

The Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon

After a five minute walk I looked to my right and observed a large (by Lisbon standards) glass window. Within the window were some interesting paintings. I had time; why not go inside and enjoy some art. Except there was no door. I descended another ten yards, another window, no door. Finally, a few feet further on, there was an open doorway. Inside  to the left, sitting at a nondescript little table was a curly-haired young woman sporting thick dark-brown glasses. She seemed absorbed in a computer screen and paid me no notice. Timidly I edged forward into the starkly-white-walled interior. 

There was no one (except the young woman) inside as far as I could tell. The walls were ringed with paintings. There were a few sculptures on tiny tables beneath the art. As I approached the first painting the young woman looked up and gave me a transitory smile, then went back to her screen.

Over the next 45 minutes or so I realized I was in the most amazing art gallery I had ever visited. Picture after picture startled me. I am not a good enough writer to convey the variety and beauty of the works I saw in this place called the Perve Galleria. Even the layout of the place itself was intoxicating. The works were displayed on about five different levels. You luge down level after level, discovering new delights at each elevation. The majority of the art was from the former Portuguese colonies in Africa, primarily Mozambique. 

I’ve been to many galleries and museums in my life. On this trip I visited the Pompidou in Paris, the Van Gogh in Amsterdam, the Guggenheim in Bilbao, Versailles, and a few others. None compares to Perve IMHO. The works varied in abstraction; some were colorful, some tenebrous; some massive, some petite. There were marvelous photographs. I wanted to buy at least ten items. I went back to the entrance to find some face-saving way to learn whether any of the art was for sale. There were no prices listed. Perhaps this was just a museum for viewing. 

“Um…..is this a museum or a gallery?” I asked her.

“Both,” she replied. 

“But there are no prices,” I continued.

“If someone is interested we can provide a price.” 

I eased my way back towards the paintings. Down two levels I revisited a fabulous work made of painted fabric by a woman from Mozambique. I noted her name, Lizette. I also memorized the name of another artist I prized. I returned to her desk. 

“The work by Lizette down below? How much?”

She reached into a drawer of the table and brought out a catalog. She almost whispered something that I couldn’t understand. I gave her a look of confusion. 

“Four thousand, five hundred euros.” 

Far more than I could afford, alas. I asked about the other work. 

“Six hundred and fifty euros.”

That was more within my budget. But I wasn’t mentally prepared to fork out that much money right there. I cowered back to the gallery and began revisiting the many pieces I fancied. 

To my further delight the owner of the gallery approached me. He began telling me the story of his venture, how the neighborhood once was dilapidated, how they had incrementally accumulated enough items to start selling, how they expanded the physical space, and, inevitably, how the neighborhood had gentrified. After twenty minutes of talk he left me to further peruse the collection. I inquired about more prices. 

And finally I settled on one Mozambican photograph for $1,700.  

I got to talk more with the owner while we did the paperwork on the buy. He told me they would cover the cost of shipping the piece to California, which, of course, pleased me. 

As a last gesture the owner guided me to a nice local restaurant where I had a good dinner. 

Some days just work out, even if you don’t deserve such good fortune.