Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part One

 

(Image: Cidadaniaja.com.br)

Yearning for a morale boost and some Vitamin D, I make good on my own promise for another change of scene. A mere few weeks since my aventure niçoise, neither my wanderlust nor my desire for some winter sunshine have abated.

Don’t mistake this for some lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous jet-setting. I’m in between jobs, after all. I cut my cloth according to my modest size. I’m aware of the immense privilege of accessible travel and the freedom that comes with having no responsibilities. There has to be some advantage to being single at my age.

It’s initially a toss up between Italy and Spain. Both meet my inexpensive budget requirements. Flights to Milan and Rome from Brussels are especially cheap. I just don’t feel safe travelling to Italy on my own as a West African woman, based on previous experience. I don’t have a particular affinity with Spain but Barcelona is a big deal and I’ve never been.

In the end, I choose neither. A chance encounter with some Lusophones at a language exchange shifts my focus to Coimbra, Portugal. One of my new acquaintances, José, is a native of the city. He assures me it’s worth the trip. Plus, as his friend and namesake suggests, it’ll be good linguistic practice; even if it’s not my preferred variety of Portuguese. True, I was only in Porto a couple of months ago but I like the country and language. Flights and accommodation are also reasonable. Why not?

Coimbra it is, then. I book my hotel and tickets before realising Portugal requires a pre-departure PCR regardless of vaccination status. Thank God, the results are negative despite some close shaves.

My usual camp-at-the-airport strategy backfires on this occasion. Airline company TAP cut it as fine as possible to open check-in. I might as well have enjoyed the comfort of my own bed and gone to the airport at dawn. Instead, I'm there for the best part of 12 hours with only an hour or so of sleep. 

I fly out on one of those bright, if near freezing, mornings with which Belgium is occasionally blessed. Coimbra is forecast to be even sunnier and significantly warmer. Not sandal-wearing hot but I shouldn’t need my winter coat.

Touching down in Lisbon, where I’ll catch my connecting coach to Coimbra, the weather is indeed glorious. Clear blue skies and mild enough to ditch that coat. 

I already feel better. I eventually make my way to Sete Rios station to purchase my bus ticket, a little intimidated by the sketchy-looking surroundings. I arrive in time to catch the very next coach to Coimbra, leaving in less than five minutes. The pleasant scenery en route continues to lift my mood; a sun-soaked city scape flanked by an azur sea and rolling hills. There’s a heck of a lot of green for this time of year.

We arrive in Coimbra at sunset. I put my Portuguese to work straight away asking for directions. I still get lost; even when a non-Lusophone tries to show me where I’m heading on their smartphone in English. In my defence, the roads aren’t well signposted. I eventually give up my stingy ways and opt for a taxi.  It’s more good language practice and at just over four euros, I can't quibble.

I persevere in faltering Portuguese with the accommodating receptionist at the hotel. After the COVID scare I had with AirBnB in Nice, I decide not to risk sharing facilities again. Hotel accommodation in Coimbra is cheap enough to be competitive with the short-term rental platform.

I’ve chosen to stay at the futuristic-looking Zero Box Lodge. The concept is simple: attractive if minimalist cabin-style units with all the essentials and few frills. It’s in the heart of the City and has received great reviews. I can see why. The hotel is brand new. Everything is so fresh and so clean, clean. The austere rooms are nevertheless spacious enough for one; particularly the bathroom. A pre-ordered Continental breakfast is included. The only thing missing is a view of the outside world. The sole (hidden) window faces out into the nightclub-esque corridor, with its dim red lighting.

The city centre is quiet for a Friday night. Depressingly so. By the time I step out, most of the shops are closed and there aren’t very many restaurants in the vicinity. I’m famished and have a hankering for seafood, at which Portuguese cuisine excels. I settle on a chic establishment with apparently friendly staff. The restaurant plays very familiar Bossa Nova renditions of 70s and 80s pop classics.

I order three courses and lots of bread. I’m pausing my detox whilst on holiday. My patient and convivial waiter entertains conversation in between courses, as I sound out the right vocabulary and grammar. Suddenly a wave of fatigue competes with my hunger. For a moment, I worry I’ll pass out face down in my food.

I enjoy the meal but something must not agree with me. Let’s just say I have some discomfort during the night. I’m not sure if it’s the restaurant food or just my body reacting in shock to regular eating after weeks of detox.

By the morning, I really begin to miss natural light. Once the mood lighting is switched off, the darkness in the room is thick; almost oppressive. Something feels off about the day rhythms and this contributes to my already disrupted sleep.

I’ve opted for a later breakfast. Natural light cascades into the bar/restaurant, as if to compensate for the sombre rooms. The space is empty except for one member of staff.  A novelty ‘ghost’ piano, plays jazz standards automatically. The breakfast portions are ideal. The hotel are economical with their supplies, so there's no opportunity to over-indulge. 

The solitary staff member gives me an impromptu language lesson. Even when slowed down, I still struggle to comprehend the European variety of Portuguese. Words are articulated very differently from the standard Brazilian that I’m used to.

I’ve booked myself on another donations-based City tour, a stone’s throw from my hotel. It’s so close in fact, I take it for granted and arrive over five minutes late. The sun is shining in another clear blue sky but it’s nippier than expected.

It’s the most intimate group I’ve encountered on one of these tours; just me and an elderly American couple travelling around the region. The multilingual tour guide, Diana, moved from her native Italy to Coimbra to study Law and never looked back.

It’s through Diana that I come to learn, (over a month late, to my shame), that the Portuguese parliament was dissolved in December ahead of a snap election at the end of this month. Despite the country’s Socialist party still enjoying strong support, it was only a minority government during its previous mandate. Diana is concerned about the rise in support for fascist parties and xenophobia – particularly against Brazilian migrants – in Coimbra. Nevertheless, the City has a long history of radicalism thanks to its significant student population. Revolutionary slogans are graffitied across town. One of the main train stations is decorated with artistic solidarity messages for Cuba. 

Coimbra University Clock Tower

Coimbra life turns around the principal attraction: the University. The distinctive caped uniforms, also seen elsewhere in Portugal, originated in these parts, according to Diana.

We do a loop of old and new Coimbra via the most famous spots such as Praça do Comércio, the almost 900-year old Santa Cruz church (and its scary depiction of a cross-carrying Jesus), Jardim de Manga and the Botanical Gardens. We then pass by the Roman aqueducts en route to the best known University buildings – including the nigh-mythical Biblioteca Joanina - at the highest point of the city. There are some great views of the striking landscape and the Rio Mondego from this height. Coimbra is a lot more capacious and ethnically-diverse than anticipated. Not being as well known as the two major cities between which it is sandwiched, it gets overlooked.

Diana explains the multiple factors behind why the City is currently rather subdued. It is partially pandemic-related. Some of it is down to locals frequenting the city centre less, as other neighbourhoods expand their shopping facilities. The most significant reason is that this is exam period and the students are currently incommunicado.

Perhaps because of Coimbra’s radical political history, I hear more about the terrors of living under almost 50 years of dictatorship than I did on the Porto tour. Diana believes the older generation's inculcated reticence is a hangover from this dark period. 

By contrast, Portugal’s colonial history is referred to only in ‘neutral’ terms; its influence on architecture or the Botanical Gardens, for instance. No mention of its brutality or that it was the last European power to resist decolonisation and bitterly so – well into the 1970s and long after the tide had turned. This oversight is the only major flaw of the tour.

Before parting company, Diana shares more about why she’s adopted Portugal as her home. She has no plans to return to Italy, citing the political instability and less liberal attitudes towards the LGBTQ community, of which she’s part. She plans to obtain Portuguese nationality, believing that the country is far more unlikely to leave the EU than Italy.

The tour concludes around the corner from my hotel. I return to freshen up before heading back out. I intend to make it to the coast at Figueira da Foz before nightfall. I discover too late that won't be possible by the time the next train arrives. 

I change my schedule and make my way to the nearby Parque Verde do Mondego. The temperature has picked up. The sun bounces off the glass structures, including a stainglass-patterned bridge straddling the Mondego River. There are plenty of people around. Whilst meandering, I stumble across the old Santa Clara monastery (Mosteira de Santa-Clara-a-Velha). Despite the pleasant surroundings, I still carry the melancholy I hoped to leave behind temporarily in Belgium. I’ve never been very good at switching off. It becomes more apparent when I’m completely on my own. Still, I make the best of it. I eat an enjoyable Middle-Eastern veggie lunch. I have one more stop before returning to the hotel for some pre-dinner rest; the New Santa Clara monastery ('new' is of course relative. It dates back to the 17th Century).

Coimbra Botanical Gardens

I arrive on the grounds at sunset. It’s worth the steep climb for the splendid view of the city. Inside the church itself is unnerving. The gaudy gold motif and the dimness aren’t inviting. It’s not one of those sacred spaces where I feel tranquil. On exiting, I accidentally wander into the parish office, giving flustered explanations to the man at the door.

I feel much better outside in the cool, crepuscular air. On the way back to the hotel my curiosity leads me to the Convento São Francisco. It has been modernised extensively. Any traces of antiquity aren’t immediately visible. One of the receptionists is so unwelcoming, I almost walk straight out. I just don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

Her colleague is more professional. The parts of the building of interest aren’t normally open to the public. I return to the hotel. I can’t shake the blues and my fatigue isn’t helping. Neither is the frustration of trying to express myself fluidly in Portuguese and not always succeeding.

Whatever it is, this too shall pass.

I ask for a taxi to be ordered for a journey I originally wanted to make by foot. On my request, Diana has recommended a Brazilian BBQ restaurant – or Churrasqueira. Its punned-name translates into Carnal Pleasures or literally, The Pleasures of the Flesh. Vegetarians and Vegans look away now.

The restaurant is in the vicinity but about a 20-minute walk. I’m tired and chary of getting lost.

According to the taxi driver, it's not a good neighbourhood for me to be out alone. He could just be saying that for business’ sake. He’s quite insistent about returning to drop me off at the hotel. I mumble something non-committal.

I figure it’ll be better for me to walk off all that meat and side orders.

I picked a good night to come. A solo male singer/guitarist plays Bossa Nova classics and other, less commercial songs from the Brazilian songbook. It’s not your cheesy background music. He’s good. I sing along where I can and try to encourage him by applauding discreetly, since nobody else seems to be paying any mind.

I haven’t had a Churrasco for a long time. I forget how overwhelming it can get and how fast. A lot of the meat is also served rare. Apart from not being to my tastes, I've been advised against it since being hospitalised for a stomach ulcer almost eight years ago.

I enjoy the meal better the more the meat samples are paced out. My Portuguese also improves as the night wears on. I relax. I’m more at ease with the Brazilian variety. I also become less self-conscious about being the only client eating alone. This is almost always the case when I dine out and it doesn’t usually bother me.

I quit whilst I’m ahead, pay the (surprisingly reasonable) bill and look forward to the exercise as I walk back to the hotel. On the way out, I ask the entertainment if he knows James Taylor’s Only a Dream in Rio feat. Milton Nascimento. He does not. I congratulate him anyway on a good show. It’s not as easy as it looks.

Soundtrack: Beat Tape II by Benny Sings, Asibi Happy by Kabza de Small

Part 2