Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part II

 7 min read

Part I

Inside Faro Cathedral 
(image: Expedia)

By the next day, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to avoid the unnecessarily circuitous routes to Faro city centre. I still take the occasional wrong turn but I’m quickly able to rectify my path. Besides, getting lost is part of the adventure.  I try but fail to resist the urge to scratch furiously at my mosquito bites. Despite diligent application of my roll-on repellent, the critters have chewed up the fleshiest parts of my legs.

On my jaunts, I’m in the habit of greeting locals in a way I wouldn’t in the UK, France or Belgium. At least not consistently. Faro has quite a friendly atmosphere, something I’ve picked up on previous trips to Portugal.

As also observed in other major Portuguese cities, the Black presence is well-established in Faro. There is scarcely the kind of othering that one might experience in certain contexts; even next door in Spain. I greet my fellow Afrodescendants with a nod and ‘Bom dia’ or ‘Boa tarde’. I spark conversation with folk of Mozambican or Cape Verdean heritage in shops and restaurants. One day, when my Portuguese skills are more assured, I’ll have more in-depth conversations about multiculturalism from their perspective. If there were one other country in mainland Europe with which I’d experiment taking up residence, it would be Portugal. At the same time, I don’t want to be naïve. It was also a major empire that held on viciously to its former colonies. It’s one thing to dip in and out as a tourist, and another to immigrate.

It’s yet again a glorious day; nothing like the Novembers to which I'm accustomed, even compared to when I was last in Portugal around this time of year. I have on my sight-seeing list mainly holy sites; Faro Cathedral, São Pedro church and the morbid Igreja do Carmo; the one with all the bones.  São Pedro is a hop and a skip away from my accommodation but is closed when I first stop by. Same for the Igreja do Carmo.

I therefore take a leisurely stroll to the Cathedral. I’ve noticed en route that Faro has a surfeit of beauty clinics; so many in such close proximity that I wonder how business remains viable. Perhaps the Faronenses still consider grooming a priority, despite these economically straitened times.

The animated fellow at the Cathedral’s ticket office  - fresh from ending what sounded like a heated phone conversation - goes on about the 'bargain' five euro entrance fee. I think. My Portuguese still isn’t as advanced as it should be. That I find the Brazilian variety much more pleasing to - and easier on - the ear than the European, only adds to the challenge. However, I still have enough of the language to feel at ease in the country and make my way around without difficulty. If I miss much of what the receptionist has said, the practice is still valuable. He offers me a guide in Portuguese which I gladly accept.

I usually don’t like to pay to enter churches but I make an exception. The interior of the Cathedral is inviting, if a bit gaudy - as these gilded Roman Catholic spaces often are. There are entire walls made up of azujelo; artisanal blue tiles, for which Portugal is famous. I’m surprised this area haven’t been cordoned off like other parts. I reach out to touch one wall and notice how brittle the tiles are. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion; as if their fragility reflects my own. 

Adjacent to the main chapel is a modest-sized museum, housing sculptures, slightly damaged portraits of various apostles and miscellaneous church regalia. Not for the first time, the latter unnerves me. I wonder how Jesus, a humble carpenter who epitomised simplicity during His earthly ministry, came to be associated with such pomp. A sincere desire to offer God the best became an end in itself.

I complete my visit with what I’m most interested in; the view from the bell tower. It doesn’t disappoint. I sit down on a piece of elevated stone, which appeases my mild vertigo but still affords me a decent view of the city from on high. The half-hourly gong of the bell is pretty formidable at this close distance, as is to be expected.

Feeling more and more confident about my navigation skills, I return to some of the areas covered on the tour the previous day.

I plan to finish up at the Skull Church, en route to my accommodation. Not before stopping off to replace my broken suitcase; an additional expense I do not need. 

I stop off at São Pedro’s - now open - for a few serene moments. An elaborate choral soundtrack, similar to that I heard playing in the Cathedral, streams through the church speakers at a low volume.

When I arrive at the Igreja do Carmo, I’m told it’s cash entry only. Having used up all my change, I’m not about to be ripped off by one of the many nearby commission-charging ATMs. I take it as a sign. I already had doubts about this macabre detour. 

After a pit stop back at the accommodation, I return to the bay to catch another splendid sunset.  I hope to spend a couple of hours at the waterfront before making my way to a free early evening Jazz jam, held in a bar-cum-arts centre in the vicinity. It’s the same kind of event I’d attend in any city I’ve lived in. I don’t know. These shows have a way of finding me. 

A solo guitarist has replaced the duo busking at the bay the day before. I intermittently swap between my own playlist and listening to his covers of Sting, Grover Washington Jr, The Cranberries and Prince. He’ll also be at the same location the next day, adding George Michael to his repertoire.

(image: Deposit Photos)

It soon becomes too cool to continue sitting by the bayside and the venue won’t let punters in before showtime. Hungry, I decide on an early dinner at a restaurant recommended by the tour guide. I can’t visit Portugal without sampling some of the local catch. For a while, I’m the only customer. The young mulatto waiter tells me it’s typical of the low season. I order some vegetable soup and a piping hot cod gratin with shrimp and a side of salad, on the waiter’s recommendation. Having cleared my plate, I have no regrets.

The Jam is in full swing by the time I arrive. A drums/keys/guitar/double-bass quartet combo is on stage, occasionally swapping musicians in and out.

There are no free tables, although a few spare chairs are scattered around. I pull one up. At an adjacent table a young lady, sitting with a sardonic-looking older man, sucks on an e-cigarette. (The establishment’s smoking policy is pretty lax). Her dress is so short that when she stands up, the gusset of her tights is on full view. A red-faced young woman behind me interrogates an androgynous-looking individual, in loud accented-English, about their relocation directly from Nigeria to Portugal. She speaks with an aggressive friendliness particular to inebriation. 

I’m eventually invited to join the table of a Colombian couple, Jose and Alicia, with whom I’ve struck up a conversation. It seems impolite to refuse, even if I dislike being the third wheel. Oddly, the conversation stops once I join them.

One of the guitarists is Alicia’s tutor. Whilst he has his moments, he doesn’t always blend well with the other musicians.

The couple disappear before the end. Showtime is over at a very respectable 9pm on what is, after all, a school night. I recall the advice I received on the evening of my arrival to avoid staying out beyond 10pm.

On the way back to my accommodation, I notice a young man from the audience walking in a slight zig-zag ahead of me. He stood out when I heard him speaking with a native English accent. He also bears a resemblance to French singer/songwriter, Julien Doré.  When I see him make a left turn towards the pier, I quicken my steps to follow suit. It’s poorly lit and I can’t see well without my glasses. When he walks a little too gingerly towards the edge, I shout to get his attention. 

Hey, hey!

I ask his name. He doesn’t want to divulge it. 

I’m just checking you're all right.

No, I’m okay, really. Just about to have a beer.

Oh well, fine. Jesus loves you...Umm...The universe would miss you if you weren’t around.

(I normally hate the vague, new-agey reference to 'The Universe'. In this case, I mean it in terms of the entirety of God’s creation)

Thanks for your concern. Really.

I continue on my way but then get it into my head that he could have been lying. I rush back. I can only make out treacherous shadows, before I see a young couple sitting calmly at the same spot. Tired and panicky, my Portuguese is especially garbled. They ask me to switch to English. If it weren’t urgent I’d insist otherwise. I ask if they’ve seen a man with long curly blond hair. They point unhurriedly to a dark mass lying on the pier. He overhears my concern and thanks me once again for checking up on him. Relieved, I return to my room with a clear conscience.

Faro Beach
(image: Travel in Portugal)

The last full day of my Faro trip, the weather begins to feel a bit brisk. Rain is forecast the following day, when I’m due to fly back to Brussels.

In the meantime, in light of the slight temperature drop, I’m second guessing my choice to spend a day at Faro beach. A very cheap and cheerful round trip by boat will have me there in 20 minutes. 

I’ve already made up my mind, so power through. I’ll be glad I did. It’s a wonderfully serene, not to mention temperate day by the coast. Being off-peak, the beach is far from crowded. It’s mainly smatterings of folk like myself, strolling along the coastline or a few going for a swim. A woman in a skimpy bikini dips her giddy toddler into the water.

The beach is so tranquil, that mine are the only footsteps I see in the sand for some distance. I park myself under a beating sun, tempered by the sea breeze. Apart from being beset by pesky flies, I spend a mellow afternoon reading, meditating or listening to podcasts at leisure, before returning on the last boat to catch the sunset in Faro city. I linger until it becomes too nippy to remain in one place.

I round off my sweet Portuguese parenthesis with some traditional barbeque chicken - or churrasqueira - in the neighbourhood.

Soundtrack: I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali and the Better Days EP by Tom Misch.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part I

5 min. read

(image courtesy of Viator)

November rolls around with a biting cold and solidly overcast skies. Fortunately, the month also comes with a couple of public holidays, on top of the generous annual leave afforded by The University. Months in advance, I plan to take a break from the Belgian Autumn and head back to Portugal; one of my favourite European spots. It’s been almost three years since my last visit. I try to vary my location on each trip. I’m yet to know the Algarve region. At this time of year, it remains sunny and warm but at off-season prices. Still recovering from years of precarity, I keep it modest. I manage to find a very decent en suite accommodation deal, which ends up being even more economical than the flight. 

I’ve decided to base myself in Faro; close to the airport for my morning return flight to Belgium. Apart from a walking tour, my itinerary will not be as ambitious as usual. As well as being friendlier on my budget, I want this to be more of a restful break. It’s been a hectic quarter so far. Too much running around and too many day trips tend to detract from the relaxation objective. 

My direct flight touches down in Faro just before sunset; ahead of schedule, for a change. The weather is gorgeous. The only thing dragging on my mood is that the careless baggage handlers have damaged my hitherto near-pristine suitcase.  

At the bus stop, a motley crew of us tourists attempt to work out the bus system. We're all heading to the terminus in Faro city. I briefly befriend an Austrian solo traveller, who’ll be taking an onward coach to Porto during the wee small hours. We part ways as I go in search of my accommodation. My printed Google Map instructions, as is so often the case, prove all but useless. On the bright side, I have the opportunity to practise my Portuguese when a very kindly local goes out of his way to help me locate my AirBnB. I ask if it’s a safe neighbourhood. Yes, he replies, before 10pm.

By now it's too dark to go exploring comfortably. After unpacking, I head out for what turns out to be especially dry pizza and retire to my temporary quarters. Based in a residential area, things can nonetheless get noisy. I’m awoken one night by a group having a loud conversation at stupid o’clock, followed not long afterwards by the sound of construction work.

The Arco da Vila (when not covered in building works)
(image taken from Algarve Tips)

For the first full day of my break, I have purposefully chosen a walking tour that starts in the afternoon. I aim to enjoy a lazy morning, liberating myself from the guilt of not immediately exploring my surroundings. Having done a little research, I’ll leave the real exploration for later in the trip, to be done at a leisurely pace.

As a precaution, already noticing that the layout of Faro is confusing and the streets often not clearly marked, I give myself over an hour to locate the meeting place for the tour; the Arco da Vila. It’s supposedly meant to take roughly 10 minutes by foot. More like 40 minutes.

I won’t complain. The route is scenic. It's warm, with clear blue skies and there’s a romantic view of the marina. I notice that, like London and Brussels, Faro city is already kitted out for the festive season, albeit the Christmas lights are yet to be switched on.

I arrive at the Arco da Vila, in plenty of time for the tour. One of the city’s top landmarks, this 19th Century neoclassical arch is being renovated. Covered by scaffolding, it’s more of an eye sore at the moment than an attraction. A group of us gather, waiting for what we fear might be an errant tour guide. A young blond gentleman with dark glasses eventually manifests a few minutes late. He walks briskly, holding the signature red umbrella by which we’re supposed to recognise him.

We make our way through the sinewy streets of the old town. In between facts and figures, the guide tests our existing knowledge. He explains that the city layout was made deliberately confusing under Moorish rule, as a defence strategy. Monuments I’d read about now come to life, such as the Cathedral or the Igreja do Carmo; famous for its chapel composed of skeletons excavated from the grounds. I realise how strategic my accommodation is. The Chapel is a stone’s throw from where I’m staying. 

There are also the amusing, if extraneous bits of trivia. Like in my old stomping ground of Strasbourg, storks abound in Faro. The birds build giant nests which can weigh up to 200-500 kg, potentially causing a lot of problems if they tumble. Yet, the city authorities do not permit their removal.

Igreja do Carmo 
(image: Visit Faro)

The group strolls through familiar streets in which I’ve already lost myself. It’s a charming couple of hours, even if I’m not best pleased with some of our guide’s politics. He makes less than favourable comments about the previous socialist government, apparently disgruntled they tried to prevent the proliferation of AirBnB and deter predatory property speculators. Having now been taken over by a right-wing administration more predisposed to this kind of investment, I don’t see how this improves the housing crisis. The conversation itself is sparked by a Scouser enquiring about the many abandoned buildings. I try to challenge the guide on some points, acutely aware that mainstream opinion is wont to discredit any economically-left leaning project. Notwithstanding the controversial circumstances in which former PM António Costa resigned, I should have made a stronger case for the things the administration did get right, such as acknowledging Portugal’s colonial crimes.

I am crowned the champion of the tour quiz. I ‘win’ the opportunity to hold the red umbrella in a photo I’d rather not take. We finish just before dusk. When I ask about the closest beach, the guide is kind enough to accompany me to a spot parallel to the railway line, overlooking the sea. It’s not a beach but it is a great vantage point for the sunset. The scene is enhanced tremendously by the intoxicating tones of Farah Audhali, on BlueLab Beat’s superb new single, Options pouring through my earphones.

I plan another evening of eating in. An online Quincy Jones tribute awaits me.

I pass by the local Auchan; a French supermarket chain that has apparently made notable in-roads in this part of Portugal. 

En route to purchase supplies, I stumble across a duo - vocalist and guitarist - doing an acoustic cover of Jorja Smith’s Be Honest. It’s a curious arrangement; pleasing enough to grab my attention but harder to make out with the singer’s peculiar diction. 

Part II

Soundtrack: Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson; I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali

A Different Lens

 

Allaboutvision.com

8 min. read

Late June marks exactly two years since I relocated to Belgium. Earlier that month, I return from my latest UK excursion with a deepened resolve to improve my morale. If my circumstances haven’t materially changed, there’s been a notable shift in my perspective. I still feel low and am wont to tearful interludes. My melancholy has nonetheless taken on a different flavour. I come to realise how much despondency had camped outside my door. That’s no longer the case. I feel less spiritually adrift. I endeavour to be even more conscientious about my well-being. My visits to the gym are now as much about the mental benefits as the physical. By chance – or AI interference – I stumble across an incredibly helpful YouTube channel on psychological health and start putting into action some of the practical pointers. God has been at work in the algorithm, I joke to loved ones. These tutorials are not however, a replacement for my therapy sessions, which I continue with renewed energy.

In addition, there are several external boosts to my morale. The longer days and (mostly) good weather are always a plus. The Brussels cultural calendar continues to be full to overflowing. Great for staying busy, not so good for early nights and solid rest; another important factor for well-being. I’ll eventually have to revise the density of activity. Easier said than done, especially when I don’t have to be in the office first thing. 

 My job hunt is ongoing. It becomes apparent that I’m unlikely to find a role that starts before September. I make my peace with this development and I’m all the better for it. 

I have another interview in late June at the same trade union organisation that has previously invited me on a number of occasions. Fourth-time-not-so-lucky. It’s disappointing news in the short-term but overall a positive experience. As usual, they provide detailed and constructive feedback. I nevertheless don’t plan to make a fifth application. At least not any time soon.

In mid-June, I am pleasantly surprised by the return of my honorary Jamaican auntie, Carol, for a fortnight’s visit to Belgium. It’s all touch-and-go, I’ll later find out, after the Belgian embassy in Jamaica messed up her application. Owing to the delay, she just about reaches the airport in time to catch her flight. I learn of her visit through Internations and email her straight away. Little do I know we’re destined to attend the same early summer cocktail party the following evening. 

When I arrive, the DJ is playing some enticing 80s soul, auguring well for the night’s proceedings. I approach a group with whom I’m familiar only to take my leave – politely, if hurriedly – when I see Carol in the distance. She’s already surrounded by a posse of acquaintances old and new, one of whom is an ethnically-ambiguous gentleman who aims a vaguely seductive grin in my direction. I pay him little mind until it becomes overtly discourteous not to make conversation with him. 

(courtesy of Pickpic)

My interest perks up when I discover he’s from Brazil. I couldn’t tell from his very English sounding name – Roger – or the Anglo-Caribbean inflection when he speaks English. We switch to French and Portuguese, for which I’m glad for the practice. Roger is very affirming of my linguistic skills, although I’m suspicious of his motives. He makes an early - not to mention tactile - exit. Carol and I continue to work the room; or rather the terrace. It feels as if the whole of Internations Brussels is in attendance – or close enough. There are few known faces that I don’t see that evening. Internations regular Aurélien introduces me to Annabelle, a young Nigerian woman settled in the Low-Countries with a Flemish husband. She's decked out in a gold lamé dress, with bling hanging off her very eyelashes. She’ll spend much of the night streaming her activities to her Instagram followers. 

Whilst much of the sizeable crowd are content to remain on the veranda, Auntie Carol and I are itching to hit the dancefloor. We like what we’ve heard from the DJ so far. In the end, his latter selection isn’t as classy as his initial repertoire but it’ll suffice. Mostly. Some 90s Pop-R&B and Europop, guilty-pleasures, a little Afrobeats and a healthy dollop of salsa. Carol and I hold the fort for much of the time with some synchronised fail-safe moves. At last, I properly learn the steps to Jerusalema. Aurélien angles for a dance but I'm not having it.

I watch in awe the artful salsa steps executed by Diego - a very recent acquaintance - and his most graceful female dance partner. She's a natural mover whose effortless groove has caught my attention earlier that evening. Another recent acquaintance, Ludwig – a German hyper-polyglot I meet at a previous Internations shin-dig - miraculously throws aside his habitual crutches to join the salsa fun. He puts more able-bodied men to shame, like erstwhile suitor and errant ‘friend’, Simon-Pierre, who makes an appearance towards the end of the night. I’d planned to leave before 10pm. Famous last words. Carol and I are having such a blast, it’s close enough to midnight before we make earnest attempts to exit. Thankfully, I am assured a lift by kindly Ludwig, who lives in the same neighbourhood.

I’ll bump into Ludwig, Diego, Carol, Aurélien and co again that weekend at the O Melhor de Portugal (Best of Portugal) festival in Parc Cinquantenaire. The month is chock-full with festivals. That weekend, the annual Fête de la Musique celebrations also take place.

It’ll be my first O Melhor de Portugal experience. It was postponed twice because of the unstable pandemic conditions. There are numerous stalls flogging food or membership to Lusophone associations. A fully-clothed man commandeers the stage, flanked by two scantily-dressed brunettes in tangas doing mirrored choreography. I’m not impressed.

Our contingent of Internations guests move to a pop-up bar for refreshments to take the edge off the heatwave. Annabelle will join us later, sporting the colours of the Nigerian flag, including bright green box braids. En route, Diego comments on how well I speak English.

I grew up in the UK, I reply I had no choice.

It’s not the first time someone has made this observation in Belgium.  It strikes me as odd. As if there’s some dissonance between my accent and my ethnicity. Diego has visited the UK. He’d be aware that there are Afrodescendants who’ve grown up with English as a first language. Not to mention the migration engendered after the British Empire colonised a substantial part of the African continent.

I can’t hold it against Diego too much. He generously offers me a drink. Plus, his is not the worst cultural gaff of the afternoon, believe it or not. That dubious honour goes to another Caucasian acquaintance, who is shocked to learn that Nigeria and Niger are not one and the same country. Good grief.

After a tasty virgin, strawberry-laced Mojito and some light conversation, I head to a Fête de la Musique concert around the corner. The yearly music festival will dominate my weekend plans, with me traversing the city to catch various shows. The night before I head to Anderlecht for a gig. On arriving, I discover there are two venues in the area with exactly the same name. I am at the wrong one. It’s only down to the kindly intervention of a local resident that I locate the correct venue. I manage to catch the best part of a lively set by Belgian MC Onha, whom I’ve seen on stage before. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll stay local for some Bossa Nova covers of Brazilian classics and pop hits – some more credible than others. That Sunday, I also become familiar with the Funk/Soul/Hip-Hop influenced oeuvre of bassist and producer Gabriel Massa in my own neighbourhood. The only thing to mar proceedings is the creepy presence of one of Simon-Pierre’s friends, whom I run into far more than I’d appreciate. 

The same could be said for another mutual acquaintance - Rob. Our paths cross again on my way back from a concert in Merode. He’s keen as ever to pick my brain about politics. I humour him, albeit with my usual air of exasperation. It’s the same ol’ dynamic. He’s prone to making excuses and gaslight and I’m prone to calling him out on his crap, if a little readily. The current fits-and-bursts nature of our interactions is thus for the best. I don’t miss the frustration of our past, more regular exchanges.

The following week my activities will be more cerebral in nature. I attend an excellent Saturday morning training session on Belgian asylum law and the geopolitical crises - in which the country is also complicit - that provoke refugee flows. It’s a grim but eye-opening event. I learn of the fragrantly callous methods employed by the Belgian state to circumnavigate its duties under international law. (It takes a lot to compete with the UK's dreadful immigration track record.) It helps me understand much better why I meet so many migrants stuck in a merciless bureaucratic limbo, whilst volunteering at the Red Cross. The second session is taken by Nabil Boukili, a member of parliament for the Workers’ Party of Belgium (PTB) who co-organised the event with Amitié Sans Frontières (Friendship without Borders). I’ve recently joined the PTB as a basic member, after some convincing by Augustin, also part of Rob’s wider circle.

Earlier that week, I attend a couple of summer farewells. My church home group organise a bring-and-share before what is likely to be a 3-4 month aestival hiatus. Monica regales us with her adventures as an extra on the set of the popular US-based bible adaptation, The Chosen. Karin formally announces her third pregnancy to the group, having let a handful of us already in on the news. She’ll be away for a number of weeks, the thought of which fills me at first with mild panic. Thankfully, I’ve been doing a lot better at reclaiming time spent in my own company. I’m therefore not out to sea whilst Karin is indisposed.

A few days later, I’m delighted to be re-joining Bruno and Miguel at the RoSa feminist library for their gender-deconstructing book club. That week, the focus of discussion is Sam Mills’ Chauvo-Feminism. I come to adore this set text -enough to blog about it - and I happily wax-lyrical. Given the learned constitution of the Book Group, it’s another buoyant and enriching conversation. This time, Lorenzo is also about. Before the session starts, he says hello and asks how I am. His tone and demeanour are so quiet and solemn, he could be offering me condolences. There’s a delayed reaction as I realise it’s a simple greeting. I’m also still very ambiguous about our relationship. We’re so far from the easy rapport we once had, it’s as if it never existed. 

We have been in touch by text a handful of times in the few months since things disintegrated. Mostly, I've been the one to initiate contact, usually on special occasions (although after a while, even that starts to feel like too much.) I send him a heartfelt message on his birthday. He responds with gratitude and kindness.

I still care deeply for my one-time friend but feel irate about the current state of affairs. We are where we are because of his inexplicable decisions. Trust has been broken that I can't see being restored any time soon. Neither has he been very proactive in making amends.

Instinctively, I reply to Lorenzo’s question with a whispered ‘hot’, fanning myself and walking past him rather imperiously to find a seat. His compatriot, Marcello sits between us, unaware of any tension. I relent, speaking across Cello to ask Lorenzo how work is going.

There is no job, he responds. It shows how little we know about each other’s lives nowadays. What I thought was a steady new role, turned out to be only freelance and intermittent.

It’s a brief interaction and the sole time we’ll talk for the whole evening. At least I feel less of a hypocrite when I extol Sam Mills for her generosity of spirit towards those who have hurt her.

It’ll be my last time with the book group before the Summer holidays. I won’t be able to make the final session. I do stumble upon Miguel once again that weekend, whilst meandering through Bois de la Cambre with Brenda. Compared to aforementioned surprise encounters, it's definitely one of the more pleasing. Once Miguel is out of earshot, I gush about how handsome and genuinely sweet he seems to be. A far too rare combination. Men don't need beauty as an excuse to misbehave. It's admirable that, rather than exploit both his male and pretty privilege, Miguel is actively resisting the poisoned perks of patriarchy. I can’t hardcore crush on him, however. He's too young for me. So much the better. I can save my emotional energy for worthier pursuits. Brenda is tickled by my reaction. She’s in a good place. On the spiritual, professional and personal front she’s found a healthy equilibrium. I’m glad for my younger friend.

In the distance some bass lines are calling me. Brenda is wary of the crowds (and, I suspect, anything that could be classified as 'urban' music). She makes her way home. My curiosity leads me to discover the sounds are emanating from the Afrodisiac festival. It's been poorly publicised. If I'd known, I'd have made more time for it over an already busy weekend. I stay for a bit of live entertainment -partly out of sympathy for the act trying to liven up a tepid crowd - before heading home for some dinner and Sunday night rest.

Soundtrack: Mahel by Toro Y Moi, Three Dimensions Deep by Amber Mark

Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part Two

Terreiro do Paço, Lisbon (ionline.sapo.pt)

Part 1

I wake up on Sunday, half-way through my trip, in the state of disillusion that has characterised the last few weeks. My sleep is still not as regulated as it should be. During breakfast, I tune into the livestream of my Belgian church, FWM’s morning service. Pastor Mike speaks on the importance of testimonies. He asks us to recall something good that stands out this week. I remind myself of where I am. Even if I’m feeling somewhat miserable, I have the luxury of doing so on holiday in a beautiful country. Unlike the mainly overcast weather during my visit to La Côte Azur, I don’t lack for sunshine. My Coimbra trip so far has been consistently pleasurable. Or at least, there’s been no drama which is a mercy in itself. Despite my hotel apparently being near a sketchy part of town, I’ve been safe. Whatever ails me is either in my unreachable past or can wait for when I return to Brussels. I shouldn’t let it rob me of present enjoyment. I don’t want to look back on this moment and only remember it being eaten up by worry. Let tomorrow take care of itself. À chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I have booked myself on a day tour in Lisbon. This was before I found out how irregular the train service is between Coimbra and Lisbon on a Sunday. I do second guess my decision and consider staying within the confines of Coimbra. However, noting that I tend to become more mired in dark thoughts if I spend too much time on my own, I persist with the original plan. I manage to find a train route that will get me to the Portuguese capital around the same time the tour starts. I notify the tour guide, Hugo, that I’ll be running a few minutes late.

With the local transport service all but useless and not fancying the idea of another taxi for a relatively short journey, I take a spritely walk towards Coimbra-B station. I arrive in good time to buy my ticket and catch the train.

It’s been over 13 years since I last spent time in Lisbon. It was my very first experience of Portugal; a girls’ holiday with mum and sis. The beauty of its topography, its people, its cosmopolitanism and good food, all made a strong impression. I'd like a refresher of the City without doing exactly the same things I would have all those years ago. Hugo’s donations-based tour promises to be an alternative view of the Portuguese Capital, from a local’s perspective.

I arrive at the designated meeting place in time to see the group moving off. They’re easy to spot. It’s a sizeable collective; the opposite of the huddle on the previous day’s Coimbra tour. I rush up to whom I assume is Hugo, breathless.

It's fine. You’ve just missed the first part, he reassures.

The group is made up of all sorts. There’s a Spanish couple who lived in London and are now based in Lisbon. Then there’s the posse of garrulous Ukrainians, whom at one point I have to hush when they’re voices carry over the Guide’s.

Hugo himself is camp and jovial. However, early on in the tour, I detect an historical blindspot where Portuguese colonial history is concerned. My romantic memories of Lisbon have been challenged of late after (finally!) reading my Afropean co-editor-in-chief, Johny Pitts’ travel memoir Adventures in Black Europe. (Incidentally, I think his views on Marseille are too rose-tinted, but I digress). He approaches Lisbon with a healthy scepticism in relation to its historical amnesia. 

I perceive such forgetfulness in Hugo’s accounts of the so-called Golden Age of conquest and ‘discovery’, with no caveats about slavery or colonialism. That’s not to dismiss the validity of the entire tour. He details the extent of the 1755 Earthquake’s destruction very well. He ends with a summary of Salazar’s dictatorship and the eventual overthrow of his successor, Marcelo Caetano, in the Carnation Revolution of 1974. Hugo rightly includes a reference to the massacre of Lisbon’s Jewish population in the early 16^th Century under the ridiculous pretext of heresy. To his credit (and possibly because of my prompting) he mentions how stubbornly the Portuguese held on to their colonies; something notably missing from the Coimbra tour (which had similar weaknesses). Nonetheless, more generally, he’s a bit quiet when it comes to Portugal’s role in the exploitation and brutalisation of brown people. I bring this to his attention directly during one of the lulls between his expositions. Hugo claims to have mentioned the country’s role in the transatlantic slave trade at the start, which I missed. 

At least we weren’t as bad as the Dutch (he previously lived in the Netherlands).

I don’t allow him the comfort of that old chestnut, where former colonial powers play the what-aboutery game. All colonialism was bad, I remind him and he concedes. He acknowledges that the Age wasn’t so Golden for the enslaved and colonised but, he contends, should we judge the past by today’s standards? This is a common refrain; often – although not exclusively-from racially illiterate Caucasians. I respond, as casually as I can muster, that the effects of the past still play out today. Moreover, there were always those who morally objected to slavery and colonialism. Namely the subjugated and those who took up their cause. This is conveniently forgotten. Hugo agrees, but adds I try not to be too political. Everything is political, I counter, including what he chooses not to say.

Alfama, Lisbon (image: Civitatis)

Hugo widens the discussion to include the rest of the group, now focusing on Portugal’s current political situation and the upcoming election. He claims Portugal is a tolerant country and not given to extremes. I recall the concern expressed by Diana, the Italian guide on my Coimbra tour. By contrast, Hugo believes the support for the Far-Right is fringe compared to France, for instance. He might be a Portuguese native but I’m inclined to trust the outsider, more politically-engaged instincts of Diana. Hugo is knowledgeable and genial but I sense a complacency that is the preserve of the privileged. He takes shelter under the belief that racism is only evident in the Extreme-Right, something about which I am also keen to disabuse him.

I feel nevertheless obligated to keep this sensitive conversation as breezy as possible. Firstly, I am not the only one on the tour. Neither do I want any germane points I do make to be lost if I’m perceived as too ‘disruptive’.

Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation between a convivial elderly South-Asian man with a transatlantic accent, and a tall blonde of indeterminate origin. She has her camera perched on her right shoulder with some contraption that reminds me of a harmonica stand.

As the tour comes to a close, I catch the voluble older man’s attention. He asks about my background and shares about his own. Mo, as he’s called, is an Italian-raised Pakistani living in the US. He’s worked for various international institutions including IFI’s and the UN. He’s passing through Lisbon en route to Francophone West Africa, where he's to discuss his new book on France’s neo-colonial relationship with its former Empire.

Mo picks my brain about a host of subjects, including what was discussed with Hugo. He’s of the generation that believes colonialism wasn’t all terrible. It’s a debate I have quite frequently with one of my mentors from a similar part of the world. I maintain that even if some good emerged from the period as an incidental by-product, it doesn’t negate the evil that was done. Mo argues that we need to strike a balance. I proffer that since colonial propaganda determined the narrative for so long, for the discussion to be truly even-handed, we don’t need any more talk of the purported benefits of Imperial exploits. 

The tour concludes in the main Terreiro do Paço square, overlooking the sea on one side and the pastel-coloured houses of the Mediaeval Alfama district in the distance. It’s a stunning day. Apart from the temperature being a little fresh, we couldn’t have asked for better weather for such an excursion. 

As we overlook the bay, Mo is happy to resume the conversation where we left off. We move on to racism in terms of class struggle, the elites and establishment media, the role of political education in bridging divides and the state of British politics. When Mo mentions that he and his wife will soon be relocating to Addis-Ababa for work purposes, we each give our (admittedly limited) take on the ever-more complex Ethiopian conflict. 

Mo says he likes the way I think. He is surprisingly sympathetic to my political views considering his professional history. He won’t let me leave until I’ve given my email details.

It is a stimulating chat but I have a coach to catch. 

I just miss the 5pm bus to Coimbra. I regret that I won’t have the chance to do the trip again at dusk. With an hour to wait until the next coach, I head to the nearby Lidl to stock up on essentials such as fruit and water. I’ve barely seen a supermarket in Coimbra.

At the risk of repeating myself, outside of the UK, I find Portugal’s Lidl franchise to be the best. Not only in terms of product range but value for money. I pounce on some bargains I’m unlikely to find in Brussels. I’d stock up on more if I didn’t have such a restrictive luggage allowance. (Too bad that the Agave syrup that I purchase for a steal, is confiscated by Lisbon airport security for being over the 100ml limit. I'm miffed. Irony of ironies, my small suitcase eventually has to go into the hold anyway).

(image: Algarve Primeiro)

It’s another long-ish walk from Coimbra bus station to the hotel but I won’t begrudge the exercise. Besides being approached for some change by a man worse-for-wear, I am not hassled.

I decide to dine at an Italian establishment I’ve passed several times. I’m seated close to a multi-cultural group of young British females. For some reason, it’s never really a comfort to overhear anglophone accents whilst on holiday.

The inexplicably all-male waiting staff are also a cosmopolitan bunch. One is particularly attentive. He asks where I’m from before informing me of his own Colombian and Italian roots. He stares deep into my eyes with his pretty baby blues and lavishes me with multi-lingual compliments. I don’t know whether he’s sincere, angling for a tip or thinks I’m easy prey because I’m eating alone. On the other hand, I could just accept the compliment. I have been feeling rough lately (which is partly why I question his motives). 

I’m bemused by things I experience in mainland Europe that would almost never happen in the UK. Back in Blighty, even if I had the impression one of the waiters found me attractive, it would rarely, if ever, be as overt. Just some mild flirting within the confines of professionalism. There’s something almost shameless (or is that fearless?) about a certain kind of European male.

In between minestrone soup, a tasty seafood pizza and lemon tart with vanilla ice cream, my admirer finds any excuse to chat. I discover that in addition to Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English he speaks a total of seven languages, including Thai and a bit of Russian. Or so he says. It’s entertaining enough and I could do with the pick-me-up. It might all be theatre but I don’t intend to follow it through. I can't remember if we even exchange names.

He asks what I’m doing later on. Rest, I answer.

Back in my hotel box, I watch some humorous clips online, shower and try to pray before lights out. Instead I pass out. It’s another night of fitful sleep and I’m exhausted the morning of the last full day of my Coimbra break. I feel and look awful. I open up about the disrupted sleep with my morning prayer group. It’s a vicious circle. Anxiety hums in the background like white noise. That adversely affects my sleep. I can’t even switch off my mind’s chatter for a catnap. Insufficient rest contributes to low morale which disrupts my sleep more and so on…

It’ll be a waste of time getting fully dressed and made-up before breakfast. I’m involuntary crying into my food. My make-up drips onto my T-Shirt. Thankfully, the restaurant is virtually empty. The few staff around are busying themselves elsewhere. If they see me upset, they’re discreet about it. 

I’ve been avoiding logging into Skype until my return to Brussels but I don’t want sis to worry. Sure enough, she’s wondering where I am.

I take my time over breakfast. I need to calm down. I’m trying to arrange a refund for another tour I have booked that morning. The Guide is unresponsive and there's a major mistake in the itinerary.

Não importa. It means I can attempt another siesta before heading to the beach earlier than I’d have been able to.

The nap isn’t entirely successful. I join my weekly Christian meditation session before boarding the train to Figueira da Foz. 

I already feel much better stepping outside of my box room into the daylight. Despite my general exhaustion, the loveliness of the day is not lost on me. The weather is Spring-like. It’s the warmest it's been so far during my stay. The surrounding landscape demands my attention once more, inviting me to benefit from it whilst I can. It’ll be after dark by the time I return from Figueira da Foz. I have an early-ish train to catch to the airport the following morning, so will be hurrying along.

I’ve selected the right day to go to the coast, although on arriving at my destination, it’s not immediately obvious. There’s water, yes but at first glance Figueira da Foz looks like a dock more than a beach. 

After stopping to check my coordinates a few times, I’m assured that there is something resembling the seaside nearby. My perseverance pays off. Best of all, there’s just the right amount of activity. Neither too busy nor totally deserted. 

I stop off at a kiosk for a snack. A man interrupts my order to charge his phone. He then proceeds to ask my origins. He feels the need to share that he lived and worked in Senegal for a time. He endeavours to educate me on the country’s ethnic diversity. He lists off the number of local languages he acquired, as well as French.

Figueira da Foz (image: Accor)

Congratulations, I say. Whether or not he discerns my mild sarcasm, I can’t tell.

He asks if I like Portugal. I reply in the affirmative and explain it’s my third visit to the country. I humour the conversation solely for the practice. Otherwise, I find him a little obtrusive.

I can’t understand everything he says. I pick up that he continues with his own life story-namely where else he’s lived in Europe – and says something about the low salaries in Portugal; in the region of 800-900 euros a month. This is a theme that’s recurred throughout my visit. If the wages are low, at least aspects of the cost of living are also economical, such as food. Rents are cheap compared to other European states but not in proportion to the average Portuguese salary. 

The conversation turns to varieties of Portuguese, as it has often done. I am frank about my Brazilian bias, reiterated by my current interaction. My interlocutor swallows his words. I’m only able to follow thanks to a few days of consistent exposure, which is a small encouragement in itself.

Once my toasted sandwich is ready, I bid farewell to the sales assistant and my fleeting acquaintance.

I eat lunch on the beach. Apart from a few families seated on nearby rocks, I have the modest sandy section to myself (there's much more to the beach that, alas, I don't have time to discover). A surly canine barks at me for no reason. Its owners hardly try to assuage it.

What’s your problem? Racist dog.

A creepy elderly fellow I first saw near the kiosk, keeps circling me from a distance. He doesn’t look away when I make eye-contact, or even try to hide his fascination. At what point this becomes fetishisation, I don’t know but his attention must cross that line. I forget about him, believing he’s become bored and moved on. Feeling sufficiently free of anyone’s gaze, I inconspicuously remove my tights.

A few minutes later, I look around and catch the old geezer watching me again from afar.

I won’t let this Peeping Tom steal this placid moment from me. I ignore him and enjoy the view. I don’t have long before I have to rush back to the station for the return to Coimbra.

My last night in the City is rather anti-climactic. Unbeknownst to me, many businesses don’t open on Mondays; similar to when I lived in Strasbourg. A restaurant next to the hotel that I’d had my eye on since my first night is closed. With no Plan B and not wanting to dine at the same eateries as before, I stumble across a promising-looking establishment in the vicinity. 

It seems busy. A little too busy. 

A group of 40-50 obnoxiously raucous youngsters have commandeered the joint. It’s the performative, self-conscious ‘fun’ of the insecure. 

They want attention. I’m determined to deny them that currency.

(image: Travelling Buzz)

There are frequents burst of a rowdy football-like chant. It’s all I can do not to scream "STFU!". I try to read instead and (unsuccessfully) drown out the noise by switching on my MP3. The mellowness of Alison Thorsteinsen's gorgeously doleful compositions can't cut through the racket.  I waste no time paying the bill after my Octopus and Shrimp meal. After a little small talk with the manager and his wife, I wish them good night and a cheeky Boa Sorte before stepping into the brisk night for a brisk walk. I hope to purchase an iced dessert from Burger King and pass by the hotel bar before bed. Both closed…

I don’t expect to sleep well the night before my departure. To my great surprise, I wake up better rested than the morning before. Not perfect but an answer to prayer nonetheless. I’ve reserved an earlier breakfast, expecting to see the luminous restaurant busier for a change. Still practically empty. The only unfamiliar face is that of a vibrant young waiter. From his more comprehensible Portuguese and ethnically-ambiguous features, I guess correctly that he’s from Brazil. São Paulo, to be precise. The hotel staff have all been friendly but he’s especially warm; as sunny as the climate I'll be leaving behind.

It’s a shame our paths didn’t cross sooner. I nevertheless take this brief encounter as an auspicious farewell, as I depart that crisp January morning for Lisbon airport.

Soundtrack: Sometimes I'm There by Alison Thorsteinsen