Lisbon (2)

During the Middle Ages, Lisbon's Muslim population was confined to the Mouraria quarter. This measure proved counterproductive. Many Muslims left the city. Their departure damaged the local economy, as they performed essential crafts and labor.

​At the end of the medieval period, Portugal launched its maritime expansion. The endeavor gained momentum in 1415 with the conquest of Ceuta. That milestone marked the beginning of the Age of Discovery. Expeditions pushed south along the African coast. They passed Cape Bojador and crossed the equator. Later, they rounded the Cape of Good Hope. Lisbon became the primary port of departure and return for these voyages. The city established itself as a global commercial hub.

​Vasco da Gama's arrival in India in 1498 ushered in the era of greatest splendor. Portugal founded trading posts and strategic enclaves in Zanzibar, Timor, and Japan. It also controlled the spice trade and established commercial ties with the Kingdom of Siam (modern-day Thailand), creating its own settlement in the capital, Ayutthaya (founded by the Siamese, not the Portuguese). However, by the late sixteenth century, the acquisition of new territories ceased, initiating a period of imperial stagnation.

​On November 1, 1755, a catastrophic earthquake and tsunami destroyed much of Lisbon. The tragedy struck during All Saints' Day mass, killing thousands. The disaster shocked all of Europe. Enlightenment thinkers such as Voltaire opened a profound philosophical debate on providence and divine justice, to which Rousseau responded by pointing to human responsibility in urban overcrowding.

​The Marquis of Pombal led the city's reconstruction. He designed the innovative, grid-like layout of the Baixa. Through this urban renewal, Lisbon entered the modern era. It preserved its cosmopolitan character and strong literary heritage. Later on, Fernando Pessoa would wander the streets of Chiado and the Baixa, reflecting in his writing the sense of disquiet characteristic of Lisbon's atmosphere.

Lisbon impressions

I have been in Lisbon for 22 days now. I think I now have a fairly clear picture of the city. I can try to summarize what is happening here. Also, what one perceives in a place so widely loved. In fact, I do not know anyone who speaks ill of Lisbon. To begin with, it is the capital of a state. It is not a massive metropolis like Paris, London, Berlin, or Madrid. Rather, it is a notable city. Its urban area gathers around three million inhabitants around the Tagus estuary. However, it does not become a megalopolis. It fulfills the specialized functions of a state capital. At the same time, it retains a manageable scale. Furthermore, it was the capital of an empire until 1975. That realm extended across large areas of Africa and several Asian enclaves. Brazil had gained independence much earlier. Even so, Lisbon served as an overseas hub for much of its history. It is impossible to understand it without that continuous flow of ships bound for or arriving from all corners of the globe. From this stems its cosmopolitan character. It is a unique case. Geographically, the city sits on the European finisterre, facing the Atlantic from the continental southwest. At the same time, it preserves a distinct Eastern component. This does not derive solely from its former possessions. It also responds to that idea of the exotic and fascinating in contrast to European standards. It is an elusive concept, yet perceptible in its streets. Lisbon offers the feeling of being in Europe and, simultaneously, outside of it. Few places combine such a strong local identity with such a clear global projection. That blend can be felt today in the diversity of its residents. The city is very likely more plural now than ever before. Over the years, its social fabric has become even more cosmopolitan. On the other hand, the city traces its origins to Roman times. The artifacts and mosaics at the Museu de Lisboa bear witness to this. It boasts more than two millennia of continuous settlement. Later, it passed into Muslim hands and was fortified. In the 12th century, Afonso Henriques captured the city from the mouros. Following the conquest, the Islamic population was confined to the Mouraria, a neighborhood that still survives. Christian rule marked the beginning of the city’s Western chapter. Churches then proliferated. Religion became a central pillar in the collective imagination. By the late 15th century, Portugal accelerated its maritime push. The capture of Ceuta in 1415 had launched its overseas expansion. Later, the voyages of Bartolomeu Dias paved the way to the East. They culminated in Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India. On this period, Erika Fatland’s book, The Navigators, comes highly recommended. Reading it clearly illustrates how the maritime feat shaped the Portuguese identity. Portugal cannot be understood without that oceanic dimension. At the beginning of the expansion, the kingdom barely had a population of one million. Moreover, it lived under the lingering fear of neighboring Spain. That overseas empire gave meaning to the country and turned it into an economic power. In the early days of the Age of Discovery, the oceanic contest belonged almost exclusively to Spain and Portugal. To settle their disputes, they sought papal arbitration. That mediation established a dividing meridian in the Treaty of Tordesillas. This agreement explains the Portuguese presence in Brazil, Angola, and Mozambique. Portugal ended up with a more dispersed geographical mosaic compared to the continuous landmass of Spanish America. Lisbon reflects that entire trajectory. Since the Middle Ages, it stood out as an ideal port site. The Tagus estuary provided natural shelter and calm 1 waters for ships to anchor safely. Merchants, exporters, and early manufacturing workshops soon settled along its banks. The Crown’s major import and export trade was born around the river. It is striking how a country on the European periphery came to wield such global influence. It calls to mind the Dutch case, although the United Provinces focused more narrowly on the spice trade. In both instances, small coastal territories built vast commercial networks across the planet.

"Devaneio entre Cascais e Lisboa"

Tonight I finally arrived back at the hotel after an event-filled day. I tried to trace Fernando Pessoa's journey to Cascais — that famous trip he described in his poem when he was on his way to pay a tax on a house in Estoril that belonged to his boss, Vasques. In his verses, he spoke of the pleasure of gazing at the water landscapes during a smooth, one-hour round trip.

The journey there was pleasant enough, but my plans for a scenic return trip were completely derailed: train service between Cascais and Cais do Sodré was suspended tonight due to track work. The railway company CP put on urban replacement buses instead, and we were all packed in like sardines. I had to stand the entire way while the bus stopped at every single station along the route. What should have been a lovely evening drive along the Tagus estuary and the Atlantic turned into a tedious and exhausting journey.

At least Cascais itself was worth a visit tonight. It still retains the classic charm of a coastal town — fresh sea air, a pleasant salty breeze —, even if it was teeming with British tourists eating and drinking outdoors. As we drove past Estoril on the bus, the area still exuded an elegant atmosphere reminiscent of a luxurious retreat for famous figures of the past. Looking out the window along the coast, the entire stretch between Cascais and Lisbon looks like one single, massive conurbation: a continuous urban area full of roundabouts and ocean views.

This trip also reminded me of a few things I still want to do here, such as taking the cacilheiro across the river to Cacilhas. That reminded me of a funny story from years ago with a Portuguese professor who visited us at the faculty in Santiago: when a colleague told him in Galician that he had left some exams in the casilleiro (pigeonhole/cubby), the professor was completely confused. In Portuguese that word doesn't exist — for a mailbox or pigeonhole they use caixa de correio —, and the only thing that sounds similar is precisely the cacilheiro, the ferry that crosses the Tagus to Cacilhas right below the Cristo Rei statue. I would also like to visit Costa da Caparica or Ericeira if I get the chance, although I imagine Ericeira is quite similar to other coastal towns further north like Póvoa de Varzim, Peniche, or Nazaré.

What constantly impresses me about Portugal is its strong aesthetic identity. The towns and villages radiate a remarkable harmony: the black-and-white patterns of the calçada portuguesa, the dignified style of public buildings like town halls and train stations, the traditional azulejos, and the quiet restraint of the churches. Everything reflects a deep care for architectural character and a love for small details.

Even earlier, when I was observing the local spots around Avenida Almirante Reis near Martim Moniz, unique cultural details caught my eye — like the older waiters who have been working in the exact same café for thirty or forty years, serving the same locals every day and becoming almost part of the venue's identity. This kind of lifelong career in hospitality has largely disappeared in Spain. The payment culture here also shows an interesting contrast: small traditional spots still insist on cash, while places like the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation accept card payments exclusively, prioritizing quick service via Multibanco over bank fees.

The final leg of my return journey tonight took place on a yellow Carris Metropolitana bus. As we passed Estoril, Carcavelos, and Oeiras — which feels completely like a huge commuter town in the style of Madrid suburbs like Leganés or Móstoles —, the ride became a constant battle for personal space. That was made worse by unpleasant odors, stale air, and the stifling humidity built up inside the vehicle. To top it off, a noisy group of teenagers got on, bringing the full, rowdy clamor of a Friday night out, making the bus even more crammed and unbearable than before.

Although CP deserves credit for putting together a replacement transport system on a busy Friday night, tonight was a vivid reminder of how irreplaceable trains are. A crowd of people that easily disperses across ten train cars feels extremely claustrophobic when squeezed together into a single bus. I'm glad to finally be back in my room.

Joly Braga Santos no Teatro Tívoli de Lisboa

Hoje tive a sorte de assistir a um concerto no Teatro Tívoli, em Lisboa, com a Orquestra Metropolitana de Lisboa sob a batuta de Pedro Neves. O programa abriu com uma abertura de Cherubini, mas foi o Divertimento n.º 1 de Joly Braga Santos que realmente me prendeu. A obra combina, de forma muito feliz, ecos de Debussy, de Martinů e de Sibelius, e junta a isso toques bem pessoais e originais. Considerei-a uma verdadeira descoberta e gostei muito dela. 

Joly Braga Santos nasceu em Lisboa em 1924 e morreu na mesma cidade em 1988. Estudou violino e composição no Conservatório Nacional e tornou-se discípulo de Luís de Freitas Branco, o compositor português mais influente da geração anterior. Herdou do seu mestre uma orquestração vívida e colorida, próxima de Respighi, e a isso somou as suas próprias referências europeias. Dirigiu também a Orquestra Sinfónica do Porto e ajudou a fundar a Juventude Musical Portuguesa. Chegou a recusar um convite de Nino Rota para trabalhar em Cinecittà, porque acreditava que um artista desenraizado do seu país perdia autenticidade. Escreveu seis sinfonias e muitos consideram-no o maior sinfonista português de sempre. A sua música ocupa, por isso, um lugar central na história da música portuguesa do século XX. 

Depois, a orquestra encerrou a noite com a Sinfonia Italiana de Mendelssohn. Trata-se de uma obra de repertório absoluto, mas nem por isso deixa de emocionar. O Saltarello final continua a arrepiar quem o escuta. A acústica da sala também ajudou bastante: o som chegou limpo e quente até à plateia. Antes de começar, Pedro Neves pegou no microfone e falou durante bastante tempo — talvez até demais —, mas fê-lo com tanta graça que conquistou o público quase de imediato. Nas suas palavras, defendeu um lugar próprio para a música portuguesa dentro do concerto das músicas do mundo, e isso tocou-me particularmente. 

O próprio Tívoli guarda uma história bonita. O teatro abriu portas em 1924, como sala de cinema, por iniciativa do empresário Frederico de Lima Mayer, e o arquiteto Raul Lino assinou o projeto do edifício. O espaço ainda respira o ambiente daquela Lisboa de entreguerras, a mesma que Pessoa percorria no seu desassossego.

O Padrão dos Descobrimentos

Lisboa. O Padrão dos Descobrimentos, inaugurado en 1960, no Estado Novo de Salazar, é unha arquitectura que non deixa indiferente: colonialista, rancia mesmo e ubicada nun espazo público de enorme simbolismo, en Belém, xusto onde o Tejo se abre ao Atlántico. E aínda así ten algo que non sabería explicar de todo, un magnetismo alucinante. As figuras talladas en pedra —curas, xeógrafos, militares, navegantes— están conxeladas en poses tan dinámicas que parece que fosen moverse, actuar, evanxelizar, conquistar. 

O Estado Novo sabía exactamente o que facía: construír un relato de grandeza que segue funcionando, para ben ou para mal, sobre quen se detén a miralo.Subín ata o miradoiro. Un ascensor aforra a maioría dos chanzos. Desde arriba domínase o "grande rio e a foz atlântica" de Pessoa. O Tejo, a Torre de Belém, os Xerónimos. Un entende entón por que os "estadonovistas" elixiron este lugar exacto para contar a súa propia historia.

Fáiseme evidente a paradoxa: como un monumento pode ser ao mesmo tempo unha fachada ideolóxica que incomoda e unha peza dunha forza visual innegable. Quizais ese sexa xustamente o poder —e o perigo— de certos monumentos: seducen mesmo cando sabemos exactamente a súa intrahistoria tenebrosa.

["Devaneio entre Cascais e Lisboa. Fui pagar a Cascais uma contribuição do patrão Vasques, de uma casa que tem no Estoril. Gozei antecipadamente o prazer de ir, uma hora para lá, uma hora para cá, vendo os aspectos sempre vários do grande rio e da sua foz atlântica."]

PESSOA, Fernando, Livro do Desassossego, composto por Bernardo Soares, Ajudante de Guarda-Livros na cidade de Lisboa, edição Richard Zenith. Lisboa: Assírio & Alvim (9.ª edição), 2011, p. 61.

The Diotima Quartet in Lisbon

Unforgettable night at the Gulbenkian with the incredible Quarteto Diotima! Yesterday’s program was a masterclass in chamber music, bridging contemporary depth and classical brilliance with Betsy Jolas (String Quartet No. 8, Topeng), Béla Bartók (String Quartet No. 4), Maurice Ravel (String Quartet in F major), and György Kurtág (Six Moments musicaux).Betsy Jolas’ String Quartet No. 8 "Topeng" blends theatrical energy with modern string textures inspired by Balinese mask theater. 

Béla Bartók’s String Quartet No. 4 showcases rhythmic intensity, folk elements, and groundbreaking percussive technique. Maurice Ravel’s String Quartet in F major delivers lyrical warmth, refined French Impressionism, and rich harmonic color. György Kurtág’s Six Moments musicaux features brief, intensely expressive fragments full of poetic concentration. The audience reacted enthusiastically, giving a non-stop standing ovation both before the interval and at the end of the concert.

Source: https://gulbenkian.pt/musica/agenda/quarteto-diotima/

Ciclo György Kurtág and Betsy Jolas at Gulbenkian Foundation

Tonight’s performance at the Grande Auditório of the Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian in Lisbon opened magnificently with the Orquestra Gulbenkian, conducted with exceptional precision and poetic flair by Corinna Niemeyer. The concert began with Betsy Jolas’s A Little Summer Suite (2015). Across its seven short movements—from "Strolling Away" to "Strolling Home"—Jolas explores what she terms "wandering music" (música errante): airy, unhurried gestures that drift and land with effortless spontaneity. It served as a perfect prelude to Claude Debussy’s Nocturnes (Nuages and Fêtes). Debussy, the quintessential guiding axis of modern music, sounded wonderfully lucid here. Niemeyer kept the textures in Nuages completely fluid and vaporous, while Fêtes retained all its rhythmic brilliance without ever falling into heavy-handedness or romantic rhetoric. 

The centerpiece of this sequence was György Kurtág’s Four Poems of Anna Akhmatova, Op. 41 (1997–2008), featuring soprano Hila Baggio. These miniature settings (paying homage to Pushkin, Blok, and Mandelstam) are concentrated, haunting requiems charged with intense interior grief. Baggio gave an extraordinary performance, delivering Akhmatova's verses with chilling accuracy, emotional poise, and remarkable vocal control. A compelling sequence linking French spatial subtlety and Hungarian expressionism. Although I was only able to attend this first part, it was a marvelous experience; I was thoroughly impressed by the hall's acoustics and beauty, as well as the outstanding level of the orchestra.

Source: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation concert program.