Cats Claw...
'Are you taking your medicine?'
'They took it away from me at the airport. Because it was opened.'
'Idiot! I told you to take a suitcase... Have you bought any?'
'They don't sell it locally... '
'Then get off your bottom and go to Lisbon... I despair with you!'
The haunting melody of a Melodica floated along Rua da Prata accompanying the click-clack of shoes of secretaries and shoppers walking the mosaic paved street in Baixa. He's blind. He plays one tune... a few bars... then starts over. He's been there for ever, at least thirty-two years. She didn't snap at me then.
'Como esta?'
'Muito bem, Senhor. Muito obrigado.'
An American off the cruise ship in the harbour, portly, shorts and blindingly white trainers, took our picture... though it might have been the blue and white ceramics, azulejos, framing the doorway where the blind man sat that sought his camera. The American looked out of synchronisation amounst the gabardines and light overcoats of November, he didn't pay.
A light blue smoke drifts upward between red Christmas bells. A gypsy chestnut seller, two euros a dozen cone wrapped in pages from a telephone directory. 'Garuntead' scrawled in English for the tourists.
'Muito caro!' she says to her friend... but she bought them all the same. They shared them and left an ash grey Hans and Gretel trail for me to follow.
In the main square, a sodden teddy bear fished from the fountain leaked stuffing and water, glinting silver, trickling between the feet of couple hungrily sharing lunch on a carved stone bench. Immigrants... father and daughter, faces drawn, their belongings in supermarket carrier bags piled to avoid the water trail. She glanced up, puffed black beneath her eyes, anxious by my passing close and relieved to see no uniform.
Couples lingered in pavement cafes enjoying the sun, picking at food or poring over tourist guides while bow tied waiters hovered menu in hand to entice the undecided. The visitors look ill at ease. It wasn't what they imagined... Lisoetas don't eat at a restaurant run out of the back room of a newsagents.
In Cafe Nicola, I took my usual table. It's busy, as always. There is a table for one that no one uses tucked against the end of an nineteenth century drawing room cupboard where they keep the napkins and plates. It's in a corner from where I can watch the dining room and invent histories for fellow diners based upon their behaviour and the accoutrements at their feet or propped on adjacent chairs. It's two years since my last visit The waitress, Graca, remembers me from when I used to dine regularly. We've grown old together. She's retained the quiet attractiveness of twenty years before, an open smile and a warmth that makes paying for lunch a pleasure. We talked for a couple of minutes, Jose has passed away. He was probably in his eighties and still waiting tables. Tall and effeminate, thin as a rake with a too youthful wig, he was rotten waiter, only really there for the show, but the place seems less without him.
Graca tells me what I used to order, not bothering with the menu, smiling happily when I agree. I used to be able to sit and read The Times or The Guardian while I waited for my meal... its not quite fast food, but my lunch arrives with almost indecent haste. Maria took the adjoining table while I waited for my coffee. Resplendant hair, honey gold straight from the hairdressers. Graca fusses over her, complimenting her on her hair, telling her how wonderful she looks while stroking her hand as if she were her mother or her daughter rather than a customer. She arranges Maria's couture labelled shopping bags on the spare chair, not that Maria has been buying haute couture, just that it is de rigueur for females of standing not to be without certain symbols. They discuss the menu choices in a time honoured fashion, I suspect Maria always eats the same grilled fish and vegetables, but Graca allows her to make the decision. I'm sure Maria could put twenty years on me, she's aged splendidly.
Graca made me promise to return, I got a kiss on my cheek for making the effort... and you don't get that in McDonalds.
I bought Cats Claw in the health food shop behind Cafe Nicola.
-------
'Are you taking your medicine?'
'They took it away from me at the airport. Because it was opened.'
'Idiot! I told you to take a suitcase... Have you bought any?'
'They don't sell it locally... '
'Then get off your bottom and go to Lisbon... I despair with you!'
The haunting melody of a Melodica floated along Rua da Prata accompanying the click-clack of shoes of secretaries and shoppers walking the mosaic paved street in Baixa. He's blind. He plays one tune... a few bars... then starts over. He's been there for ever, at least thirty-two years. She didn't snap at me then.
'Como esta?'
'Muito bem, Senhor. Muito obrigado.'
An American off the cruise ship in the harbour, portly, shorts and blindingly white trainers, took our picture... though it might have been the blue and white ceramics, azulejos, framing the doorway where the blind man sat that sought his camera. The American looked out of synchronisation amounst the gabardines and light overcoats of November, he didn't pay.
A light blue smoke drifts upward between red Christmas bells. A gypsy chestnut seller, two euros a dozen cone wrapped in pages from a telephone directory. 'Garuntead' scrawled in English for the tourists.
'Muito caro!' she says to her friend... but she bought them all the same. They shared them and left an ash grey Hans and Gretel trail for me to follow.
In the main square, a sodden teddy bear fished from the fountain leaked stuffing and water, glinting silver, trickling between the feet of couple hungrily sharing lunch on a carved stone bench. Immigrants... father and daughter, faces drawn, their belongings in supermarket carrier bags piled to avoid the water trail. She glanced up, puffed black beneath her eyes, anxious by my passing close and relieved to see no uniform.
Couples lingered in pavement cafes enjoying the sun, picking at food or poring over tourist guides while bow tied waiters hovered menu in hand to entice the undecided. The visitors look ill at ease. It wasn't what they imagined... Lisoetas don't eat at a restaurant run out of the back room of a newsagents.
In Cafe Nicola, I took my usual table. It's busy, as always. There is a table for one that no one uses tucked against the end of an nineteenth century drawing room cupboard where they keep the napkins and plates. It's in a corner from where I can watch the dining room and invent histories for fellow diners based upon their behaviour and the accoutrements at their feet or propped on adjacent chairs. It's two years since my last visit The waitress, Graca, remembers me from when I used to dine regularly. We've grown old together. She's retained the quiet attractiveness of twenty years before, an open smile and a warmth that makes paying for lunch a pleasure. We talked for a couple of minutes, Jose has passed away. He was probably in his eighties and still waiting tables. Tall and effeminate, thin as a rake with a too youthful wig, he was rotten waiter, only really there for the show, but the place seems less without him.
Graca tells me what I used to order, not bothering with the menu, smiling happily when I agree. I used to be able to sit and read The Times or The Guardian while I waited for my meal... its not quite fast food, but my lunch arrives with almost indecent haste. Maria took the adjoining table while I waited for my coffee. Resplendant hair, honey gold straight from the hairdressers. Graca fusses over her, complimenting her on her hair, telling her how wonderful she looks while stroking her hand as if she were her mother or her daughter rather than a customer. She arranges Maria's couture labelled shopping bags on the spare chair, not that Maria has been buying haute couture, just that it is de rigueur for females of standing not to be without certain symbols. They discuss the menu choices in a time honoured fashion, I suspect Maria always eats the same grilled fish and vegetables, but Graca allows her to make the decision. I'm sure Maria could put twenty years on me, she's aged splendidly.
Graca made me promise to return, I got a kiss on my cheek for making the effort... and you don't get that in McDonalds.
I bought Cats Claw in the health food shop behind Cafe Nicola.
-------