Opinion – Zeca Camargo: To be, not to be, in Portugal

by

Traveling is not being. Tourists who do not understand this will always find it difficult to accept their journey and fully experience this state of geographical suspension. However, a quick visit to Lisbon last week made me rethink my certainty.

I hadn’t been to Portugal since 2019, when I went to launch the biography I wrote of Elza Soares, venerated both on this side of the Atlantic and on this side. The pandemic, of course, is the main culprit, since I have always bragged about being able to go there at least twice a year since 2000.

In that July 2019, I was so sure of my return to Lisbon that I even ordered a bespoke outfit for one of the most creative Portuguese designers, Nuno Gama. I would get it all in January 2020. And then…

Two years, for me, is a long time without going there. I have never been able to accurately describe my passion for that country, that culture. But I guarantee it is huge. We, Brazilians and Portuguese, are infinitely connected by links that are sometimes affectionate, sometimes mockery. Always longing.

But between me and Portugal there is something that I cannot understand and that makes me feel that I belong there a little. A feeling that this time overflowed in me. And therein lies the nagging contradiction.

When we arrive at a destination and fall in love with it, a desire to live there, to belong to it all, is almost inevitable. “Ah if I could wake up every day looking at the rice paddies of Ubud”, we thought of Bali. Or: “What a dream to be able to open the window and always see the roofs of Siena”, I said myself visiting the beautiful Italian city.

But deep down we know that this is an illusion. We are in these passing places. We need to be aware that a trip is an escape; that we are in transit; that the most precious thing is what we bring back home.

Even in Lisbon, from where I have such wonderful memories that go from a fado at 4 am in the middle of the street to an orgasm in the modest Pensão Londres, passing through several plates and glasses and laughter, I had never fallen into this trap of thinking that I belonged there.

Until last week. I went alone this time and, with the exception of a dinner at the house of dear friends, on the lovely Rua das Janelas Verdes, I went up and down those urban cliffs almost alone.

And perhaps this solitude, beneficial, has brought this desire to really belong to the city. Not just being a visitor, but someone the stone sidewalks welcome like a child. Someone for whom the winter sun at Alfama means more than a selfie background. Someone for whom Pessoa’s verses are not just a quote, but the reason for being alive.

I was there, this time, for exactly 48 hours. I tried to make the most of it, but not in a hurry. And I went looking for this beauty not in postcards, but in unusual everyday scenes.

Like the bar at the excellent Senhor Uva, where people sit at a window cut diagonally along the slope of Santo Amaro. Or the tiles not from the mansions, but from the former Fábrica de Loiça by Antônio da Costa Lamego. Or the dark halls of Palácio do Grilo. Or the sculpture in honor of Almada where you hide the last syllable and read only “alma”.

I made each detail of this a fragment of my own story. Invented – but which one isn’t? And I really wanted to belong there.

So it wasn’t Pessoa who wrote: “To travel, it’s enough to exist”? Last week, walking down the stairs of Calçada do Duque, in Bairro Alto, I finally understood what he meant. Too bad I was just passing through.

You May Also Like

Recommended for you