The 11:30 shots

(Lisboa)

So I walk back to my hostel on the Christmas Eve. I stop for a moment at the Praça do Comércio. The square is flanked by two symmetrical buildings that angles out to the Tagus in an open- armed embrace. To the centre of the square is the equestrian statue of King José I.

At 9:30, on the 1st of November, 1755, Lisbon was hit by a huge earth quake. Known hence as the ‘Great Lisbon Earthquake’ it changed the face of the city in about ten minutes. Soon after the earthquake fires broke out. And what was once the royal palace was now rubble and ash. It was on these ruins that the Praça do Comércio was built, as conceived by the architect Eugénio dos Santos and as encompassed within the rebuilding efforts of the prime Minister of José I, Marquis de Pombal


Tonight the square is illuminated in anticipation of Christmas. In fact my whole walkway is lit by the gold and silver bulbs that hangs overhead like huge luminous water drops. But like the roads, the Praça is also deserted. The silence is slowly getting on to me. I think of the Christmases back home and all I want is to get back to some noise.

So I walk back to the hostel for my Christmas dinner.I know I am missing home...

Once inside the 'yes' hostel, the mood changes. This is undoubtedly the best hostel experience I have had. The place is as warm as the staff here is. I eat and drink my way through the courses of my Christmas dinner. I have at my table republicans and democrats. The venerable lady next to me is in search of the perfect place to write her book. Shirley talks about how her Sri Lankan origins could well be traced back to Portugal. I walk in the drizzle with Antonio and Stephanie and Johny to the Rossio square and wonder aloud why Lisbon chose to remain indoors.

And strangers gather around the counter with their shot glasses to drain it in a single moment of unison. I know there is something about the “jingle bells”. But the clang of our shot glasses as we slam them back to the counter is just as good as the carol ever gets!

Silent Night…

(Lisboa)

They say, Portugal draws into itself on Christmas. Shops stay closed, tourism on hold… And on the morning of 24th, the day turned warm and sunny in Mação. The rain clouds that had hung over the town took the day off. Definitely, there was not much Christmas in the air. By mid- afternoon, I had checked into a hostel near the Baixa Chiado metro station in Lisbon. For, who wants to feel lonely on the Christmas eve.

Miguel of the hostel warned me of starvation in the streets of Lisbon that night. So I signed up for the hostel dinner and set off to take the tram 28 E armed with a map and Miguel’s explicit instructions to get lost in the streets of Alfama. Unlike the interior districts of Portugal, Lisbon is well connected through a network of buses, metros trams and ferries.Trams were in operation in Lisbon from as far back as 1873. The horse drawn affairs of the bygone days have given way to yellow electric carriages. The last major restructuring took place in the 1990 s.

The carriage slowly made its way up through the narrow cobbled streets. At Graca, the driver kindly explained to me that it was as far as the tram would go and it would be convenient if I get out. So I decided to trace the tram line back on foot.

Alfama is the oldest district in Lisbon spreading from the castle of Lisbon to river Tejo. The name dates back to the Moorish times (Al- hamma), denoting baths. Alfama has retreated from its Moorish glory to be one of the poorest districts in Lisbon now. The streets of Alfama winds up and down in rather steep slopes and often you have to close your umbrella to allow a passing tram. I heard the frustrated tram driver yell her way through the cars that inched out of the side-streets unexpectedly. The streets are lined by old three storied structures that now house shops and restaurants (which were of course closed on the day!). By five o clock in the evening I was looking at Alfama from the Porta do sol (Gateway of the sun) as it sloped down to touch the banks of Tagus. Tagus, almost as expansive and alive as the ocean beyond. Alfama from here was a cluster of red roofs and white walls, so closely packed that the streets below are scarcely revealed.

I stepped into the dim lights of the Sè cathedral and saw the tableau of the divine birth set up there. At one of those rare coffee shops that was open, the owner told me of the choir where he was to sing at the night service. It’s a great thing to know a bit of the language. How else could I have made sense of anything the man said, as he talked about the notes of the carols and the charm of the Christmas lights and why he thought I should believe in something at the very least.

But there was more to the night than I had expected…



(cont…)

Little things..

I am in Macao again. This time in better spirits. It is gonna be a shorter stay.Lectures in strange tongues are no longer to be.

Couple of days into my stay we went to a lagar. A lagar is an oil press. Olives from the cultivators around reach here and through a series of semi- mechanised processes oil is extracted in sweetsmelling barrelfulls. Dani explained to me how the system works- how the olives are washed in warm water, crushed, then spread as layers on the round weed mats, stacked and pressed to extract the virgin oil. The workman told us that a good thirty kilograms of olives yield about three litres of oil.

Its the first time since coming to Macao that i am encountering activity of this kind. People red- faced and tired from a hard days work. All we saw were shops and bars and offices and an occasional old lady working in her kitchen garden.Dullness was the rule.

The burly workman at the mill had a warm air about him. He greeted us with firm handshakes rather than the usual kisses. The best was when he warmed bread for us on embers and served it on a metal plate with a generous amount of warm oil poured on it.Dani had already introduced me to the wonders of olive oil poured over food. But nothing had prepared me for the way the flavour and smell of the virgin oil had soaked into the crisp golden brown crust of the home-made bread pieces.

Its good that the place still has surprises in store. Be it a flavour hidden in a lagar or today's evening sky with its shades of magenta and purple.For, I feel the cheer rain out of me with each passing day in Macao. Why so, I wonder! Macao it seems has closed upon itself. Despite their long stay, everyone who has come here is a perpetual outsider. This is inspite of the language, inspite of the colour. Its not as if the people are leading an unhappy life. They have their festivals an their joys.White and blue lights and christmas trees have started to line the streetsides. Its only that they don't need us here to disturb the tranquility-the old and Catholic tranquility.

To a winter in Europe

I felt as I always do, as I waited for my flight at the departure terminal of Delhi airport- that, I have already left. The moment you cross the imigration line, you lose your Delhi.But never so much as this time.In Delhi the winter had set in. Not too harsh, just so much that you want to huddle around in a tight group over cups of tea.Just so much that that cigarette lights are visible above the slight mist.It is the break in Delhi that always make leaving home easy. I had stepped out of the aircraft the evening before into the familiarity of the cool breeze on my face. And i wished that I could stay on.

The Delhi international airport has revamped itself since my last departure. It is posh and grand. The long walks to find your gate, matches any of the other airports that we hear of.I wait at my gate with European faces. I listen to the boarding announcement in the strage 'neutral'ised accent. (Colbe,that s where the trimmed accents go to!). The only sign of the nation outside are the portraits of young men and women in regional attire standing guard at the loo entrances. But then those are portraits for the foreign eyes.

So i sit there and think of things. Why is Delhi that was once so strange now almost home, almost as hard to leave? I wonder if I stayed on long enough,Europe would turn out to be just so.Well, I guess not. It is not that I do not have great friends there. I enjoy the travel. I am eager for more. This winter I am going to meet snow for the first time. In a few hours I would get a glimpse of Zurich as spread out among snowfolds.

But then, there is an odd formality to the life there. A set of rules which cannot be learned easily. Like paying only your tab at the restaurant.Individual space has so much value that I feel suffocated often. Once a couple of years back I was with a group of English students. They were all drinking gin and tonic from bottles they had brought but would not offer.I cried then (and mind you not just for the gin and tonic). Well it is'nt the rule.Already I am aquainted to a number of people to know that much. There is not a single Europe.

I think its worth spending time getting to know Europe.It is possible that each cent is not always to be accounted for.
But after that, I am going to come back..