--("I left my heart to the sappers round Khe Sanh./ And I sold my soul with my cigarettes/ to the/ black market man.")
Geoff played 'Khe Sanh' as he drove us along Paris' Left Bank, after risking our necks on the Arc de Triomphe (a 5-lane roundabout with 8 exits and no lane markings). It was the first time I'd heard it in over a month and I suddenly missed home.
The Portuguese have a word for their homesickness: 'Saudade'. It's a longing for a place or person so strong that it manifests as physical pain. Saudade fuels the extremely dour 'Fado' music which is like a quick waltz sung to by a man who's donating too much blood.
It's pronounced 'Shaudade'. Like many other Portuguese words, the 's' is pronounced 'sh'. This is not an ironclad rule, and the exceptions appear to be arbitrary. Mispronouncing Portuguese is thus very easy and will unfortunately only get you bemused stares.
--"Ees servishio eencluido?"
--<bemused stare>
I was asking our waiter if the service charge was included. My only guide to the Portuguese language came from a Dutch website, so I had to translate all the 'ee's to 'ey's, and the 'oo's to 'oh's.
--"Oh. Eysh serveysho eynclueydo?"
--<bemused stare>
I pointed to the written Portuguese. Thankfully, he could read.
--"Ah! Eysh sherveysho eynclueydo!"
--(That's what I said!)
--"Si! Si! Sherveysho Eynclueydo!"
The meal turned out to be very cheap. e17 for huge serves of bacalhau (salted cod), tripas (tripe), and vinho porto (Port). I don't think service was included, but the waiter didn't charge us. The restaurant was empty and he wanted to watch the football game with the chef so the sooner we left, the better.
So! I'd finally tasted bacalhau. Lisbon airport smelled of salted fish, and I'd been hanging out for it ever since I landed.
It wasn't really a good time for me. I'd just ended a fairly intense European tour and didn't get any rest at my last stop in London, so I was feeling a bit jaded by the time I got to Portugal.
But Lisbon took me into her arms and gently coaxed me on. She made it very easy for me to get to my Hostel and then take a walk to Parque Eduardo VII for a view down Avenida Liberdade that crapped all over the Champs-Elysees. I followed her mysterious trail onto the E28 for a tiny roller-coaster tram ride through tiny streets.
I was promised rest, but I soon found myself crossing the giant River Tagus (Rio Tejo) to Cacilhas and climbing Giant Jesus (Cristo Rei). I couldn't help myself. I was under her spell.
At Belem, I marvelled at the Tower of Belem and the Monument to the Discoveries. The Portuguese of old were renowned for their ambivalence towards non-Christians. Even the Age of Discoveries was started by Henrique IV to find a sea route to avoid and undermine the powerful Islamic states. Could it be that it was all just a reaction against the Moorish invaders that they battled for so long from one tiny hilltop city-fort now known as the Castelo Sao Jorge?
The view from the Castelo was marvellous, as was the vista from any number of other Miradouros that peppered the hills of Lisbon. A few of them have elevators that take you up (all part of the public transport system whose value-plus travel passes you can buy in Praca Figueira), and these I rode with glee, resting my tired feet that were shattered from the yellow-cobbled streets. It was only on the last day that I discovered that all the major sights were linked by the E28 tram!
But if I hadn't walked, I wouldn't have been hungry. And were I not hungry, I would not have sampled her cooking: Tripas, Bacalhau, Arroz de Marisco, Rissaos de Caramao, Pasteis... It was all so good that they gave me ideas to try out at home.
Home! I'd forgotten all about it, unlike Andreas. My home was the hostel, but his was still Leverkusen, Germany (near Cologne), and he declined Will's and my invitation to go out for dinner in favour of watching his team play on TV.
--"In Portugal life is cheap. Everybotty crosses zer road vizzout
shignal."
--"You mean, jaywalks?"
--"Ja. Zey do not do zat in Chermany. Green - you walk. Red - you shtop."
--"What happens if there's no signal?"
--"You find one! Cherman drifers do not look at pedeshtrians, only ze
shignal."
--"Oh yeah, that's right."
--"You hef been to Chermany?"
--"Yeah. Munich, St Goar."
--"You went to St Goar and you did not go to Cologne?"
--"Umm..."
--"Vy not?"
What made me pick the places I went to, I wonder. Certainly not expectations. I knew nothing of Lisbon or Portugal, and yet I was given a warm welcome by this exotic beauty. She shyly exposed herself to my camera only on the second day when the weather was good, and some parts will ever remain hidden, like Belem's minute Chapel Sta. Cristo.
Stories of her tragedy (like the earthquake that buried Baixa and broke Cathedral Sta. Domingo), and her arrested development (the Salazar regime) intrigued me. But there was no more time to find out more. Rested and rejuvenated despite having been kept on my feet, I was due to fly out to Paris.
If Lisbon is the innocent island belle - a sea-princess born of strong sun and wholesome food - who rescues you from your wrecked ship, then Paris is the ambitious young businesswoman you meet on the 6am coach flight (on her way to a 9 o'clocker with the Group Manager of East-Coast Marketing).
She said I was the best she ever had, but still charged me double. She knew exactly what she wanted out of me and set about achieving it with the efficiency of a financial transaction.
I chased Paris through the Metro (armed with Visite card and Museum Pass - hint: buy them when you get there). She made me jump on and off trains, and climb up and down stairs. She led me through her landmarks - Champs de Mars, Arc de Triomphe - never pausing to let me catch my breath after the huge distances travelled.
I travelled to Versailles earlier than expected. Akiko was going and I needed someone who knew how to get there and who spoke english. Thank goodness she actually knew how to get there.
The beefy receptionist at the Clichy hostel could also speak English - with a distinct accent. I was buggered, checking in at 2330, but I still inquired:
--"Excuse me, are you Scots?"
--"Aye."
I asked him the next day:
--"What's a Scots doing in Paris?"
--"The wimmin."
--"Found any good ones?"
--"Ah had wun when ah got here. But she's goan noo."
<whistles>
--"Oh."
--"Inna tha' alwys the weey?" He shrugged. "An' noo Ah'm
stoock here."
I lost Akiko at Versailles. I zipped through the state apartments. There were too many people there even though it wasn't peak season. I'd actually come at the perfect time - the weather was great, and there wasn't too many tourists. I wondered how crowded it would get in summer. I'd arranged to meet Akiko at the Petit Trianon, but she never made it. The Petit Trianon is a bit of a misnomer, as there's nothing petite about it. It should be the 'Grand Trianon' and the 'Not-So-Grand Trianon'. The Trianons are a 1.5km walk from the State Apartments, still in the grounds. You find less tourists there, but the same style. I loved it.
Versailles is massive. Everything about it spells grandeur, from the immaculate gardens to the individual rooms. I was so impressed by it, given the awful first impression I had of Paris, that the thought that Paris was simply a stepping-stone to Versailles crossed my mind.
The Vatican is man glorifying God. Versailles is man glorifying royalty. Paris today is man glorifying the common man, which is why it's kind of drab. Perhaps everyday people don't truly believe they deserve splendour.
The splendid gold and mirrors everywhere struck me as gaudy at first until I looked closer and realised that all was in its right place, and that diamonds and marble were used where gold was not meant to be. Louis XIV commissioned Versailles when he thought the Louvre wasn't good enough. He was used to gold and knew how to use it appropriately.
I, on the other hand, was not used to gold, especially not on this trip. It's hard to do the touristy things during the day, then live the life of a penniless scholar at night, but Paris is the place to do it. I was like Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) in Moulin Rouge except that I didn't get to bag Nicole Kidman. I bought some groceries at 'Casino' and returned to the Hostel to find Akiko wondering if I was okay.
I was okay. I had food and beer, and good company. My French was okay enough to help local international relations. Paul from Liverpool...
--"Engloond. Best coontry in the wairld."
... was wondering what Khalid from Morocco had just said to him as he left to see the Moulin Rouge near the Blanche Metro.
--"Insh'Allah."
--"Que'est ce que se?"
--"Grace a Dieu" said David from Spain.
--"Ah. God be with you/Grace of God."
Paul came back later that night after tirelessly looking for a place that could understand 'Pint of lager, Guv.'.
--"Ah down knao wha the Frainch just down't give oop an' speak English lahk the rest of oos."
You don't have to speak in museums, so I ran around them tirelessly, searching for everything Paris had to offer. The highlights were the super-museums: the Louvre, and the D'Orsay. One small(er) one surprised me: The war museum in Hotel Invalides. It was all fun stuff (ancient swords and spears), and fancy costumes (Napoleon), until I got the fantastic exhibition on WWII (2eme Guerre Mondiale). I realised it was the first war where propoganda and industry were fully utilised. The art of killing had become a science. Along with 50 million soldiers, 30 million civilians died. I read an article at Charles de Gaulle airport about the Enola Gay logbook going for auction at Christies, including the entry 'My God, what have we done?' On the day Capt. Lewis wrote those words, the sun rose twice over Japan.
The sun was shining as I perused the indulgence that is modern art at the Pompidou Centre. It was almost Lisbon weather when I descended into the Parisian sewers, like Jean Valjean, for the pungent exhibits there. The sunshine was so good (and clean-smelling) when I got out that I retreated to Place de la Concorde to snooze on a deckchair in the Tuileries.
The day I had to leave, Paris became chilly. She threatened me with crows, clouds, and thoughts of mortality as I visited Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde in the Cimitiere Pere Lachaise. She pretended not to understand me as I fumbled the buying of a Banh Mi Thit in Chinatown (e2 in Rue D'Ivry). Not even my big coat and scarf protected me from her iciness in the Jardins du Luxembourg.
Lisbon had said goodbye as sweetly as she said hello, with a balmy day and a slow ride through her charming palm-lined streets. We promised we'd remember each other forever, but I was already thinking of Paris as I walked into Departures, and she was already welcoming the next weary traveller with open arms.
Paris farewelled me with an ugly tantrum. On the train to the airport she showed me her poor suburbs, her industrial complexes, and her trailer parks that darkness had hidden from me the night I arrived. Her customs official refused to let me board the plane, picking on petty things like the white (washing) powder in my hand luggage. I still had a great time, and will overlook this last outburst, but I guess she did it so she can say that I never really understood her at all.
It's a ten hour flight and a seven hour time difference to Singapore. Hopefully I won't crash too hard. I've got a bundle of things to do.
--("I've been back to South East Asia,/ you know the answer sure ain't there,/ but I'm drifting off/ to check things out again.")
Lisbon and Paris, like the loves of my life, keep appearing in my dreams. I imagine these mistresses as they were, and not as they might be now. Cities change just like people. I may try and revive old times, but that would be futile even though just days have passed. But still, the wish for past passions keeps me going when life seems indifferent. And so I continue to plot new affairs.
And Adelaide will forgive my dalliances for she knows I will always return to her. Reliable, sturdy Adelaide Australia. I will have to work hard to make it up - I always do after I stray. But I know that in our hearts there is true Saudade.
And 'Khe Sanh' is the Fado she sings to remind me where I belong.
