12-16 November 2022
After a smooth flight, the taxi ride from Lisbon airport produces the first surprise of our trip - and it’s a pleasant one. The twenty minute ride downtown costs a little over €10 including extras. Not €35 as in Frankfurt. Or €80 as in Munich. Or a gazillion Krone and your house as in Oslo (actually that’s a bit of an exaggeration, they only take half your house). Later we find out they have Uber too, which turns out to be even cheaper - and you get a driver who can master the elusive arts of road safety, politeness and fluent English. All in one person. We like it here already.
But before we reach the hotel, our driver has to negotiate the craziness that is the Marquês de Pombal roundabout. It’s actually two roundabouts in one, boasting both an outer and inner circle, supplemented by roads criss-crossing the smaller, outer variety on their way to the more serious, inner one. The thought flashes through my mind that it’s maybe trying to be the traffic version of a London Underground sign, but it’s probably just me. Once this is successfully dealt with, our driver decides to approach the hotel by stealth, firstly going up the wrong street and needing to take another tour of the magic roundabout. Or maybe he just likes driving round in circles. This hoo-ha gives time for a lovely welcoming committee to assemble outside our hotel, the resultant hug-fest confusing our poor driver even further as he struggles with the luggage.
This is to be the first reunion of the Frankfurt gang since Covid, so we’re all a bit giddy. Sadly, the lingering bastard disease has struck again and robbed us of 20% of our contingent for the weekend (get well soon, Alison). We will just have to press on and toast absent friends at every suitable opportunity, of which there will be many. And why is a Frankfurt reunion taking place in Lisbon, you may well ask? Well, the first rule of a Frankfurt reunion is that it doesn’t take place in Frankfurt. Not that Frankfurt is at all dull, oh no. It’s just that some of our gang still reside there and they like a weekend away as much as the rest of us. We even have a team WhatsApp group called Lovely Lisboa!, thus exploring the outer reaches of our Portuguese language ability. Bizarrely, the local name for Lisbon reminds me that one of my German professors at uni was called Liz Boa. Maybe she was named after this city - finally, a 40 year old mystery is solved.
An enthusiastic lady at reception informs us that it’s the annual “Turning-On Of The Christmas Lights Ceremony” in Lisbon tonight. We all pile downtown via the spacious Avenida de Liberdade, which is lined with designer brands, posh hotels and actual policemen on the beat. We arrive, with breath that is baited, just in time for the city to be flooded with light. A large department store near the historic Santa Justa lift leads the way with an impressive Christmas tree and Santa illumination, with accompanying firework (singular). The assembled crowds “ooh” and “aah” in an appropriate seasonal manner. Then - nothing. The surrounding streets, with their magnificent decorations in place and ready to go, remain unimpressively unilluminated - now and the remainder of our stay.
Only slightly deterred, we make a beeline for Cristiano Ronaldo’s bar, which is called CR7. It’s probably the only bar in Lisbon named after the back of a football shirt, but even a long weekend is too short on drinking time to test this theory to the max. After an aperitif, we stroll through the narrow streets of the Alfama quarter towards our restaurant for the evening - the Taberna Sal Grosso. It comes highly recommended by Jamie, who has already been there on a lads’ weekend and doesn’t appear to be banned. Our German habits run deep, as we arrive five minutes earlier than our official reservation time of 9pm. It’s chaos on the steep slopes outside as an unfeasibly large number of guests start to arrive considering the size of the restaurant, which looks tiny. Maybe it’s a Tardis. Everyone who arrives follows the same routine of going inside to inquire after their table, only to be told to return back outside and wait. Only ten minutes overdue, the current population of the restaurant is disgorged onto the cobbles outside and the waiting thong makes its way inside. It’s a shift system and we’re on the late shift. Unless there’s also an 11pm shift, which you can’t rule out in Iberian parts of the world. Once installed, the tapas, wine and service are free-flowing and top notch. This place is full of locals, always a good sign, but the waiter jokes with us in flawless English. At the end of the meal, they even leave us to help ourselves freely from bottles of port and ginjinha, the local ginger-based liqueur. All of this hits the spot magnificently, as Jamie had said it would. Even the arrival of the bill can’t dampen our high spirits - it works out at €35 a head. That settles it, we’re moving here (just don’t mention the B word).
The weather is sunny and mild for mid-November, so we decide that Saturday morning stands for “Open Top Bus Tour”. Conveniently, these depart on the other side of the big roundabout, which only takes ten minutes to cross. We beat off the hawkers with practised dexterity, but once installed on the top deck, Karen and Denise decide they might be tempted after all. An old guy with a toothless grin proves to be very skilled at cap-hurling up onto the bus. In fact, it’s almost like he does this for a living. After much haggling, the deal is done at half-price and euros are dispatched to the pavement below. We’re sure the caps’ logo is meant to say “Portugal” but the “o” looks more like an “e”. Cries of “Pert you, gal!” ring out for the rest of the tour.
The sound from our earphones alternates between historical facts about the city and the local Fado music. We learn all about the horrendous earthquake of 1755, which measured nine on the Richter scale.The quake was followed by a huge tsunami, which also affected North Africa, Ireland, Cornwall and as far away as the Caribbean and Brazil. It struck on a Sunday morning while many of the inhabitants were in church, causing widespread fires from the falling candles. An estimated 40,000 to 50,000 people were killed in Portugal and Morocco. This is when our hero, the Marquês de Pombal, came to the fore, masterminding the rebuilding of the city and ensuring his place in history and circular traffic systems.
We are also educated about the 49 years of authoritarian rule in Portugal, which was ended by the Carnation revolution in 1974. The magnificent bridge over the Tagus river, the Ponte 25 de Abril, was renamed after the date of the revolution, having previously borne the name of the reviled dictator, António de Oliviera Salazar, who had commissioned its construction in the early sixties. The combined road and rail bridge bears a striking resemblance to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and joins the city of Lisbon to the Almada region. Closer to the bridge, the hum of the traffic becomes unmistakable - and after a while, pretty bloody irritating if you’re sitting at a nearby café, as we did on Sunday. According to Kevin, this is due to the use of metallic plates on the road bridge, which aid stability.
The tour is nearing its end and we’ve had more than enough Fado in our eardrums, so we disembark outside the El Corte Inglés Portugal shopping centre. This “English court” is the size of an aircraft hangar. It also has toilets, our more acute need rather than shopping. From there, we make our way back to base via the sweeping views of the Parque Eduardo VII, named after the English king for apparently no better reason than he once visited the city at the turn of the 20th century. What about a Parque Amigos de Alemanha for us? Those flights weren’t cheap, you know.
After a pit stop and a cold cappuccino (obrigado!) at the hotel, we head back out on foot towards the Bairro Alto area. This city is so beautiful, albeit a little hilly in places. At the top of the next hill, Jayne and Nicky buy some cheese from the artisan market, which also offers some wonderful views across the rooftops and beyond. The sight of cheese makes us peckish and luckily we soon stumble across Tapas Bar 52, which does what it says on the tin. I try not to get too excited (2-0 up!) or distressed (oh, 2-3 down) by the football scores from home, but most likely fail as usual. The food, drink, friendliness and prices again hit the mark, but we don’t want to over-indulge now, as we have another sumptuous feast to look forward to this evening. After a pleasant postprandial walk, we spot a gorgeous terrace offering a panoramic view of the river and a free table. Attempting to blend in with local culture, we order a jug of sangria, only to be told that they possess just the one jug and it’s currently in use. Jamie negotiates what we think is a comparable jug-like price for six individual glasses and all is well as we enjoy a splendid view of the sunset. In a classic small world experience, I then discover that I went to school with one of Jamie’s best mates, the husband of the UK ambassador to France no less (Jamie tends to move in these exalted circles, whereas I clearly do not).
Alas, the sole and much sought-after jug then makes an appearance at the next table and we quickly calculate that it contains at least eight glasses worth of sangria. With shades of José Mourinho sprinting off the bench to berate a fourth official, Jamie summons the waiter for a dressing down and re-opens the negotiation. This again appears to be concluded successfully, until the bill arrives and we’re charged full price for six glasses. José wouldn’t stand for this and nor do we, leaving only the negotiated sum (which is incredible value for a view that good).
On the way back, we pass the famous Lisbon tram line that travels, funicular-like, up and down a steep street in the old town. Sadly, it’s out of action for maintenance, with the fences encircling its carriages unable to prevent a hostile takeover by the local graffiti artists. But this gentle incline is nothing compared to the almost vertical climb we undertake later to reach Officio Lisboa. This may sound like a government-approved tourist guide, but thankfully turns out to be our restaurant for the evening. Jamie - our very own (non-government-approved) tourist guide - has been there before (of course) and has gone to the trouble of organising a set menu for us. In true Portuguese style, this comprises more dishes than we’re able to count. One such delicacy styles itself as “atypical gizzards”, which sounds like something Matt Hancock might be force-fed on I’m a Celebrity but turns out to be harmless. Once again, it’s all very tasty and we’re full to bursting - and that’s before a massive slab of steak appears as the pièce de resistance. I certainly feel like resisting it, but eventually give in and it melts in the mouth. Otherwise, we do our best to keep our lovely waitress, Esmeralda, on her toes. Her reaction to this is to say “sorry” at every opportunity, but in reality, she does little wrong. Until it comes to our drinks budget, which has been paid in advance (don’t ask) and is totally beyond her. How she must have despaired of us by the end of the evening.
Sunday morning stands for “Duck Tour” - a tradition started at our last (pre-Covid) reunion in Dublin and now continued here. Or “Hippo Tour”, as they prefer to brand it in Lisbon. By now, the weather has taken a turn for the worse, which means the noisy, renamed bridge now looms spookily out of the morning mist as we assemble at the dockside. Our host for the tour is an entertaining and very theatrical young chap, who speaks each of Portuguese, English and French to native speaker level. I’m increasingly impressed with the local education system, as everyone we encounter seems to speak better English than we do. But it emerges later that our guide grew up in Brussels. Bloody Europeans, staying over there, speaking all their different languages etc. etc.
By a cruel twist of fate, our tour clashes with the T20 World Cup final, so our intrepid guide has to compete with regular score flashes from a revolving selection of Kevin, Jamie and me (not Alan or the girls though, they aren’t so fussed about cricketing glory). The tour proceeds something like this:
“Legend has it that the seven hills of Lisbon were created by a massive snake….”
“....oh bugger, now Buttler’s out”
“The death toll from the earthquake was so much worse because everyone was in church…”
“... they’re reviewing it, they think Stokes is caught behind”
“The King was out of Lisbon at the time, so escaped unharmed….”
“....no, it’s okay, he didn’t edge it, we still have a chance”
“Now we’re entering the water, hold onto your hats….”
“....why haven’t we scored a run since drinks, what’s going on?”
“The sculpture depicts only one woman … and she’s at the back….”
“...Afridi’s going off injured, this could be a massive game changer!”
When we arrive back on dry land, the match still hasn’t finished, making a mockery of my prediction that we’d win around halfway through the tour. By now, I’m so desperate for both an England win and a pee that I run into the ladies’ toilet with the BBC commentary blaring out on loudspeaker. In retrospect, passing Karen at the wash basins should maybe have given me a clue that I wasn’t quite in the right place, but we’re all friends here. I emerge to much gigging from the group - and just in time to celebrate the winning run on the harbourside. After a celebratory beer, we decide to escape the din from the bridge by walking the three or so kilometres back into town. This has certainly been a good weekend for getting the step count up. Our route takes us to the old Lisbon market on Avenida 24 de Julho (sorry, I must have missed what happened on that date while checking the score). The middle of the market has recently been renovated into an enormous food court and appears to be sponsored by Time Out magazine. What a fabulous place, with something for almost everyone. Our shrimp and avocado salads are delicious, just the job after the over-indulgences of the last couple of days.
Sadly, it’s now time to say farewell to half our group, a.k.a. the ones who need to work on Monday. Together with Jamie and Nicky, we are the lucky ones who get to experience a bonus evening in this lovely city. Back to the old town we go. The only irritant is a persistent drizzle that turns the cobbled pavements into a skating rink - or maybe I’m just wearing the wrong shoes. Near the ancient Se Cathedral, we spot an enticing bar called Crafty Corner. It’s not actually on a corner but it does serve craft beer, so the name half works for me. Despite this, everyone else opts for a G&T, while I can’t see past the Piri Piri IPA, an experimental and fiery brew. The chicken wings are superb, as is the four-piece band that starts up shortly after our arrival. We are also about to discover this is the only music on offer on a Sunday night in Lisbon that isn’t Fado.
By now, we are hungry for more than chicken wings, so make the mistake of venturing forth once more. I’m not joking, the unmistakable sound of Fado emanates from literally every restaurant in the Alfama back streets. We select one that looks and sounds relatively harmless (or maybe the singer is just on a break) but they are full up, so the proprietor tries to tempt us with her “sister restaurant” round the corner. One glance inside is sufficient to confirm its weirdness and we decline her kind offer. Ten fruitless minutes later, the rain suddenly turns much heavier. We now find ourselves outside a restaurant that looks very popular and does not feature Fado at this precise moment. The menu outside displays pictures of the food, normally an absolute no-no in my book, but they have one table left and we’re desperate. What follows can only be described as one of the most surreal evenings we have ever experienced.
Classy it is not, but we’re here now and might as well enjoy ourselves. The cutlery and paper napkin arrive in individual brown paper bags. The table appetisers, normally a nice touch, are rustic but devoid of flavour. Our waiter looks like he may well have been part of a sixties rock band, or may still want to be. He communicates only in hushed tones and by pointing. The couple on the next table leave without ordering, always a little worrying. Before we can place our order, the lights are dimmed and the entire room falls dutifully silent. Our waiter motions to us in sign language that we need to join his vow of silence. This can only mean one thing: Fado alert! The first two singers - one female, one male - are relatively youthful, mere apprentices of the Fado world. Their sets both follow the same format - two mournful solos, bemoaning the sad state of the world, the war in Ukraine, the price of electricity and gas and their unsatisfactory love life. Or at least one of those things, I assume. The third and final ditty by each performer is then a sing-along for everyone. We do our best to pick up the chorus to the first free-for-all: the gist of it appears to be “Irish bar, Irish bar”, but most likely isn’t. We sing it anyway and nobody tells us off, so perhaps it’s right after all. When it’s the young guy’s turn, the words are even clearer. Indeed, they seem to become clearer the more we drink from our delightful litre carafe of house red (€10). They are: “It’s so bad, this is so bad”. Surely that can’t be right? We sing it anyway and only receive a couple of disapproving looks from nearby tables.
But, as the saying goes, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings - and the third (and we hope, final) set is delivered by a veritable diva of the Fado scene. The two young pretenders to her throne retire to the sidelines to watch and learn, as she takes us through her full repertoire of drama, joy and tragedy. After the applause dies down, she visits each table individually to milk it for a bit longer, but mainly to hawk her “Greatest Hits” CD for €10. Or failing that, a Fado-branded data stick for €3.50. “What is this strange technology you call a ‘CD’?”, we feel like asking, but aren’t quite brave enough, as she is a formidable lady and is sure to have heard us singing “this is so bad” earlier on. Meanwhile, our mixed fish cataplana is filling, but just as insipid as the starters. We turn down the offer of dessert, even though the menu not only offers pictures but a selection of four different languages, all of which are the same. In a stroke of good fortune and timing, this means we just make it to the exit before the next round of Fado starts up. A nightcap in a nearby bar aids our recovery from a mirth-filled evening.
I would like to describe our journey home the next day as uneventful, but unfortunately we discover the worst airport lounge in the world and then someone three rows behind us almost chokes to death before we take off (well done to the BA crew for their swift and effective rescue act). It then takes us three hours to reach home from the time we land at Heathrow, a reminder (not that we needed one) of why we always fly from City Airport if we can. The wonderful city of Lisbon, however, and the fun weekend we spent there with our lovely friends will live long in the memory. We will be back!
Acknowledgements: Photos by everyone (thank you!)