The beautiful but often derelict outskirts of Lisbon
So a little adventure for those willing to read a mini-novel. If anyone decides to share this with my mother perhaps skip the parts that would give her an aneurysm…
I found myself heading from Spain to Portugal on more of a whim than any true directional intention. In my wisdom, I believed that a flight would be faster and less hassle than taking a bus or train. A pretty safe bet, right?
Oh, how I loathe thee hindsight.
My flight, upon arriving at the airport in Seville, was promptly delayed for 5 hours, which may not sound much but after numerous and ill-conceived adventures in Spain, I was completely shattered by the time I boarded the plane at 11 pm and was just feeling over life in general at this point. Add in my complete inability to sleep on a flight, and I arrived in Portugal at approximately 2 am, near zombie-level of alertness
The only option to getting into the city where I had pre-booked accommodation was the one bus heading into and out of the city once an hour. I, of course, missed the first one, leaving me no option but to wait for an hour amidst what can only be described as those underneath the dregs of society, and fearing for my kidneys and wondering if I could discern what the Portuguese version of “You got a pretty mouth boy” might be. Fortunately, my trepidation left no option to sleep, so it was with wide eyes and almost zero brain function I finally boarded what was the final bus of the night.
Disembarking the bus, with a just a vague direction of where I needed to head to find my lodgings, I stumbled, dragging my enormous black suitcase along the uneven cobbled streets through the depth of night that was the outskirts of Lisbon. I finally arrived, more by fluke as my phone and its necessary GPS had died a half-hour before, at approximately 3 am (when I was expected at 9 pm).
Nothing stirred in the night, despite my panicked knocking, and I gradually realised that there was no one coming to let me in, and with no battery on my phone, I have no idea where to go, who to call, or what in the world I should do. Even allowing for the lowered cognitive function that my sleep-deprived brain is capable of, I still manage to piece together that I’m basically screwed.
Strangely, and slightly worryingly, there is still the occasional passer-by, but any attempts to elicit support from these wastrels got me nothing but derisive, scared or downright threatening looks, so I back off and sit forlornly outside of the building, pondering if self-pity might become a strong enough superpower to open locked doors.
Then, by some incredible stroke of luck or providence, an old man who was evidently some kind of maintenance man for the building decided that 3 am was the perfect time to bring out the recycling buckets onto the street- God bless those wonderful procrastinators!
Leaping up, I got his attention and, somehow, convinced him to let me in the door (without a word of English understood I swear this was a minor miracle) but once inside I had nowhere to go- the old man wandered off to slam himself behind a locked door, leaving me and my suitcase stranded in the entrance hall of an apartment building, a single staircase going up to another locked door less than a floor up.
Being marooned in the lobby of a strange, random building I have never stepped foot in might seem a little terrifying, but compared to sleeping in the middle of the street this was a huge step up for me. Being the unfussy type, I decide I will just kip at the bottom of the stairs (blow-up mattress to the rescue!) and sort it in the morning, being near comatose from tiredness at this point.
Just as I am about to lay down, I hear the front door open and see a strange, scraggly silhouette shuffle in and stop to stare down at me. With a little confusion, I open my eyes fully to see an (almost certainly drunk) 50-something-year-old man staring oddly at me and gesticulating wildly that I shouldn’t be there.
After checking carefully to ensure I hadn’t soiled my pants in fear, and establishing that he wasn’t showing any signs of violence, I tried my best to respond to him. Again, with the miracle of sign language, I explain I had nowhere to go and had to sleep there at the bottom of the stairs.
The old man looked thoughtful for a moment, stroking the week-old stubble on his wizened chin and swaying slightly, and then with hand gestures I imagine are vaguely reminiscent of how Van Gough must have looked just before lopping off his ear, he somehow eventually explained that I should follow him, lest nasty things happen to me or the ‘policia’ (the only word I understood) should come and molest me. Eek.
Faced with the idea of following a drunk old man to his room in an unknown building, or finding myself on the wrong side of probably unsympathetic policemen, I decided that the old adage of ‘better the devil you know’ was sage wisdom and made my choice.
With naive hope and a complete disregard of personal safety due to absolute fatigue, I followed him up all the floors. As we walked he turned back every few steps, making wild gesticulations that I had to stay quiet lest we be overheard. Was this so potential witnesses would not know about me? Was he on a register of some kind? Unfortunately, none of these judgemental but really rather rational concerns didn’t make it through my brain fog, and I simply nodded and obeyed.
Finally, after my arm had almost fallen off from lugging my monster suitcase up at least 7 floors of stairs, and with my blow-up mattress and bag tucked not at all securely under my other arm, we entered a totally dark hallway. Now, even my slow brain was able to see that this was getting super dodgy.
To add to the ‘this is how every horror movie ever starts’ vibe I was getting, I noticed as we walked around a few more bends in the relative darkness that there were alcoves off of the main hall where the ominous outlines of shadowy figures could be seen, just the brights of their eyes staring back out at me accusingly for entering their domain without permission. I got the very strong sense people like me were never, ever, seen in this part of the building.
Finally, we came to a single door, which was locked (was this a good sign or did my butt cheeks just tense involuntarily?). But my guide shuffled in, ushering me after him quickly, and with caution, I followed him into the open space.
Inside, there was a single bed, a small table in the corner, and, rather surprisingly, an entire wall missing, leaving a gaping hole to the outside of the building.
Turning back I noticed the old man was trying to communicate once again. Using sign language Helen Keller would be proud of, I am invited to sleep on his bed and even offered the single blanket he had possession of.
Declining the offer for philanthropic and hygienic reasons, I happily lay my mattress on the floor (the only space in the tiny room large enough to store it, and try to convey my thanks for the locked door (eek) and the tiny square of floor to rest on.
As he gave me the thumbs up, he retired to his bed that rested a grand total of 30cm away from my head, and I realised with surprise that I felt no fear or trepidation anymore. Rather, I was filled only with gratitude to this poor waif, who was offering me what little he had in order to protect and help someone else down on their luck, going so far as to offer his only possesions to this stranger.
Listening to his hacking smoker’s cough, or hearing him get up at various times of the night to pee out the missing wall onto the street outside, I was overcome with a mixture of thankfulness and confusion. Thankful that there were still people in the world, so lost and hopeless themselves and yet who were still willing to help out others. I also felt confusion and no small amount of guilt that I should be there, with money in my pocket and a bright future of potential ahead of me whereas he had virtually nothing to his name after what were probably untold years of obvious struggle. What separated us? What fluke of birth sent me on one path and him on another? These were the thoughts that accompanied me to a surprisingly restful sleep as I drifted off.
Early in the morning, he woke me up, motioning he needed to disappear and asking politely how my sleep was (it is surprising what people can convey to one another when language doesn’t get in the way). With a parting gesture of camaraderie, he placed his arms over my shoulders like a long lost brother and smiled, obviously pleased to see the relief and gratitude spread clearly over my face.
He neither asked, nor expected anything at all for sharing his home with me and offering so much trust to a complete stranger.
Overwhelmed by the generosity of someone who had so little yet who was so willing to share what he had, I pressed all the cash I had into his hands (ignoring his attempts to give it back) with the hope that his next day might be just a little brighter than the one before and headed down to await access to my room.
I know this story really only means something to me, and if you have stuck with me this long I commend you for it but suffice to say this small adventure hit me deeply, reminding me that it is the connections we make with one another, from whatever walk in life we may hail from, that can have the most enduring impact on our lives.
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