Lisbon (Pt. 1)

A roupa suja lava-se em casa.

                                                                                            —Portuguese expression (It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.)

Marquês de Pombal

Just ten miles from the Atlantic Ocean, situated on the Tagus estuary, Lisbon was once at the forefront of world-trade. Thanks in large part to its rich maritime heritage, all of Portugal and Lisbon in particular pay homage to its predominant role in the Age of Discovery. One needs only to turn in any direction on nearly every street to find a monument to their legacy of wealth, exploration, politics, religion, recovery—you name it including wine. Lisbon is a tourist’s playground.

It took about three minutes to say something like: there sure are a lot of statues, huh? And there are. There are spectacular monuments to famous politicians like Marquês de Pombal, who engineered the almost total reconstruction of Lisbon after the earthquake and demolishing fire of 1755. While leading European thinkers debated whether the near total destruction was an act of divine disapproval rather than a natural phenomenon, Pombal famously said, “Bury the dead and feed the living,” and began his plans to start again. There are monuments to Greek gods. There are monuments to exploration rock stars like Henry the Navigator and Vasco de Gama, and there are statues, more statues than can be counted.

 

The Age of Discovery with Henry the Navigator leading the way

In fact, there are so many reminders of Portugal’s heritage—of what was; what used to be—the contrast with what remains is conspicuous. The economy is failing, the infrastructure is aging, and the centuries-old buildings are in many cases either abandoned or in drastic disrepair.

You talkin' about my mother?!

There’s an American expression that goes something like: I can talk about my mother; but don’t you. Perhaps it is disrespectful to note the failure of Portugal’s largest city. Perhaps. Perhaps it is rude to point out the less than savory bits. Perhaps. But you can’t be in Lisbon for more than a hot second to see evidence that they, themselves, talk about their mother. The graffiti is conspicuous. The disrepair  is regretful. There is evidence that Lisbon is unhealthy.

Instead of embracing the magnificence of their architecture; instead of celebrating the beauty of singular tile work and wrought iron; instead of cleaning up and repairing the handsome continuity of the red-roofed terra cotta mosaic; they spray paint it.

It seems like the train stations in every major city in Europe attract the aerosol artists, and Lisbon is no different. What is different, or what seems different is that the “art” is not limited to the railways. Magnificent old buildings are disrespected with the dreadful enamel squiggles of people desperate to be remembered. 

Lisbon is disrespected by the very people who own it. If that is true, why should anyone else?

Where is the Marquês when they need him again?