Leaning into Lisboa

by Helen Flynn (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Portugal

Mich and I sway to quick twists and turns in the backseat of a seasoned Lisboa taxi. His high cheeks and sun loved skin give us more confidence than the GPS on my smartphone. He’s taking us to an address Mich dug out of her bag, tipped off by a colleague of hers. She recruited me to join her exploratory night out after a serendipitous Airb&b booking in the Green House, just above Parque Eduardo VII, the grand park looking over downtown Lisbon. Somehow after a terrible mispronunciation of the street name, we are on our way to a night of dancing. Forró, an intimate dance from northeast Brazil, accompanied by heavy percussion, accordion, and a fusion of other sounds as it continually evolves. Mich, a dilettante who indulged in Forró classes between her long hours as an insurance agent in London. And me, a pure amateur, taking a break from university and racking my brain for the last time I moved to the beat of a tune. We glide across weathered cobble stone streets, shimmering in the blue moonlight. The reflection illuminates pre-18th century blocks of restaurants, bars, and anonymous residences. We’ve entered the Alfama district, one of the few neighborhoods spared in the 1755 earthquake that shook down most of the city. Thanks to a strong bedrock, the buildings still stand, and their charm grows with age. Ceramic embellishments glisten from the building’s faces, rich yellows and deep blues in geometric patterns ripple past as we wind up Lisbon’s iconic hills. These tiles, called Azulejos, conjure stories as old as the 13th century, when the Moors invaded Spain and Portugal. The echo of past monarchs embellish Lisbon’s architecture with timeless style. The National Museum of the Azulejo tucked away on the far northern coast of Lisbon has a diverse collection with historical descriptions. We’ve slow down in a quiet street see the numbers on a door, a few well-dressed men with cigarettes tell us we are at the right place. A steep staircase leads us to a room with low, sublime lighting and couples spinning through the room. We have a seat on the edge of the room, which could have been a living room early that day, furniture pushed to the edges. We circumspect the situation, and soon we are both invited to the dance floor. Luckily, I have a magnanimous partner, patient with my feet, and directing me to loosen my hips, feel the music. Hours go by, we trade partners, and take turns watching the seamless steps of others. At the end of the night we leave washed in novel rhythms and movement. Warmed by the intimacy maybe only found in a mysterious address under a full moon in Lisboa.