As I mentioned in the previous post, last week I traveled to Lisbon for a couple of days.
It is important to stress that Lisbon is my hometown: during a great part of the 1990s, I used to go up and down those hills, sometimes more drunk than others, and I was proud of it. I danced for afternoons on end in Jukebox; every Friday I was a regular at Bairro Alto’s bohemian life; when I felt sad, I went to the banks of the river, right under the red bridge, and I would sit there, contemplating the water and the little ripples the river has. Every day, for years, I took the subway and the buses, and I loved going up the hills in the trams. I am not really a Portuguese; I used to be a Lisboner.
I left Lisbon for the first time in 2001, for the Erasmus exchange program. That was the year of 9/11, and that tragic event set in motion a series of other events that would resonate in Portugal.
I discovered, to my own sadness, that Lisbon was no longer home. It wasn’t the same city anymore: it had become decadent, dangerous, hostile. I could not find my place in it, and the constant stress of it made me sick. So I left again, and this time I was quite sure I was not coming back for a long time.
I didn’t.
It took me two years and a wedding to return for four days. I just felt strange: it’s not that Spain is so much better than Portugal – although there are considerable differences, many for the better. It’s the people’s attitude that makes me want to leave. Lisboners are overworked, sad, underpaid, and at the same time, they bear an arrogant face as if they were citizens of the most prosperous city in the world. As if, the world itself owed them everything.
I love Lisbon, especially the city I hold so dear in my memories. However, if I had to choose a place to live after Murcia, I would not go back home. And, I say this with a torn heart, as would any Portuguese – with saudade inside of me.
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