Skip to main content

Letter from Portugal

 We have made our way from Lisbon to Porto, which was once the home of JK Rowling. 


Apparently, Rowling was teaching here (I think?) when she stumbled on a certain bookstore, and that store inspired her to write the Harry Potter novels. Or something like this. The Porto bookstore has milked Hogwarts for all it is worth; you now have to pay money *just to enter* the store, and there is a massive crowd waiting outside, as if awaiting entry to the British Museum.


Earlier today, we wandered into an exhibit devoted to the works of Aurelia de Souza, a woman who lived from 1866 to 1922. Ms. de Souza painted herself (see the lady attached to this post), painted flowers, painted children gossiping. I was touched by the images of the children, who reminded me of my critters back home. One image had two kids plotting mayhem while a half-interested sitter tried to focus on a little knitting project. Some things never change.

I don't carefully read every tourist nugget, but my new understanding is that a fabulous American opera singer made her way to Portugal in the 1800s, and she talked her way into power. She married the King. But she had an overly intense interest in Romanticism, and she spent the nation's cash on an extra chalet in a vast park. (Romantics like greenery.)

Unlike Marie Antoinette, this opera singer wasn't murdered. But royal members of the subsequent generation *were* murdered. The country became a republic even before the opera singer had abandoned her own corporeal shell. You won't see today's Portuguese citizens wringing their hands over anyone like Camilla, or worrying about some kind of Prince Harry-esque Lisbon celebrity writing a muckraker memoir called "Spare."

One more note on Portugal -- you must try the pastries!







Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more