74 NATGEOTRAVEL.COM
I squint in the sunlight as I drive, winding north from Lisbon
in late afternoon. When I take a turnoff from the highway and
emerge from a tunnel, I see my destination: Porto, shimmering
in the Iberian sun. Awash in faded hues and tiles, Portugal’s
second largest city is a panorama of blue, yellow, brown, and
green. The colors calm me; they soothe my eyes and slow me
down. It’s October and the breeze is cool.
Out of the car and walking a tangle of streets and alleyways,
I follow a melody floating in the air and find a man with his old
street organ. He has a fuzzy chicken pecking at seeds on a table,
almost as if it’s dancing to the music. Behind him, the sun has
cast a silhouette, etched in light, of an organ grinder against a
wall of buildings. It looks like a Hague School painting. I toss
a euro into the man’s basket, snap a photo, and keep walking.
But not far. I can barely move a block without pausing to
admire a stucco wall disappearing into shadows, the shimmer
of a red-tiled rooftop, the brilliant reflection of sun hitting a
white sheet of laundry hanging out to dry. For the past year or
two, it seemed as if every other person I met said they had just
been or were going to Portugal. They’d say Lisbon was lovely,
the Alentejo timeless, Porto magical. When I asked why, their
words seemed to fail. “Go see for yourself,” they’d say.
Now I’m one of them, camera in hand, seeking something
elusive—enlightenment that lasts, a way to hold onto the fleeting
Praça Luís de Camões, a plaza named for Portugal’s great poet, is a
popular gathering spot between the vibrant Lisbon neighborhoods of
Chiado and Bairro Alto. FR
ANCESCO^LASTRUCCI;^ PREVI
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TBAUS^7/GETTYIMAGESIt’s bright.
Achingly
bright.