Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

We have been in Alfama for six weeks, which is longer than we planned, and we are leaving tomorrow. The bags are out. The apartment looks like it belongs to someone else again, which is always the strange part of leaving a rented place. How quickly it stops being yours. Six weeks is long enough to stop being a tourist in a neighborhood and start being something slightly more difficult to define. The woman at the corner café stopped asking what we wanted after the third day. The cat on the steps of the miradouro learned that Rita would stop to acknowledge it and I would not. The steep alleys, which nearly finished us in the first week, became something we navigated without thinking. Alfama is not an easy place to live in. The streets were not designed for anyone in a hurry, which is either a feature or a problem depending on your relationship with being in a hurry. The cobblestones are polished to a degree that makes them genuinely dangerous when it rains, and it rained several times...

The splendid city of Lisbon presents countless wonders to uncover, but there is one exploration that has risen to the top of my agenda: Finding a specific tree, and below that tree - a place that belonged to my mother's youth! Many years ago she visited Lisbon with some friends. It was during the heat of summer, and she often told about how one of those friends persuaded the group to climb a steep hill to sit in the shadow of a grand tree.  Not once, but several times during their weeklong stay.  As the years went by, my mother kept the many visits as a fond memory, but I never heard the reason why they had to climb that hill.  Now - years after her death - I have the time in Lisbon to finally find this tree. And perhaps discover  why they returned, again and again, to sit and reflect in its shadow? The internet can be a good solver of life's puzzles - and I did find an answer in one of its far corners: When the fabled P...

The unmarked door in the alleyway gave no indication of the feast that lay beyond. We knocked twice, and curious eyes sized us up before the door creaked open. Tonight we were visiting one of Lisbon's 'Chinês clandestinos', the illegal, non-regulated Chinese restaurants, which opened some twenty years ago during a wave of immigration from China. In a city that at the time was notoriously unwelcoming to immigrants, these underground eateries were sanctuaries, and some exist to this day in the narrow back alleys inside the multi-cultural Mouraria neighborhood Often on an upper floor and with no outer signs at all - just  perhaps a red Chinese lantern swinging high up on the wall The staircase was steep, grungy, and strewn with graffiti, but stepping inside on the first floor, we were immersed in delicious scents of Szechuan spices. We were led past the narrow kitchen, dodging woks ablaze with oil and a cook yelling...

I’ll admit I was a bit nervous walking into my first attempt at making Pastel de natas ; those dangerously addictive Portuguese custard tarts.     Michael and I have eaten them about every single day since we came to Lisbon. We've even tried them at Pasteis de Belem , the legendary bakery which claims to have the original secret recipe, but I’ve never tried my unskilled hand at crafting their intricate layers. Until this morning, when I stood ready with about ten other newbie bakers.    Luckily, the chipper instructors at the cooking class reassured us that we’d all be custard experts in no time. Martha and her colleague demonstrated how they carefully stretched the dough, explaining that it should be made so thin that you would be able to read a newspaper through it.  Soon I was elbow-deep in flour, attempting to coax my dough into ultra-thin plates, possible using a few c...

Last night was our first night in Lisbon.  We had just arrived after a journey of about thirty hours, and we were sitting on the balcony of our apartment in Alfama, looking out over the terracotta rooftops that slide down the steep hill toward the Tagus. We were completely finished. Then, from somewhere in the alleyway below, fado started. We had chosen Alfama partly because of fado; the neighborhood is where the music comes from, and we have loved it for years. But knowing this and then actually hearing it drift up from the street on your first night, while you are sitting on a balcony in the dark looking at the river, is a different thing entirely. We went out to find it. A woman was standing in the doorway of a café a few streets away, eyes closed, singing to guests who had gone completely quiet. We stood outside and listened. We could not understand the words. It did not especially matter. Fado is mostly about loss; lo...

Ever since our very first visit to Paris, we have made it a tradition to light a candle at the Church of St. Pierre de Montmartre on our final day in the city - hoping to be allowed to come back. This is of course superstition, and we're not superstitious, but luckily it seems to work, even if you don't believe in it! For the last 40 years, we have  lit perhaps thirty candles - and we have been coming back to Paris every single time without exceptions :-  ) This afternoon a new candle has been lit. À bientôt Paris!

My main focus - just now - is to keep my lips sealed, while I lie, floating on my back, in the middle of the Canal St Martin in Paris. The place I just duck into is absolutely no azure swimming pool, but rather an industrial canal cut through the city center, where swimming for the last hundred years has been strictly forbidden And for good reasons! The river flowing through Paris has been severely polluted, making it possible to contract skin infections, or develop gastroenteritis if you ingest the water. Not speaking of leptospirosis, or rat disease, which is transmitted via rat corpses or urine!   In lieu of all this - why am I this Sunday splashing around in the canal with a happy group of Parisians? One thing is the heat, but the main reason is: Because we actually can! For the last hundred years wild swimming in Paris waters has been strictly forbidden under pain of a fine (or pain of sickness!), but this Sunday and in this small part of the Canal St Martin, it is allowed for...

The sun beat down as I waited with growing irritation among a restless crowd in Paris. We shuffled and jostled for position, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Tour de France peloton in its final moments. I was soaked in sweat, my feet ached, and my head throbbed. But I persevered.  As a Dane, being in Paris on this particular day, I felt almost obliged to witness the moment when Jonas Vingegaard for the second year in a row made his victory lap in the fabled maillot jaune. Fans waved Danish flags with the name “VINGEGAARD” scrawled in shaky letters, barely dry from last-minute DIY banner making. Suddenly, the helicopter hovered overhead, while the TV cameras appeared on motorbikes, triggering an eruption of noise from the crowd.  The endless wait was nearly over. We craned our necks, desperate for the first signs of the riders. "Here they come!" The crowd roared when the peloton arrived in a whir of colors and churning legs.  ...

Yesterday, we were going to the Fondation Le Corbusier. On our way to this museum, which lies in the posh Paris neighborhood of Auteuil, we passed row upon row of centuries-old homes with bisque stone facades and quiet courtyards - until we stumbled upon a small street, which stopped us in our tracks. A short, private cul-de-sac with five giant cubist townhouses - the Rue  Mallet-Stevens. We gazed up at whitewashed facades, sinuous curves, and floor-to-ceiling windows, and we felt like we had stepped into a living architectural exhibit from the interwar period, where - even by today's standards - each house seems as modern as the next.  When  we googled the street, it turned out that it is named after a now almost forgotten architect,  Robert Mallet-Stevens, who back in the 1920ties designed all five houses  for a group of wealthy bohemians, who embraced the clean lines and geometric forms of the newly developed...

The stench is the first thing that I notice as I enter into the dark underworld of the Petite Ceinture, the long-abandoned more than 150-year-old railway line which traces the 32-kilometer perimeter of Paris. Some parts of the Petite Ceinture are now open to the public, but the kilometer-long tunnels are barred and you have to be sneaky if you want to explore them.  I found a way in (see below), where the dank air smelled of urine, rot, and abandonment. It was the smell of a place forgotten.   Moving  further on, the beam of the torch on my mobile creates a bubble of light in the almost impenetrable darkness.  It flashes at the stone walls on either side, and the circle of light picks out tags, scribblings, and crude drawings, as this abandoned place has probably for almost a century been witness to furtive meetings, drug use, rough sleeping, and teenage gatherings. I walk slowly, wary of deep holes in the floor and ob...