Basic HTML Version
ON THE CLEAR, BRIGHT
morning of November 1, 1755—
All Saints’ Day—Lisbon was hit by
a massive earthquake. At the time,
the Portuguese capital was among
the world’s most vibrant cities,
packed with extravagant architec-
ture, its coffers swollen with the
wealth generated by its colonial
adventures. The quake, along with
subsequent tsunamis and fires,
leveled about 85 percent of the city.
But something wonderful grew
out of this. A citywide rebuild-
ing effort produced what would
become some of the finest exam-
ples of 18th-century architecture
in Europe, and the tragedy imbued
Lisboans with a fierce determina-
tion to hold on to what remained.
To a degree rarely seen elsewhere,
the city avoided the ravages of
urban renewal. From the ancient
alleys that survived the quake to
the grand avenues that emerged
from the rubble, Lisbon sometimes
feels as though it has been pre-
served in amber.
There’s a word here,
saudade
,
that has no English translation but
describes the heightened passion
aroused by absence. You get the
sense that the emotion extends
beyond the personal: Lisbon seems
to be a city gripped by collective
longing. This is not to say that
Lisboans are ensnared in the past,
or are unable to enjoy themselves.
There’s remarkable energy, terrific
food, music and—yes—wine.
Still, you can’t help feeling that
even this bonhomie has its roots
in melancholy. As the local poet
Fernando Pessoa put it: “Since we
do nothing in this confused world /
That lasts ... / Let us prefer the
pleasure of the moment.”
HEDGE FUN
Eduardo
VII Park; below, the
golden Igreja de São
Roque; opposite, the
towering Elevador de
Santa Justa