For the past several months I have been living with my partner, Aara, in the old Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon, Portugal. A maze of tiny alleyways that turn into stairways as the streets climb up the steep hills from the Tejo river, the Alfama was once a Moorish quarter. The people who live in the dark little dwellings that crowd these streets love the Alfama.
Most of them were born in the apartments they live in now. Some of them have probably never even been outside the city limits. Because the cobblestone streets are so narrow and can become escadinhas steps at any turn, it is impossible for a vehicle with wheels to get through.
Everything is done on foot, and everything is carried in and out, up and down the hill, by hand. At first I thought that this would be inconvenient, even impossible. But then, the Portuguese never seem to be in a hurry, except when they are behind the wheel of a car.
On foot, they move at a steady, slow paceβperhaps because they have learned from long experience that this is the only way to get up the steep hills. Also, they are for the most part friendly and patient. One of the most common sights in this city is an aged person limping up a steep incline or slowly mounting a long beco , a thin alleyway that leads up from the river between the buildings.
The hills and stairs are challenging enough for young peopleβone often sees tourists huffing and puffingβand yet the old people of Lisbon simply take it as part of their lot, making their way up and down every day, carrying bags of groceries.
