Letters from Lisbon, part 1

I am still under the spell of Lisbon: its crisp sunshine, the promise of the ocean, Tejo in its monumental calm. A little further upstream Tejo (Tagus) is just your regular river with little to boast about, but as it approaches the ocean it suddenly expands. Andrej kept referring to it as "the sea" (When are we going to walk by the sea?)



Pasteis de nata or, in this case, pasteis de Belem, bought in the famous bakery right next to the Jeronimous Monastery. When I say famous I mean that people come from all parts of Lisbon just to get these little custard tarts, and they don't mind standing in lines that extend well onto the street. I stirred a little bit of controversy among friends when I said, on Facebook, that I thought they were too greasy. People swear by these things! Bowing under popular pressure, I had to give them another try, and then a third, until I ended up eating them every day. They do grow on you.



The concept of privacy has to be very different when your entire neighborhood knows your favorite colors, where you buy your trousers, and what is the size and color of your underwear. Still, I loved the ubiquitous laundry and have about a hundred pictures to prove it. I would like to see some laundry in Geneva. If there is ever a radical Swiss group gathered around some progressive ideology, I suggest they hang laundry on their windows and balconies to protest whatever they must protest against--I can't imagine a bigger affront to Swiss middle-class sensibilities. It would probably also break 11 different rules, on the communal, cantonal and the federal level.

Mixed loyalties

Last night Boris was playing by himself, imagining he was at a football match and cheering for France against the Brazilians. We figured that's something he picked up from school, so we decided to ask him some questions.

R: Why do you support France?
B: Because they are so good!
J: But what if France played against Bulgaria, who would you support?
B: Bulgaria, of course! They are better.
J: And if Bulgaria played against Serbia?
B: I would be for Serbia.

So far, so good. He learned a few brownie points there, but I had one more question, out of curiosity.

J: But if France played against Serbia, who would you be for?
B: France!
J: France?! Are you sure???
B: Yes, definitely France! They are so good.

Now, that's typical Boris for you: no permanent loyalties, supporting the side he thinks is better and more likely to win. He is like that when we play games, too. He is always with the parent who is winning and, consequently, mercilessly abandoning the losing parent in the midst of the fight. Sometimes it backfires, and the moment he switches sides the luck changes, too. That can be very frustrating, but so far it hasn't taught him a lesson when it comes to loyalty.

But that whole funny exchange made me think about his identity as well, and how he might feel about it when he is a bit older to start grappling with these issues. He is naturally very adaptive, and I have little doubt that he will integrate seamlessly if we stay in France long enough. But will he feel French, or will France simply be "douce France, cher pays de mon enfance"? Will he feel, the way I do sometimes, that he does not belong anywhere; and will that be a liberating feeling or give him discomfort?

Discovering France: Lyon

I must have been very hungry while taking pictures in Lyon, because every other image is of a brioche, a cake, a tart, pralines or some aubergines thrown in for an attempt at a healthy balance. There must be something to the claim that my guidebook makes about Lyon being a gastronomic paradise. Half a day was not enough to test the claim against hard evidence, but what I managed to glimpse in the city's pattiseries was indicative in its mouth-wateriness.

This is a traditional Lyonnaise restaurant called bouchon, much like a bistro, serving simple but hearty food with an emphasis on meat. Bouchon literally means cork and there are various theories about the origin of the name.

My favorite is the one in which owners collect the corks, as the guests drain wine bottles, as a way of keeping tab. I prefer this one to the (more likely) other version which says the owners used to put a bit of straw next to the signs of their establishments, so that the travelers would know their horses could be fed (bouchonné) there. Like I said, I prefer the story with the corks even though circumstantial evidence (aka the straw, as seen on the picture) strongly suggests that theory number 2 is right and theory number 1 is wrong. Never let the facts stand in the way of a good story, as we used to say back at university, studying journalism.



Despite having read about Lyon's old town with its traboule or intricate networks of hidden passages and small streets, I somehow expected a modern city with an ugly urban sprawl and not much to see (I must be prejudiced against French big cities). In reality Lyon is a beautiful place that has grown around two rivers, Rhone and Saone. That reminded me a bit of Belgrade, with the Sava and the Danube, although that confluence that you can see from the Kalemegdan fortress is unbeatable.



Another thing I noticed browsing through my Lyon pictures: there is a lot of bright red in them. Red is one of my favorite colors so I am naturally more attuned to it. It's also that the color palette of the outside world has been in the shades of gray and brown in the last months, so any splash of color feels like desert rain.