Gin HUANG

The men singing fado (?) The boys playing football. And I, in semi-food coma.

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Having just had a late yet big, fat, Portuguese lunch at a restaurant in Alfama, I was too full to walk 25 minutes back home in Graça. It was not a 25-minute walk too far — when I lived in Manhattan, I could easily walk an hour from Midtown to Downtown (of course, I was younger back then). It was that Lisbon is mercilessly hilly; a 25-minute walk means going up and down countless times on slopes steep enough to easily slip my feet. After climbing only a few stairs, I decided to sit down on a street bench to digest a bit. But it was not long before I, lured by some mellow music, stood up again.

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I followed the sound and found that a trio singing and playing guitars at a miradouro (viewpoint), upstairs of where I was taking a break. I wanted to convince myself that they were signing fado, so here I could write: “I ran into a fado trio performing at a random part of Lisboa" — what an exotic experience! But I cannot. The score was too upbeat. My impression on fado is sorrowful. And my poor music education hinders me from discerning the genre. In any case, they were at least not singing some pop songs that pulls me into pondering the conundrum of cultural globalization.

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So I sit down, again, but this time on the ground (needing to squeeze my fat belly a bit), as all the nearby benches were placed back to the trio — they were, after all, installed for people overlooking the mighty Tagus at the miradouro. I could have sat on one of the benches. That would have allowed me listening to the trio, too. By doing so, I could also have pretended to be a tourist coming here only for the view, under no obligation to tip them. But, no, I wanted to be facing to them such that they know they have an engaged audience (although at some point I felt myself a bit creepy, being the only person staring at them, I hence took out my book and read a few pages).

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I still wonder why the trio chose that spot. Even though it was a miradouro, there was hardly any tourist, no, hardly anyone, passing by — this hilly city has too many miradouros that offer even more spectacular views.  They could have picked a busy square to attract more attention (and hence more tips); the most touristy part of Alfama is around the corner, literally. If it was not a strikingly red, open guitar case put right in front of them, obviously welcoming some coins, I would have thought the trio, so busy plucking their guitar strings, were simply have an outdoor practice. Maybe they were practicing, and why not making some money out of it in the meantime?

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It was an unusually grey day in Lisbon’s September. Sometimes the Atlantic winds were strong enough to shut the guitar case, making them look truly like not seeking any monetary rewards (even when there were merely, if my memory is still correct, two onlookers sparing some coins during my 40-minute stopover at the miradouro). In the end, I got tired of seeing that one of the trio had to stop and go open the case whenever a gust wind blew. I decided to do the job for them, so the performance could continue without disruption.

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At the miradouro, the air was mixed with not only Portuguese lyrics but also playful shouts of children kicking a football. After I have digested perhaps 10% of my lunch while being the sole audience of the trio most of the time, one of the three kids approached, asking me to follow him. I looked to the trio, shrugging my shoulders to express my suspicion. But the trio’s lead just smiled back, as if he knew what was going to happen — the football players needed a referee who throws the ball into the air to kick start a fair game. Unfortunately they had no one there, except a foreign visitor who grew up in a country that barely cares about football.

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I did not hesitate to undertake the task — who knows when my next time being a football referee will be, especially in a state equating the sport with its national pride? But the kids became too shy to ask for the favor again and again. They could tell I was enjoying the music very much. Therefore, instead of having me walk back and forth between the two trios, they now just ran to me and asked me to “pick a number from 1, 2 and 3.” If I said 3, then the boy who was assigned 3 could have the ball to begin the game. If one wonders how I communicated with these Portuguese children who probably come from a humble background, don’t be surprised that they spoke proper English in their age.

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The wind started howling. The sky darkening. No matter how much my lunch was still in my stomach, finally, I passed the stage of falling into food coma in public. It was time to hike my way home. I put a bill in the guitar case, hoping the value is large enough for them to feel appreciated yet small enough  to feel not being bought. The trio lead thanked me. I said obrigado, Lisboa.

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Written on March 3th, 2025.