Cobblestones and Fado. Lisbon streets filled with washing lines and graffiti. Old men wreathed in cigarette smoke. The grey light of winter’s end. I walk the twisted lanes, sent out to fetch something inconsequential, and listen to women gossip. The universal language of hands and faces. And laughter. Clear as mother tongue. I wonder where they live. What bright faces open to their arrival? Who greets them when they open doors and drop shopping for hugs and dinner? What conversations frame a cheerful day? I walk. Watching raindrops cling to unbudded trees. And I think about the sad songs of the gypsy. And how lonely footsteps sound.
A week in Lisbon