Lisbon the Morning After Santo António

The sardines were a mistake. The second round of sardines was a decision.

On the night of Santo António, Lisbon grills sardines on every corner, hangs paper garlands between balconies and plays the same three pimba songs until the sun gives up and rises. I participated with the energy of a man who would never again need his liver. The thirteenth of June arrived anyway.

The cure began at noon, because nobody is awake earlier, with a galão the size of a bucket at Café Ressaca, a tiled room in Graça where the waiter took one look at me and brought water without being asked. Then I lay on a bench in the Jardim da Estrela and watched ducks for an hour, which I recommend more than any pharmacy.

The rest of the day was gentle errands. A bifana at Casa da Bifana Bêbada, slick with mustard and mercy. A slow walk down to the river at Ribeira das Naus, where you can sit on the old stone slipway with your feet near the water and let the breeze off the Tejo do what paracetamol cannot. Then one cold vinho verde on the terrace at Esplanada do Rio Lento, which I called rehydration.

By sundown the garlands were still up in Alfama and somebody was already lighting a grill. I went home. Growth.

Lived June 13, 2025.