Philip Graham
Spends a Year
in Lisbon.
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Philip Graham, a writer who teaches at the University of Illinois, will be spending a year in Lisbon, Portugal. He will be reporting to us from there.
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D I S P A T C H 11
Go, Whatchamacallits!
By Philip Graham
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We're on our second circling around the huge Benfica soccer stadium, and my son sits beside me in the back seat of the cab and sighs. It appears I've found the only cabbie in Lisbon who doesn't know where the ticket office is located. At least, he says he doesn't—I'm beginning to suspect that he's a supporter of a rival team.
Newly arrived from the airport, Nathaniel would like to begin his winter break by shedding the exhaustion of his transatlantic flight, but I'm balancing the interests of another child right now. One of Hannah's best friends from school back home, Colin, has just arrived with his mother, Claire, on another flight today—they're both big soccer fans, so tonight's game could be one small way to thank them for their visit. Unfortunately, after a couple of days being frustrated nearly to tears by the team's ticket-sales website, this pilgrimage to the stadium is my last resort.
Benfica's big bowl of a stadium should be like nothing they've ever seen for any soccer game back in the States. The team is ranked smack dab in the middle of Portugal's Primeira Liga elite: along with Sporting and Porto, it's one of Os Três—The Three. A sizable slice of players from Os Três helped form the roster of the national team for last year's World Cup competition, which earned a fourth place in the final rankings. No doubt about it, the Portuguese play high-level soccer. Even so, it seems a little excessive that, after games involving one or more of Os Três, TV commentators will commentate long into the night, and continue the next day, with replays of penalties, goals and near goals, the injustice of injuries suspiciously inflicted, and the eternal perfidy of referees; meanwhile, the three (three!) daily newspapers devoted to local soccer—A Bola, Record, and O Jogo—can go on and on about a single Os Três game for eight to ten pages.
The cab driver grumbles, as if it's my fault he can't do his job and locate the ticket office. I'm losing patience to the point where I begin to construct in my mind a cutting remark in Portuguese, when Nathaniel asks, "What's so great about tonight's game anyway?"
"Well, Benfica is one of the best teams in the league, and they're playing the, the ... um, the Whatchamacallits."
My son throws me his usual pitying look when I can't remember the name of something and go to the bench for an improvised replacement: whatchamacallit, whoozit, jibbermajabber, whoozamasnooze, thingamabob. Over the years, I've told Nathaniel that I sometimes forget words because of all the drugs I took in college; now in college himself, he's declared this one of the main reasons he won't touch the stuff. (Parents, take note.)
But in this case I have a decent excuse for my memory lapse. The games of the 13 non-Os Três teams in the league get scant postplay mention on the TV news and mere thumbnail write-ups in the papers, if they're lucky. Even after a few months of following Portuguese soccer, I barely know the names of these other teams, much less their players, with the exception of the Belenenses, whose stadium sits a walking distance away from our apartment. I've trooped down to a couple games there and, at least so far this season, they've been ragged affairs, witnessed by a smattering of fans. Months ago, our Portuguese language tutor first tested our conversational skills by asking us to chat about some proverbs, and one of them was Quer a faca caia no melão, ou o melão na faca, o melão vai sofrer—"Whether the knife falls on the melon, or the melon on the knife, the melon is going to suffer." I'd say that Os Três are the Portuguese league's three knives—shiny and sharp with large stadiums, gobs of fans, and tons of money to buy the best players—while the rest of the teams, with so much stacked against them, are often defenseless melons.
I look out the window. Enough is enough: we're about to begin our third circling of the stadium. On a hunch I say, "A esquerda, faz favor"—Turn left, please—and within moments we're parked near the entrance to the ticket office, which stands by itself in a plaza before the looming stadium. I give Nathaniel my own look, a smug smile (I can't help myself) meant to convey equally smug fatherly advice (I really can't help myself): See, there's no need to give up so easily.
I ask Nathaniel to stay put, since I don't quite trust the cabbie to wait. At the ticket window, with my limited Portuguese I pretend my way through whatever swift chatter the woman offers, whatever seat chart she shows me. "Sim, sim,"—Yes, yes—I repeat, nodding and smiling until finally I have my six tickets. Not so fast, though—she shakes her head at my credit card, then at my debit card. Cash only.
Is there an ATM nearby? I ask. Yes, she says, pointing to a stadium side entrance. There's one over there, but it doesn't work. Try Colombo, she suggests, which is the enormous shopping center parked across a skein of busy streets from the stadium.
I hustle off in Colombo's direction, where of course there will be scads of machines willing to cough up money for my cause. On the way, I explain my mission to the skeptical cabbie, assure him that I'll be right back. Nathaniel, slumped in the back seat, clearly wishes I'll give up, but I have a long history of rarely doing so, once I've got a bug in my head.
At the street corner, though, I pause when I see it's going to be a haul navigating across some hefty traffic. This whole damn mess is taking too long, and Nathaniel needs a nap in our apartment before we head off for the game tonight, so I ask a fellow nearby who's running a stall of everything Benfica—scarves, T-shirts, you name it—if he knows of any ATM that's closer. Sure, in the stadium, he replies. When I mention that the ticket lady told me it's broken, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, too disgusted to deign further comment at her utter ignorance.
I run past the cab driver again, who now looks beyond stir-crazy, so I shout behind me another explanation and head for the stadium ATM.
Which it turns out really doesn't work. OK, the gods are trying to tell me something, it's time to listen. Releasing any hopes for a soccer game into the chill December air, I slink back to the cab, annoyed at myself for prolonging this stupid runaround.
The driver seems to be stewing behind the wheel at a lower boiling point, and as I slip into the back seat, Nathaniel says, "Dad, he almost left, so I said, 'Faz favor, senhor, meu pai tem instabilidade.'" (Please, sir, my father is unstable.) Nathaniel grins: "That seemed to work." Proud that my son managed to pull this sentence out of his thimble of Portuguese, I laugh, ignoring the consensus that seems to have been established about my fragile state of mind. Nathaniel must have realized that if he's going to tell his friends back at college about his dad's latest nutty escapade, he'll have to go with the flow and let that escapade happen. We're a team. Inspired by my son's deft maneuver, I lean forward and say, sotto voce (because isn't sotto voce the way you're supposed to speak when bribing someone?): "There's money in this for you, senhor."
Though I've left the promised amount tantalizingly indefinite, he's now all smiles. We cruise the nearby streets until we find an ATM, then drive back to the stadium, and I finally buy the damn tickets.
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Later that evening we're part of the crowd flowing into the stadium, at least until I hear the call I can't resist: "Quentes e booooooas!"—hot, and goooooood!—and turn to see trails of smoke rise from a metal cart where castanhas—chestnuts—are roasted on the spot. Little stands like this have sprouted up all over Lisbon since the first deep cold of the holidays—Christmas is almost unthinkable without them—and they're almost always attended by a grizzled old guy who, like some living Ghost of Portuguese Past, looks like he was raised in a tiny village in the mountains. Roasted chestnuts are such a Portuguese obsessão that a special celebration is devoted to the first chestnut harvest of the season, and I am so with the program I buy a dozen castanhas, wrapped in a cone made from a page of an old telephone book.
Then we slip back into the crowd, pass through the gate, and stop at a concession stand so everyone else can stock up on popcorn, candy, cheese sandwiches, Coke. Eventually we find our seats. The stadium is nearly filled, and I can't believe it, we have some of the best seats—near the field and right by one of the goals. All that trouble was worth it, I think, especially when I look at Hannah and Colin sitting together, chattering away as if no one else existed.
I pick out the first castanha from the paper cone and think of a recent newspaper article reporting that these beauties are packed with vitamins B and C, and potassium, and have more protein than a potato. Ah, the perfect fast food: healthy, and more fun to eat than any burger or fry. I look at the brown shell that was slit open by a razor before roasting; now it's scuffed with gray ash and the slit has widened, revealing a bit of the cream-colored nut inside, tinged here and there from the flames. I pull at the brittle, warm shell until it crackles and breaks into pieces, and then I have in my hand the nut, shaped like two hemispheres of a little brain. It only takes one bite for me to relish the soft yet resistant texture, and I wonder if this castanha is so delicious because I'm eating its slow, patient vegetable dreams.
I pass one to Alma, who loves them too, and another down to Claire, who seems ready to try anything new. The kids shake their heads no, Nathaniel too, and that's OK because I really don't want to share. Each castanha brings me back to the sight, feel, and taste of an early memory, when my parents took 3-year-old me to the snow-lined sidewalks of New York's Fifth Avenue, to ooh and aah at the department stores' elaborate Christmas window displays. What I remember most, though, is walking hand in hand with my parents past a dizzying wealth of Santas ringing bells on nearly every street corner, then our stop at a roasted-chestnut stand, the feel of the chestnut in my hand, so warm in the cold air, my father crouching down to show me how to pry it open, my mother murmuring praise when I succeed, my first nibble of the treat's delicate taste. It's all so vivid I'm not sure if I'm remembering or imagining.
Our Portuguese friends are surprised and pleased by my chestnut nostalgia—or should I say saudade? I remember that evening so longingly because it's one of my few memories of my parents before their marriage began to run on the fuel of bitterness, a fuel that got very, very good mileage. Saudade, however, is a complicated emotion, and I believe its mournful notes can be fiercely hopeful, too. There's no possible return to that time of my childhood, but I've certainly tried to reclaim its distant happiness in my own family. Alma, sitting beside me, still endures my various quirks and failings, and our children don't (yet) recoil at the sight of me, and what are the improbably long odds of that? Life's not so bad. We have seats with a great view. Good friends are visiting. There are nine castanhas left in my paper cone.
The game begins with chanting and drum beating from the stands, and both teams look quite snazzy running back and forth across the pitch. On one side of us, fans of the visiting team wave large flags while warbling the martial cadences of a song I imagine must go something like: "Oh great Whatchamacallits, defeat our enemies with a well-placed kick!" I can't help admiring the hopeless nerve of this tiny band of maybe 50 people singing against the entire opposing stadium. On our other side, the Benfica fans start up with their team's song, "Orgulhoso esta bem"—"Pride Is Good," which would be a more impressive tune if it didn't resemble a souped-up version of "My Darling Clementine."
At this point I realize that what the ticket clerk sold me are potentially some of the worst seats in the stadium. No wonder they were still available at the last minute: we're right smack against a fence I hadn't noticed before, a barrier that separates the thin sliver of seats assigned to the supporters of the Jibbermajabbers from the hordes of Benfica fans. Still, the Portuguese are by and large a peaceful lot, not prone to the sort of violent displays that English or Italian soccer fans are capable of, so most of me isn't worried. The part that's ruled by caution, however, is ready to be surprised.
The hopeful defiance of the Somethingorothers' fans doesn't last long—within 15 minutes a cluster of players on the pitch before us compete for the ball passing back and forth, until one nimble kick by Benfica's Nuno Gomes sails it straight to the net. Goal! This certainly shuts down the singing and flag waving of that small wedge of fans, and I feel for them. All their out-of-tune bluster couldn't put enough wind behind their goalie's back.
Eventually, the Thingamajigs make a couple decent attempts at a goal, but by the second half, as one more and then a third goal is scored by Benfica, any distant dream of victory grows ever more distant. I know where my sympathies lie, having always been a supporter of the plucky underdog, all the various Whatchamacallits of the world: the come-from-behind candidate, the terrific book released by a small publisher, the elaborately constructed sand castle facing the incoming tide. Maybe that's one of the reasons I love Portugal, with much of its contemporary literature untranslated (at least in English), its distinctive wines and cheeses unsung, and its keening music—to my mind—insufficiently savored by the wider world.
Though a good 20 minutes remains on the clock, the game is basically over, and this is probably why, with time and no hope on their hands, the Whoozits fans let their bitterness bubble over. Apparently, some cutting remark nearby has them up and outraged. Insults are exchanged, a few fists are shaken, and it feels as if this spirited mutual contempt is approaching the point where someone, anyone, could turn the Stupid Key, which would unleash all sorts of variations on Stupid, some of them really Stupid. I'm not enamored with the prospect of our being caught in the middle of swinging fists or worse, but how to avoid a sudden stampede? Alma and Claire lean closer to Hannah and Colin, and Nathaniel offers me another of his many practiced looks, this one the raised eyebrow of his "Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into" reproach.
Helmeted and heavily padded police appear and line up along the fence, ready to start whacking heads if anyone tries to jump the border. We're nowhere near a riot, though, because both sides seem relieved that this stolid presence of the police encourages an official Calming Down: after all, the Whoozamasnooze fans have had a good howl at the injustice of the world, while the Benfica supporters have thumped their victorious (and rather ungracious) chests.
When the final whistle blows, we begin to make our way out of the stadium, our little group of family and friends still intact and feeling the thrill of danger averted. That's when I notice that the wedge of seats reserved for visiting-team supporters is fenced in up to the walkway, and includes a cordoned-off concession stand just for them. They even have their own exit ramp, where off they'll go to their chartered bus, probably under security-guard protection. Sure, it's all for their safety, but it also has the stink of quarantine, as if Benfica fans can't handle a little face-to-face contradiction. Why such sensitivity?
As we follow the streaming crowd out the gate, I wonder if maybe such thin skins come from the Portuguese' long-harbored suspicions that they're a forgotten country, their once globe-spanning empire forgotten as well. You could say they're the Thingamabobs of Europe, who for over two centuries have been overshadowed, invaded, or humiliated by an Os Três of France, England, and Germany (I will very tactfully leave Spain out of this discussion). Today the Portuguese strive to hold their own against the cultures and burly economies of these countries, even though the demographics of their smaller nation put them at a disadvantage. Maybe Os Três carving up the melons of the soccer league represents for some a spirited fantasy of the Ghost of Portuguese Future.
There's one last castanha left in my paper cone. No longer warm when I crack it open, it's still tasty enough, but there's something about my reasoning I don't care for. After all, the various Os Três of the world are occasionally outclassed and thrashed by the Thingamabobs, and though Portugal may be small in population and square kilometers, it has large reserves of spirit. Me, I've always been about the long odds, and if I were Portuguese, I'd think it my patriotic duty to root for the Whoozits. I glance back and forth, almost nervous to think such a thought, surrounded as I am by Benfica fans besotted with their team's easy victory. No mind readers here, though, so I help maneuver my family and friends across a street thick with traffic, on our way to the metro station, while a Whatchamacallits flag waves in my mind.
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View Philip Graham's
latest video postcard
from Lisbon
here.
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