Second day in Lisbon
[Posting a message written Wednesday evening]
Last night, my delightful hosts — a media/public relations company that yesterday changed its name from Bates to Red Cell, possibly because their new corporate ambition is to become the bad guys in a Tom Clancy novel — took to me out to a delicious dinner at Bica de Sabato (literally, “Bite the Shoe” — now there’s some marketing!), one-quarter owned by John Malkovitz; Catherine Deneuve was among the celebrities not in attendance that particular evening. It’s difficult to find Portuguese vegetarian food, but this place had goat cheese in filo dough and a vegetarian risotto. That and some excellent Portuguese wine, along with an animated, non-stop conversation about marketing and politics — hint: George Bush is not widely hailed here as the savior of the West — made for a lovely evening. A sincere thank you to the evil minions of Red Cell.
This morning, I gave my presentation to about fifty of Red Cell’s clients. This was their first “Cream Talk” (nata fala), supposedly presentations by fresh-thinking marketing folks; they chose me to inaugurate the series, undoubtedly due to a bad translation. I got to yell at the audience for 70 minutes about why most marketing sucks and why Internetworked markets are smarter than the companies they talk about. Plus I got to throw in the lessons business should draw from the Dean campaign. Lots of fun. And good, hard questions afterwards, beginning with: Will John Kerry defeat George Bush? (Maybe I should say seriously that the session seemed to go very well, and I admire Red Cell’s willingness to put before its customers views that don’t entirely coincide with its own.)
On the way out, I said to the helpful and gracious Christina that I usually manage to leave something behind. Five minutes later, I called her from the cab to let her know that I’d left my converter there. Sigh.
From the session, I went to Sintra, an ancient city in the hills that’s one vowel short of being Old Blue Eyes. It was raining healthily, which cut down on the view, but the little streets were still twisty and the palaces were still sumptuous. I ate too much lunch — quiche and a wheel of cheese that weighed as much as my foot, along with an I-got-what-I-paid-for house wine — and weaved from sight to sight.
We drove back along the surging ocean. It’s hard to imagine looking out at that expanse and deciding to sail over the horizon just to see what’s there. The Portuguese have not forgotten that that’s just what their forebears did.
I came back and went to the Old City, the Bairro Alto. (Yes, I thought I knew how to pronounce it also.) For 1.10 euros, I rode up the funicular, a varnished wood and brass carriage that ascends several blocks that make San Francisco look like a girly-man. The guide book describes the Old City as bohemian, but the part I saw sure was upscale. I found a cafe with soccer on the the TV and paper tablecloths on long, shared tables. After I reassured the waiter repeatedly that, no, insanely, I really didn’t want shrimp or pork in my omelette, I got a plate of fries and eggs and a cold beer.
I’m beat. But I’ve had a great two days. I fell immediately and easily into interesting conversations with just about everyone I met. The parts of the country I saw were beautiful and complex. As always for an American in Europe, the presence of the past is overwhelming.
I love travel. I love the differences.
