Largo Do Correio Mor

Lisbon has been compared to San Francisco for its winding hills of roads lined with multicolored, multistoried homes with birthday-cake trim. But, as the guide at the camera obscura at one of its tallest peaks confirmed for me today, it’s also the home of a sister to the Golden Gate.. Built by the same company, its even orange. Said tour guide confirmed Lisboans, too, are forever painting theirs.

Forget the hop-on bus. The way to really see a city is Uber. I’m glad I made this call. Driver Manual and I talked fast cars, but also about how an influx of foreign investment in vacation homes has driven locals to distraction. Many are leaving, he says, because they no longer can afford to rent, often from foreigners who visit the homes here for a month or two away from a primary home. He drove me to the redeveloped riverfront, where Portuguese folk cannot hope to live in million dollar condos. The influx of tourist and vacation dollars is bom, but the cost of living that comes with it is unsustainable. (I heard a similar story from an Uber driver in New Orleans,)

Riding back to my old-town rental with stoic Jose took me past all the places the tourism office probably didn't want me to see; warehouse areas with blasted out windows a la Oakland along 580, a barrio where three men were playing cards and smoking around and overturned crate, the working part of the Rio Tejo, with block-like stacks of hewn logs waiting for shipping containers, and regular neighborhoods with folks going about their daily business.

This city is old. Many of the streets are slim and cobbled, and the hills put San Francisco to shame. There is definitely the same sort of vibe. Rows and rows of shoulder-to-shoulder, multistory buildings painted in happy hues, shops on the first floor, bars on the doors and windows. The azulejos, or blue tiles aren’t as ubiquitous as I expected, but smatterings are all over the old city, with an occasional all-tile facade. Graffiti is ubiquitous and is sometime blight and sometimes beauty.

The Mediterranean climate is much like home, although a bit warmer. People here are like people anywhere. Some of the are flipping their hair and making duck lips for the camera. Others offer to take a photo of a nice older lady all by herself. I’ve heard the pace is slower, but aside from siesta time (or whatever they call it here) and later dinner hours, I haven’t felt it.

It’s a lovely, colorful old city.Read more