Wandering:
Fado is one of the big things in Portugal. Amália is the biggest thing in Fado. So, last Friday I took two metros to the Santa Apolônia Train Station, then hiked over thousands of cobblestones (as usual) along the River and into the Alfama, so by the time I arrived at the Museu do Fado, my feet were pretty sore. Anyway, the Fado museum: You have to have earphones there to actually hear the Fado. What is an entire museum devoted to singing...without sound? And Fado has its own sound. Fado is a kind of Portuguese folk song, usually a little sad, about the sea or city or seagulls or longing that the Portuguese call “saudades,” sung by a fadista (who can be a man or woman) accompanied by a regular guitar, a Portuguese guitar, and sometimes a bass guitar. Fado also has its own look. The museum has a wall with photographs of old fadistas and another wall with photos of modern fado singers. Each has earphone numbers, so you can hear them sing. My favorites? Well, of the newer ones—a singer named Mariza. Of the older fadistas—Amalia, of course! Some other interesting things in the museum are Portuguese guitars with twelve strings, old records, movies with soundtracks to listen to on your earphones, and a clay model of a street in the Alfama.
Fado is one of the big things in Portugal. Amália is the biggest thing in Fado. So, last Friday I took two metros to the Santa Apolônia Train Station, then hiked over thousands of cobblestones (as usual) along the River and into the Alfama, so by the time I arrived at the Museu do Fado, my feet were pretty sore. Anyway, the Fado museum: You have to have earphones there to actually hear the Fado. What is an entire museum devoted to singing...without sound? And Fado has its own sound. Fado is a kind of Portuguese folk song, usually a little sad, about the sea or city or seagulls or longing that the Portuguese call “saudades,” sung by a fadista (who can be a man or woman) accompanied by a regular guitar, a Portuguese guitar, and sometimes a bass guitar. Fado also has its own look. The museum has a wall with photographs of old fadistas and another wall with photos of modern fado singers. Each has earphone numbers, so you can hear them sing. My favorites? Well, of the newer ones—a singer named Mariza. Of the older fadistas—Amalia, of course! Some other interesting things in the museum are Portuguese guitars with twelve strings, old records, movies with soundtracks to listen to on your earphones, and a clay model of a street in the Alfama.
MarizaMore wandering:
I stopped for lunch at a new Fado bar, but in ancient warehouse rooms dug into the hillside, with brick vaulted ceilings and stone walls, a natural well and stream, and secret tunnels that connected the rooms first to the old church of Santo António and then to the headquarters of the secret police (PIDE) during the fascist dictatorship in Portugal. These were once rooms for grain, and then for prisoners like the ones whose families Amália helped out when Salazar (who was the dictator) was putting artists and people who criticized his ideas into prison.
Later, we trudged across the city to Amalia’s birthplace, but you can only stand in the doorway and look down the winding street, all the way to the river.
A follow up:
This Friday, while I was in Belèm, eating more yummy pasteis de Belèm, I happened across another Amália exhibit at the modern art museum: quite a few photographs, recordings of her music, and fantastic dresses. Once she said that she had a different face every minute, and based on the photographs, I think that’s true.
Wondering:
My birthday is just not coming fast enough! Still haven’t gotten sick of fish fry; that’s good. I miss my guinea pig. Ouch, my feet. I wonder how many days until my birthday—nine when I started to write this, but only three now that I’m typing it up. I am also wondering what to write for “something interesting to end up with.”
Something interesting to end up with:
In the fado museum they have a song that one Fado composer wrote when he was six years old. Alain Oulman. He was later imprisoned by Salazar.
I stopped for lunch at a new Fado bar, but in ancient warehouse rooms dug into the hillside, with brick vaulted ceilings and stone walls, a natural well and stream, and secret tunnels that connected the rooms first to the old church of Santo António and then to the headquarters of the secret police (PIDE) during the fascist dictatorship in Portugal. These were once rooms for grain, and then for prisoners like the ones whose families Amália helped out when Salazar (who was the dictator) was putting artists and people who criticized his ideas into prison.
Later, we trudged across the city to Amalia’s birthplace, but you can only stand in the doorway and look down the winding street, all the way to the river.
A follow up:
This Friday, while I was in Belèm, eating more yummy pasteis de Belèm, I happened across another Amália exhibit at the modern art museum: quite a few photographs, recordings of her music, and fantastic dresses. Once she said that she had a different face every minute, and based on the photographs, I think that’s true.
Wondering:
My birthday is just not coming fast enough! Still haven’t gotten sick of fish fry; that’s good. I miss my guinea pig. Ouch, my feet. I wonder how many days until my birthday—nine when I started to write this, but only three now that I’m typing it up. I am also wondering what to write for “something interesting to end up with.”
Something interesting to end up with:
In the fado museum they have a song that one Fado composer wrote when he was six years old. Alain Oulman. He was later imprisoned by Salazar.
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