{"id":38329,"date":"2012-09-11T15:00:55","date_gmt":"2012-09-11T19:00:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=38329"},"modified":"2013-04-22T02:25:28","modified_gmt":"2013-04-22T06:25:28","slug":"letter-from-portugal-sonnets-from-the-portuguese","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/09\/11\/letter-from-portugal-sonnets-from-the-portuguese\/","title":{"rendered":"Letter from Portugal: Sonnets from the Portuguese"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Dollhouse with Portuguese tile, Museu Do Brinquedo Sintra.<\/p><\/div>\n

You will have heard of Sintra. A stunning enclave some forty minutes outside Lisbon, filled with palaces and piles and follies of every era, Lord Byron called it \u201cGlorious Eden,\u201d and started \u201cChilde Harolde\u201d at Lawrence\u2019s Hotel, on the Rua do Consiglieri Pedroso. (There is now an Escadinhas Lord Byron just outside its doors.) Tourists have been flocking there ever since.<\/p>\n

\nWe visited the Pal\u00e1cio da Pena with its majestic views, and the pink-hued Pal\u00e1cio Seteais, and the fourteenth-century Pal\u00e1cio Nacional de Sintra and the Gothic pleasure gardens of the Regaleira Estate, rich with grottoes and gargoyles and secret passages. We ate at the Queijadas de Sintra. It was very much the Lucy Honeywell school of tourism, but wonderful all the same. We were part of a multinational throng. I was vaguely aware of being a failure as someone who experiences life to the full, and probably the worst kind of American imperialist to boot. I studied my vocabulary list diligently.<\/p>\n

\nIn the afternoon, I visited the Toy Museum, lured by the sight of a six-foot Playmobil woman beckoning me in from a wrought-iron balcony. Some visitors seemed disappointed by the somewhat haphazard collection (\u201cWhere are the teddy bears<\/em>?\u201d demanded one disconsolate British tourist. \u201cWhere are the rocking horses<\/em>?\u201d implored her companion.) I loved it: there was a vintage 1920s dollhouse complete with Portuguese tile work and a very sinister series of baby dolls. Also, a miniature milliner.<\/p>\n

\nWith time to kill, I wandered down a series of winding side streets and found myself facing an open doorway, through which could be seen a Christmas tree fashioned from recycled plastic water bottles, an old suitcase covered in masking tape, and an Eames chair. \u201cCome in!\u201d called a voice. <\/p>\n

\nThe dim space smelled strongly of incense. Dust motes swam in a shaft of sunlight. I was confronted by the sight of two men, both middle-aged: one was sporting a shapeless sweater, a Mephistophilian gray goatee and a flat cap; the other had a Merlin beard, long dank locks tinged with green, and socks worn with sandals. Both regarded me without surprise and indicated that I sit down in the Eames chair. I did. We sat in companionable silence.<\/p>\n

\nAfter a pleasant enough interval, the capped one, who by this time I had noticed wore an air of ownership, addressed me in Portuguese. I stammered that I spoke very little. \u201cIs okay,\u201d he said kindly.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI\u2019m Scottish,\u201d said the other one, glumly. We subsided once more into silence.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cAre you a poet?\u201d the main one finally asked, hopefully. \u201cI ask because you wear very \u2026 strange dress.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nI admitted I was not. They seemed disappointed. \u201cWe are,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cPoets,\u201d clarified the glum Scotsman.<\/p>\n

\nThe main guy produced a worn paper bag, thrust it into my hands, and regarded me expectantly. \u201cPoetry!\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\nI dutifully thumbed through the series of notebooks in the bag and pretended to read them for what I hoped was a respectful interval. \u201cBel\u00edssimo,\u201d I murmured, hoping it wasn\u2019t supposed to be Brutalist or something. In English I would have hedged my bets with powerful<\/em>, but I was limited by my linguistic inadequacies. Luckily, this seemed to satisfy them.<\/p>\n

\nThere was more silence. \u201cAre, um, they \u2026 for sale?\u201d I finally asked. I knew I risked insulting them but was beginning to panic. Something on my leg had started to itch. I hoped fervently it was a mosquito bite.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the Scotsman, unsmilingly.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cGreat!\u201d I said. \u201c\u00d3ptimo!\u201d The smell of incense was becoming oppressive.<\/p>\n

\nI found what seemed to be the slimmest of the bound volumes in the paper bag, and held it forward with what I hoped was the air of a shopper well pleased by his find.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOnly that one?\u201d said the main guy, disappointed. The other one looked at me dolefully.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cWell \u2026 I don\u2019t speak Portuguese,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\nSuddenly the man seemed angry. \u201cThis is the best way to learn!\u201d he screamed, leaping to his feet. \u201cThe only way! The language of the poets!\u201d<\/p>\n

\nPerhaps he could see I was considering bolting, because, just as abruptly, he sagged back into his padded chair. \u201cTen euro,\u201d he said wearily.<\/p>\n

\nI had him inscribe it. I left them my e-mail address. He favored me with a courtly bow; the other one remained seated on what I now realized was the lower rung of a ladder. \u201cThank you for your simplicity,\u201d said the poet.<\/p>\n

\nI was wearing a white Swiss-dot dress of my own design.<\/p>\n

“Obrigad\u00edssimo,\u201d I said humbly. I went back to wait for my friend outside the toy museum with the giant Playmobil on the balcony. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

You will have heard of Sintra. A stunning enclave some forty minutes outside Lisbon, filled with palaces and piles and follies of every era, Lord Byron called it \u201cGlorious Eden,\u201d and started \u201cChilde Harolde\u201d at Lawrence\u2019s Hotel, on the Rua do Consiglieri Pedroso. (There is now an Escadinhas Lord Byron just outside its doors.) Tourists […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[165,2964,8615,123],"class_list":["post-38329","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-poetry","tag-portugal","tag-sintra","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLetter from Portugal: Sonnets from the Portuguese by Sadie Stein<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 11, 2012 \u2013 You will have heard of Sintra. 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