A walk across Lisbon

for Pastéis de Nata

I’m writing from the Lisbon airport, sipping food court coffee and hotspotting off my phone. I thought I’d crack open my laptop and capture a few thoughts before I slip back into life at home, before the memories break apart and fly away like the pastry beneath a Portuguese tart.

We walked 7.3 kilometers for our Pastéis de nata (Portuguese tarts). It was sunny, Lisbon was lively, so why not meander across the city for a sweet destination? I’d be walking with two of my most athletic, gazelle-like friends. The pace would be swift. I told myself I could keep up, that I could do it for the tarts.

I’ve had many Pastéis de natas in my day. I worked close to a Portuguese bakery when I lived in London, close enough I could bicycle there on my lunch break, sink my teeth into the little custard pillows cradled in pastry, and be back in time to sip a coffee.

Our destination was Pastéis de Belém, the bakery next to the Jerónimos Monastery on the edge of Lisbon. Legend says that in the 13th century, the Monks in the monastery began baking egg tarts as a way to use up the yolks left over after starching their clothing with egg whites. Pastéis de Belém has used their recipe since the bakery opened in 1837. I daydreamed about egg yolk economy as we walked, and what I do with egg yolks after making egg-white heavy pavlova. I make egg yolk chocolate chip cookies. I make chocolate pudding. Or garlic soup thickened with an egg yolk. Or, of course, ice cream. I have never starched my clothes with egg whites. I have never made a Portuguese tart. 

We passed laundry hanging from windows, strung between door frames and across balconies. We passed building façades covered in tiles - pale pinks, bright blues and graphic greens. Tiles were once a sign of wealth in Lisbon. They kept homes cool and safe from the spread of fire. I touched their smooth surfaces as we trudged along. An external show of domestic flair, a flipped version of what’s usually hidden on the inside. 

The route took us west along boardwalks lining the Tagus river. The sun was blazing. We passed two bodybuilders sauntering, topless, with music belting from their gym bags. Families with babies in strollers too hot to kick their legs. Photographers capturing the sun’s sharp shadows on pink stucco buildings. Graffiti. Abandoned homes. Restaurants. We stopped for water and pressed the cold bottles against our foreheads. 

Lisbon sidewalks are a mosaic of white and black limestone squares, swirling with patterns. Tree roots push the patterns up and down like rolling waves. We passed a cluster of workers carefully putting the cubes of stone back after repairing water lines beneath the road. An art form dismantled and rebuilt, easier to break apart and put back together than asphalt.

We thinned out, my fast friends clearing a path ahead. We shouted questions to each other, walked a little, then answered back. My sneakers, meant for a tennis court, slapped against the smooth stones. I carried a bag with leather gloves inside, fitted to my hand earlier that morning. Another Portuguese delicacy. The small bag grew heavier as I walked. Sweat dripped down my back. I wanted to jump in the ocean. 

Just as the tiled bakery appeared off in the distance, we strode past two American women, also melting in the heat. We must have mentioned something about our home as we walked by because one perked up and told us about the cottage she had just sold in Nova Scotia, how the sale was bittersweet, but it was time. That her husband had gone to Acadia University in the ‘60’s, that he brewed beer in the attic of his dorm until his sill leaked through to the floor below. How she and her friend had taken a tour around Lisbon in a motorcycle and sidecar. How she wished that sidecar would cruise up and rescue them, right now. 

And then, we were there.

A thick line of tourists stood outside the tea room door of the bakery, inching slowly for the promise of a drink and a Portuguese tart. I leaned my head against the cool patchwork tiles of the building. Did we even want warm eggy custard? Yes, I told my sweaty self. Yes. So we found the takeaway window, bought a box full of pastéis de nata and water to wash them down, claimed a shady spot beside an art installation in the grass across the street, and ate those little delicacies until ants came to join our picnic. I could eat pastéis de nata, as it turns out, any time of day.

Pastéis de nata will fortify you long enough to walk to the Belém Tower, soak up the beauty of Portuguese Renaissance architecture, dip your toes in the Tagus river, then catch an Uber home. 

The tiniest glove shop in the world * tiles of Lisbon * Victoria, the incredible walker, and graffiti * laundry of Lisbon * mosaic sidewalks and not the best sneakers* exhausted arrival but cool tiles * Pastéis de Belém * the only photo I took of a pastéis de nata... * Belém Tower

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PS - I am home now, catching up on life, laundry and taking stock of what’s in the fridge. It’s Thanksgiving this weekend in Canada. We’ll spend it, between football games, at my parents house in Sherbrooke. I’ve been tasked with dessert, so I asked my 14 year-old if he would prefer pumpkin pie, apple pie, or an apple crisp perhaps? He shot me with his index finger and thumb, winked and said, “how about a Reese's Pieces cheesecake?” Is tiktok influencing anyone else this weekend?

I’ll compromise with this classic.