1. While trying to find my way from the main bus station in Lisbon to a metro station two blocks away, I took out my phone to make sure I was walking in the right direction. On opening Google Maps, I saw that my app was trying to navigate me to Kılıç Dağı, the Turkish name for Mount Saphon, the Canaanite/Ugaritic Mount Olympus.
2. Anyone who feels comfortable in Spanish should consider devoting a modest amount of time to learning Portuguese. The return on investment is huge.
3. If you’re left-of-center on all political issues (like many people I know), think about it: what’s more likely? That one side is right about every single thing? Or that many or most of your beliefs are mostly determined by mood affiliation and cultural preferences?
Link: The latest episode of Sam Harris’ Waking Up podcast, Living With Violence, a conversation with Gavin de Becker. Sam didn’t interject much, but it’s probably to his credit: de Becker, who I’d never heard of before, is really gripping.
I was originally planning on 2 nights here, but I instantly fell in love and extended to 5, moving from a mother’s house on a ridge on the north bank of the river, to a daughter’s on the south bank.
At first I thought it was a matter of Coimbra resembling Granada: the live music (substitute fado for flamenco, they say, and you’ll instantly grok the difference between Portuguese and Spanish temperaments) on hilly side-streets, the vague intimations of a Moorish past (much, much stronger in Granada, because there were 400+ more years of it), the spectacle of the gleaming monument quarter, an Iberian acropolis, looming over every point in the city.
But it was the early August weather, 90 and dry by day and 60 with a breeze at night, that clued me into the ghost’s actual identity: summers in Jerusalem. A friendly Brazilian goth who took care of my apartment in Porto warned me to choose Braga instead of Coimbra for my next stop, but that could not have been more wrong for me. Galicia and northern Portugal are humid and hewn of dark stone.
In Coimbra, the unsparing summer sun reflects off white stone squares and whitewashed façades—achieving a similar effect to the slightly golden limestone that by statute must cover everything in Jerusalem. Even the cathedrals here are bright, airy, and inspiring of contemplation; normally the aesthetics of medieval Western Christendom don’t do it for me at all.
Even the Coimbra fado, “Fado Dos Olhos Claros”, which hypnotized me as I heard it performed on the steps of San Tiago Church, rang with notes of the Jewish liturgy. Student and alumni troubadours ply their melodies on Coimbra’s streets wearing impossibly hot and heavy black cloaks, much like half of Jewish Jerusalem. And yesterday over mediocre falafel, the sight of a white trailer across the street announcing Aqui fazem-se milagres, no metal (“Here, make yourself miracles—in metal”) inspired me to write a strange poem about language and metallurgy in the Proto-Semitic community of the 4th millennium BCE:
In this trailer by the River Mondego,
miracles in metal
are blueprinted and set
in kludgy type—
in the beginning was
the three-letter root
which unfolded like protein
ripe for diverse expressions
and levels of analysis—
a formless aleph
innocent of glottal dreams
trailing black copper slag
into the Dead Sea.