We traveled by metro and modern tram to Belem, a coastal section of the City which was the departure and arrival point for sixteenth and seventeenth century voyages of exploration and the site of the Jeronimos Monastery, the prime architectural attraction in Lisbon.  But the line to get in and the press of crowds arriving by tour bus turned us away.

We walked along the shoreline past the 170 foot tall monument to the Age of Discovery commissioned by the dictator Salazar.

It glorifies the nation’s seafaring history during the 15^th century and 16th centuries, which provided access to vast wealth, much in the slave trade, and the foundation of worldwide empire.

Returning to our home district of Mouraria, we ate lunch at Shi Mama Alive Dumplings, a modest and very tasty Chinese restaurant across the street from 1908.

The late afternoon weather appeared promising for  the postponed boat ride on the Tagus. We passed through the the restored Art Deco ferry terminal which used to provide the only accessa to the south of the country

before Salazar constructed a bridge resembling San Francisco’s Golden Gate.

The old boat with a crew of three carried about 40 people. It never hoisted sail and ran  powered by its engine, but any disappointment was allayed by recorded Fado music and bottomless cups of white wine.

Overlooked by the St. George Fortress, the Plaza de Comercios we had walked through on our first exploration of the City shone as it must have for the returning explorers.

I’d been awakened by a phone call from California at midnight from a co-worker who didnt realize I was in Portugal.  We were able to resolve some issues about the progress of a Grant Land Improvement Project we were working on, but I had trouble getting back to sleep. Still a little disoriented in the morning, I was glad to accept Jan’s suggestion that we visit the Archaeological museum in the Baixa district. The square in front was filled with excited folk this beautiful spring morning, and after paying the reduced senior price we entered a remarkable space—the roofless ruin of an old cathedral wrecked in the never-forgotten 1755 earthquake and now devoted to modern art and old artifacts gathered by the colonists and archived by the Portuguese archaeological society.

Afterwards we walked the long way back to the hotel, passing through crowded Rossio and Martim Muniz plazas

and arriving for lunch at the peaceful outdoor cafe outside 1908 Lisboa and afternoon naps.

Jan proposed a new excursion–to the Water Museum located within walking distance of the 28E tram route.

We each have interests in water works–hers for decades on the Council in making the City drought-proof by developing multiple sources–mine the pending pilot project at City Farm for  aquifer recharge on farm land.

The Water Museum is housed in the former Lisbon pumping station where a system of aqueducts, some originally built by the Romans, converged on a facility housing coal fired steam pumps for distribution through the City’s hilly precincts.

It was near closing time and no one but the  attendant was there.

We entered its modern exhibit hall fashioned in blue and white wavy translucent shapes and mirrored ceilings to create the sensation of being at the bottom of a cool clean pool.

That led to the dramatically contrasting spaces of the original 19th century iron and brick pumping station illuminated by reflected light from the estuary below streaming through high windows.

the ornamented machinery an admirable nineteenth century blend of technology and art.

We searched Google maps for a restaurant in this modest residential neighborhood and located one called “Between Two Ports,” a long way uphill.

At a quiet street corner with the Tagus in the distance we saw the place

The compact space inside included a gallery of art photos of Chilean desert landscapes. A young couple from Copenhagen sat at the close by table and we chatted about our experiences there last summer.

Enrique, the proprietor/cook/server/designer, brought us Portuguese fish-fingers and his Chilean dish of corn and beef stew

To sample a bit more of Portugal we’d planned a three night stay in Coimbra, an ancient University town two hours north by train. We reserved a room at the Guest House of the Old Monastery Santa Clara expecting a place with historical and architectural significance. It had neither but a good location just across the Montego river from the old town at the base of the mountain situating the new Santa Clara Monastery, built in the 1600’s to avoid the river’s regular flooding.

Built on the site of the Roman settlement of Aeminium  Coimbra was the capital of Portugal from 1131 to 1255. The home of the first Portuguese University which moved there from Lisbon in 1308 it still remains a center of learning and research with the hallowed and youthful atmosphere of Oxford, Cambridge or Yale.

The temperature dropped and the wind blew as we walked across the bridge

The central promenade was buzzing with buskers, tourists, and black-robed undergraduates asking for donations to their year end graduation parties, a traditional activity since the Middle Ages.

Our destination was the Café Santa Cruz, located in the Central Square as a side chapel of the Cathedral of Santa Cruz, there to attend a Fado performance, offered free of charge daily at 6:00 and 10:00 p.m.

It’s an amazing place with gothic architecture, antique furniture and traditional  coffee house atmosphere that’s served as a cultural center since the 1920’s.

Along with the rest of the audience we were thrilled with the performances by the older singer and two young instrumentalists while drinking local white wine.

We took an alternate route back to the bridge, passing by an ancient Romanesque church,

extended enclosed plazas,

and a building in the same style as our 1908 Lisboa Hotel.

At the Restaurante Dona Taska across the street from the guest house, we ate traditional chanfana, goat meat stewed in wine, for the first and last time.

[Click here for later entries]

The cold I was incubating erupted during our first night in the Guest House and I spent most of it sitting on the floor in the bathroom where I ran the hot shower for steam to moisten the cough racking my chest.

The morning light, coffee and breakfast restored enough energy to walk back across the river and visit the Santa Cruz Cathedral adjoined by the Café. This was where the first two kings of Portugal were buried in Baroque splendor.

I sat and stared at a crucifix from whose agonized torso a golden sunburst emerged, hoping that some analogous joy could emerge from my lungs.

It seemed to work, because I dozed off and woke up feeling fine as we wandered up through an arch leading toward the university,

passed through two more arches

and emerged into a plaza packed with ebullient young people who had just completed a run, high on endorphins.

Their energy seemed to pass into me and provided Jan with some of the fortitude to keep going uphill through the narrow streets.

At a terrace overlooking the river we boarded the small green city bus that switchbacked through the Botanical Gardens to the University buildings at the top.

Rather than taking the three hour tour, which included a visit to the famous library, we stayed on the bus back down to our hotel and  took a nap.

I was awakened by the sound of choral singing in the street just outside the window. I opened the shutters and saw people dressed in white parading up the hill behind us. We went outside and got swept up in the crowd following the singers, clueless but eager to find out what was happening.

The climb was rigorous, but like the energy of the runners earlier, helped elevate us up the hill.  A pair of undergraduate monitors with bullhorns told us that this was a procession marking the opening of the Coimbra Biennale, a huge artistic event lasting for several months that would take place in the buildings at the top.

As the  crowd assembled there, the singers concluded their rendition, not of a church anthem but of the famous chorus of slaves from a Verdi opera.

That led to a long sequence of speeches by elected officials, corporate sponsors and the event organizers. I walked up to a sympathetic looking man to ask more about what was happening and he gave me an English version of the thick program.

Screenshot

The theme was “To hold, to receive, to Give,” close to the theme of mutuality and the gift economy expressed in The Serviceberry, the book by Robin Wall Kimmerer, we would be discussing next week at our second meeting of the Agrarian Spirit Book Club.

Jan and I sat on a high wall, happy to get off our feet and enjoy the view across the river in the late afternoon light.

Once the doors of the immense edifice opened, people crowded inside to view the installations.  Most made use of its huge dark ruined spaces to create effects of fear and dread.

We walked through a number of them, intrigued by the venue and its potential for powerful presentations, but engaged by none of them, yet still thrilled by the occasion and the place.

Despite the previous daytime recovery, the night again required a stayover in the shower.

Along with coffee’s medicinal relief, the morning newspaper provided distraction

Google Translate supplied details.

[We learned later that this event attracted international attention.]

We took it easy for most of the day. Jan discovered that an Easter Choral Concert was scheduled for that evening back at the New Monastery.  It required free email reservations, which she made.

This time we took a three-minute Bolt ride to the hilltop and arrived early enough to learn about the gigantic architectural complex which includes the church hosting the performance.

It enshrines the incorrupt body of Saint Queen Isabel (1271–1336), revered throughout Portugal for her modesty and charity.

“When caught secretly carrying bread to the poor in winter [forbidden by her husband, the king], she claimed her apron held roses; upon opening it, the bread had transformed into roses, proving her devotion”

Having extra time before the concert, we returned to the Bienale Exhibition and were greeted by a volunteer guide, herself an actress, producer and artist

I wanted to see the piece produced by Christian Anderson, the man from Stockholm who gave me the brochure at the ceremony the day before.

Maria took us to a small outbuilding devoted to his work, which I found more appealing than the others we’d seen.

The enormous Church occupies only a small portion of the long defunct monastery. Beyond the scaffolding for ongoing renovation,  the five spriraling arches over Isabel’s tomb were coated with gold. (What would she think of that?)

The audience was sparse, made up largely of friends and relatives of the performers, most of whom, including the conductor, were young. The program consisted of three gorgeous pieces,  two by a Baroque Czech composer, J.D. Zelinka, I never heard of

and one by Joseph Haydn.

March 14, 2026

Yesterday included figuring out how to get text of Fado songs in Apple music and then how to translate the sung lyrics into English.  A long awkward googling session which ended up just starting Google translate, clicking mike icon, and seeing them appear as sung.

Installed small signs for Engtanglement and River of Wood.  Met Lucas at Creek at noon and we planned college corps session to cut big euc logs for swing risers and plan cutting of prominent dead willow tree.  He showed up with large Stihl gas chainsaw Allie gave him for his birthday.

Accomplished both, rendering Zunga complete

While I saw Dr. Devine to set up cortisone shot for knees, Claire organized birthday party at octagon table

In attendance were Claire, Allie, Lucas, Ian, Jan and me.  A great time.

I had Apple Music’s selection of Leonard Cohen songs on my earbuds during last night’s Physical Therapy exercises. Afterwards I was prompted to check out the Dharma talk on Cohen I’d given twelve years ago.  Rather than searching the blog index, I entered the title into Google.  On a whim, I clicked “AI Mode” and found:

Steven Marx is an English professor and scholar who has extensively written about and explored the Buddhist themes in the life and work of Leonard Cohen.

Marx highlights how Cohen’s spiritual journey mirrors those of other North American “renegade” writers like Henry David Thoreau and Jack Kerouac, who combined a longing for transcendence with “earthy iconoclasm”. Key insights from Marx’s analysis and Cohen’s Buddhist background include:

• Monastic Practice: Marx notes that like Thoreau at Walden or Kerouac at Desolation Peak, Cohen spent five years (1994–1999) in monastic isolation at the Mt. Baldy Zen Center.
• Ordination: Cohen was an ordained Rinzai Zen Buddhist monk, taking the Dharma name Jikan, which means “Silent One” or “The Ordinary Silence”.
• Relationship with Kyozan Joshu Sasaki Roshi: Cohen served as the personal cook and assistant to his Zen master, Sasaki Roshi, whom he viewed more as a deep, enigmatic friend than a strictly idealized master.
• Theological Synthesis: Marx emphasizes that Cohen did not abandon his Jewish roots for Buddhism; instead, he remained a “Jewish Buddhist monk,” using Zen practice to refine his creative inspiration and offer refuge from secular distractions.
• Literary Connections: In his “Dharma Talks,” Marx compares Cohen’s “cold and broken hallelujah” to traditional Buddhist reflections on suffering (Dukkha) and the “broken” nature of existence.

At the bottom of this summary, I was asked: “Would you like to explore Steven Marx’s specific essays on Leonard Cohen, or are you interested in Cohen’s other religious influences?” I typed in “specific essays,” producing this: (more…)

I received a text message on January 8 from Mary, the Director of People’s Kitchen, asking if I could help serve the noon meal at the Homeless Shelter. I’d volunteered to go on December25, looking for something worthwhile to do the day after our Christmas Eve family gift exchange, but it was booked, and I’d ended up venturing to invite a co-worker who said she was alone and a random bunch of friends and neighbors over for a last minute get together which turned out unexpectedly festive.

Early for the appointment at the shelter, I decided to stop for a few minutes at the SLO Cemetery nearby.  Passing gravestones inscribed with allegories of the soul’s ascent, I approached our unmarked green burial plots where  a great blue heron stood motionless on the wrinkled lawn stalking gophers. I watched at a distance, clicking  with my camera phone, and then walked slowly closer to see it arise.

Basic Information

Project Title: Agro-Ecological Land Improvement Project on a 1.5 Acre City owned property newly added to the long-term lease held by the licensed non-profit City Farm SLO.

Location (County and Nearest City): San Luis Obispo County, City of San Luis Obispo

Distance to nearest city or census designated place: City of San Luis Obispo, Incorporated Place 68154, Census Tract 113
Located within a priority population:  ? Y ?x N [Census tract number]

Project Funding

CFCP Request Amount: $75,000

$ Match Amount: $7500 from City of San Luis Obispo

Status of Match: Confirmed by attached letter

(more…)

First Redbud

Aunt Gabi at 100

The last poem in Margaret Atwood’s new collection The Paper Boat