‘You will have the city almost to yourself’
Lisbon wanted fewer tourists – and now there are hardly any. So, is a city break here better as a result? Michelle Jana Chan finds out
At the top of the hill in the historical neighbourhood of Alfama, I stop for a pingado, a short coffee with a dash of milk. There are sweeping views across the pretty red-tiled roofs, which slope down to the Tagus, the river that flows into the Atlantic. Sitting here in the sunshine, it’s not surprising that Lisbon had become one of the most desirable city breaks in Europe with its long summers, evocative architecture and strikingly good restaurant scene. But then came the pandemic.
Even when travel becomes legal, and then less discouraged, and later still, logistically more straightforward, city breaks may be one of the last holidays to recover. Travelling for a short stint might be felt not worth the hassle or the financial hit that comes with Covid testing, form-filling and inevitable government U-turns on a destination’s traffic-light colour.
Additionally, many urban-dwellers are seeking to escape the restrictions that come with city life, preferring to choose trips that take them into nature, to be able to explore mask-free, to be away from crowds.
Not that I found any crowds on this visit to Lisbon. At Quiosque das Portas do Sol bar there were only a few customers. The handful of couples were all chatting in Portuguese, perhaps making the most of seeing their capital city without tourists. I approached the first table but they were too shy to speak, or maybe too wary of a stranger getting close, a sign of our times.
The next couple were open to conversation, and we exchanged in Spanish, our only common language. They told me they were from Lisbon; that they lived 20 minutes away; that they usually avoided Alfama because of the tourists; they also conceded that the economy needed visitors to come back.
The last time I was at this same bar, 18 months ago, I had to wait for a table, swooping in when the first became available. Back then, I was writing a story about overtourism – ironically – reporting on how Lisbon was managing the challenges of a sharp rise in visitors to the city. In the five years up to 2018, tourism in Portugal grew by more than 80 percent to 30million arrivals. That sudden spike jolted residents, causing them to question how tourism was being balanced against local life, “real life” as Sandra Henriques, the founder of Tripper, a blog about sustainable cultural tourism, puts it. When we spoke back then, she bemoaned how the city had become overcrowded and overpriced. But she acknowledged feelings were mixed. “When there’s a day without a cruise ship in port, everyone is pleased,” she said. “Then, on day two, they become worried. On day three, they ask, ‘Where are they?’”
That seems like another era. Fast forward though and Henriques is still committed to focusing on cultural tourism. “Lots of people working in travel want to give back even more to the community – with tours explaining local history, smaller groups, experiences of authentic Lisbon life,” she told me. Portugal has been hit hard by the pandemic, a country where 20 per cent of the economy is bound up with tourism. Taxi drivers I spoke to – from Porto to the Douro to the capital – all said that it had been the worst year of their lives in terms of income. At the central square, Praca do Comercio, there were a half-dozen parked cabs, hoping for business. “We need locals to use us now,” one driver said to me. “But that’s not enough.”
Rodrigo Machaz, owner of Memmo hotels with two properties in Lisbon – one open, one still shut – is hopeful visitors are getting set to return and believes the pandemic could herald a new way of moving around. “Nomad travellers; longer stays; hybrid hotels,” he says, describing how hospitality could look in the future.
“There might not be short visits anymore, but we have seen people from the USA, from France, who moved here during the pandemic to live and work, staying for months. Maybe that’s the new way we will travel.”
I continued along the glinting cobbled streets. In times past, I remember the jostle on the narrow pavements, which often forced me into the road. Not anymore. There were few pedestrians, many of the souvenir shops were shuttered. Up at the 12th-century Sao
Jorge Castle, it was deserted save for a pair of German language students visiting from Salamanca and an Italian couple who asked me for directions.
The churches were empty, even the cathedral. The signs in English stating “No photos during Mass” seemed wholly unnecessary now.
I visited the Aljube Resistance and Freedom Museum, which used to be a prison during the dictatorship that ruled Portugal from 1926 to 1974. Across the four floors documenting this dark period in history, I came across not one other visitor. Yet the museum is exceptionally curated, filled with powerful first-person testimonials. I walked back outside into the sunshine, blinking, saddened that nobody else was experiencing the moving exhibitions.
My thoughts were interrupted by the tring-a-ling of a wood-panelled vintage tram and I sprinted to a stop to board. The number 28 is a key public transport route for Lisboetas but because it passes through Alfama and other neighbourhoods popular with tourists, it became too busy and many local people felt forced to abandon it. Even travellers found it too congested; I had avoided it for years. Those in the know would cannily head to the first stop, Martim Moniz, early in the morning, to try to score a seat. But on this trip, I boarded in the heart of Alfama and sat down among only five other passengers. Turning into Rue Angelina Vidal, I found myself alone for the rest of my journey.
The fact that Lisbon is experiencing low tourism should be no great surprise given travel restrictions for the purpose of leisure. But what was surprising to me was the how different the city felt without tourists. Sure, there are benefits to fewer sightseers – the lack of queues, the available seating, the serenity – but much is forfeited, too. Lisbon to me felt like it had lost some of its vitality, some of its vigour. It sometimes takes a tourist to remind a local resident how magical their city is.
In my last hours here, I stopped at the Miradouro da Graca, one of the city’s viewing terraces. There was a homeless man sleeping on a bench. Close by, there was someone working on his MacBook, squinting at his screen. A group of schoolchildren were having a lesson outdoors. Two builders in hi-vis vests were lying on the paving stones, having a siesta, their hard hats still on. Nobody was looking at the view.
There is something delightful about feeling you have the city almost to yourself, of course, but that is tempered by a flatness, an emptiness. As I walked along the winding lanes lined with blossoming trees, colourful laundry hanging off wrought iron balconies above me, I heard the haunting vocals of fado drifting out of a doorway and wondered if the lament was marking days past or days yet to come.