The village of São Luís, where Cultivamos Cultura is located in Southwestern Portugal, has the rare quality of allowing its true character to dawn on the psyche slowly. I have been floating through what I can only describe as the societal reticence of this place, intrigued by its obscurity and unable to pinpoint precisely what I was observing because it felt so strange. Last night I finally nailed down its precise impact on my experience.
A simple explanation first: there is much more to São Luís than first meets the eye. I am aware of how cliché this sounds, but if ever there was an exemplar of the expression, it is this unassuming place. My adjustment to the structural presentation of the village has been a five-day process of circling through its maze-like streets (more like alleys, really) on foot, observing the overt decay allowed of its historical buildings, its farmhouses, townhouses and cemeteries. I’ve been staring around in bewilderment at how it can function as a village, as it comes across as a community with very few amenities. There are indicators of nascent gentrification, as decrepit building structures lay exposed with some signs of renovation, but no regular construction activity occurs.
The real reason for my bafflement, though, is that there is basically no advertising in São Luís. Buildings sit wall-to-wall in tight rows, one white and blue painted, brick and cement house after another along the narrow streets. Each is unmarked for the most part, with curtains drawn against the sun and heat. A few public benches have been built into the sides of some of the buildings, there is a tiny park or two, and now and then a crumbling water pump (retrofitted with faucets). Further down the dirt roads that surround the village, one may find an unused public laundry, which is an open canopy with built-in cement washboards and tubs, and metal rails for tying horses by the reins. Yet, gradually one discovers that São Luís has contemporaneous gems hidden behind the whitewashed cement walls and after a little time, its sophisticated restaurants, fish market, modest cafés, galleries, artisanal shops, artist studios, a tattoo studio, aesthetician spas, ATMs, bars and other social spaces divulge themselves to the visitor who has taken the time to allow for the slow reveal. There is even a well-maintained disc golf course, the only one of its kind located in an old-growth cork forest, just on the outskirts of town.1
Had my host’s daughter not shown me which door to open to find a well-hidden bank and ATM, I certainly would never have known. It took me four days to locate a wee mail box in which to post a letter, having noticed it adhered to the side of a building during one of my exploratory walks. I had to assume it was functional but in truth, have no idea—my letter may sit there for decades. This discovery came a couple days after having to ask where I might purchase a stamp; the small federal post office is tucked away at the corner of a winding residential alley and has the tiniest of signs to indicate that it is, in fact, a public building. The cafés are unlike any urban coffee shop, with nary a hipster nor laptop in sight, and operating as family-run hubs frequented by groups of elderly men. Side note: these men are either sitting outside cafés or huddled together under a shelter near the main crossroads, playing cards or backgammon or some other pastime activity, wagering loquat seeds instead of coins. I’ll write more about some of these talented characters in a moment, and include a rare audio clip that captures a bit of their unique cultural heritage (a little treat for my paid subscribers).
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