Postcard from Coimbra, Portugal: Street Art Series Continues

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The camera refuses to remain pocketed in the face of this form of unlicensed artistic (sometimes) expression.

With 20,000 students winding their way to and from classes at the University of Coimbra, walls are mercilessly targeted. Perhaps those black student cloaks too conveniently camouflage cans of spray paint.

Most of the results are scrawled immature sexual innuendos or screaming political manifestos, surely unwelcome to those who live behind the targeted walls. Few we encountered evidenced much underlying talent.

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Others in this series:

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2014/05/08/postcard-from-porto-elevating-street-art/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2014/04/23/postcards-from-san-miguel-de-allende-redirecting-grafitti-artists-part-four/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2014/04/04/postcard-from-san-miguel-de-allende-redirecting-graffiti-artists-part-three/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2014/04/02/postcard-from-san-miguel-de-allende-redirecting-grafitti-artists-part-two/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2014/04/01/postcard-from-san-miguel-de-allende-redirecting-grafitti-artists-part-one/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2013/09/18/postcard-from-oaxaca-art-of-the-streets/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2013/09/18/postcard-from-oaxaca-hecho-street-art-invades-museums-colonial-walls/

https://postcardsfromsanantonio.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/temporary-art-installations-illuminate-downtown-storefronts/

Postcard from Coimbra, Portugal: Sighing Capital of the World?

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There are lots of reasons Coimbra is famous, but I’m just going to get right to the point about what impressed me most.

The size of the “sighs.” Meringues.

“Sighs of the nuns” are what a friend in Mexico told us they are called there, as we would traipse through the streets hand in hand with daughter Kate on many missions to find the egg white and sugar treats wherever we traveled.

In Coimbra, the name is shortened to simply sighs, “suspiros.” In Coimbra, the trek is simplified. They are humongous. You can’t miss them prominently displayed in windows.

We don’t know the story behind these, but, until someone calls me on this, I’m willing to proclaim Coimbra the big-nun-sigh capital of the world. Don’t know why nuns sighed more emphatically here, but perhaps it dates from major relief when Coimbra was liberated from the Moors in the year 1064. Or perhaps it’s caused by centuries of antics of students enrolled at the University of Coimbra, which opened later, not until 1290.

I had no excuse to try one; Kate’s long passed that stage. Well, maybe. Anyway, they were really hard to photograph, being plain white. So, just for the sake of showing her one, I purchased a medium-sized one.

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The Mister consented to let me use his hand for scale, but he didn’t touch it.

Then. All by myself. Sorry, to confess, Kate. I ate the model.

But I just ate one. And it certainly was not the largest specimen on the market.

Postcard from Porto: Parting Shots

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The mood of Porto varies in accordance with the sun and the rain. On days when the sun is absent, the gray granite tinges the city with sadness. I take on the color of Porto each day. When there is sun, Porto awakes as cheerful as a teenager. The light of Porto is a warm yellow that penetrates the bodies of those who stand at the window. I was born and still live close to the sea. I don’t know how else to live. At the moment, I am living in Foz Velha, at the mouth of the river. There is a broad promenade facing the sea and lower, close to the beach, esplanades are open all year round. My life consists of rocks, sand, sea, and gulls. There I am, and the image of myself that I carry with me wherever I go.

Rosa Alice Branco

interviewed by Nathalie Handal on Words Without Borders

The weather in Porto is noted for being moody. Mercurial. Dictated by whatever the Atlantic sends its way.

As someone whose spirits are affected by dreary weather, the maritime gods bestowed their mercy upon me while we were there. In fact, the climate during our two-week stay was so sunny and temperate, I felt I could live there forever. Sometimes in the late afternoon, we would see semi-threatening gray clouds accumulating along the Atlantic shoreline. But the ridge stopped there, never rounding the bend into the mouth of the Douro River.

So we walked and we walked. Wending our way through layers of history built up over centuries. Up and down. Along both sides of the Douro. Crossing a bridge and even taking a ferry across. Here are some parting shots from our stay.

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