We crossed from Almeira, the red X’s of the Ponte 25 d’abril shuttering. Lisbon sprawled in a soft gray and terracotta. Elegant lights emboldened the presidential palace and other monuments from a glory now clearly past. The waves of the Tejo lapped not softly but from this vantage point looked like a most common element, sparkling but no less gray. The dimming light of the day pulled my eyes along the river to its mouth. It dawned on me then that the hill before was suffused with stucco erections when this was a civilization, and the gold from all the colonies glittered innocently in the present.
Where can we place this great civilzation of conquerors and explorers now? The recent graduates of the most esteemed university in the land sat drinking beer at 10am, the escapades of the night before lingering in their easy and drunken conversation. They have turned their ship around and swallowed it, navigating the dark channels of the mind and body not guided by something so universal as the stars, but by the swirling illusions of tradition in a world culture that no longer emanates from them.
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