crystal ball

The other day, the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation (proudly?) published a report entitled The World in 2050 that predicted the global economic development of the next forty years. From the sensational but stupefyingly brainless title of the report, one would expect the author to be a provincial moneylender with ill-founded global ambitions. In fact, HSBC is already a global powerhouse, but its status has obviously not imbued it with sense or reason. It's not that the report is preposterous or hubristic. It's plain and simple a big load of crap.

How do you predict the next forty years? Answer: You don't. It's impossible. HSBC concedes that its economic projections are based on a "rather rosy scenario", but they're nothing of the sort. They're cerebral manure, based on nothing but hot air, and calling them economic predictions gives them credibility where none is due. What you and me very sensibly avoid reading is simply verbal pollution.

A thought experiment should make this clear. Imagine the world forty years ago, in 1970. Oil was cheap, Russia balanced the United States, former colonies were proudly becoming independent states, visions of prosperity hopefully repeated across the African continent. China was a communist backwaters in the midst of its Cultural Revolution. India didn't register with anyone. How's the world going to develop?

It is not the expected and likely events that define our future but the unpredictable disasters that strike out of nowhere, exploding in our faces with no one seeing them coming. The oil crisis put the Gulf countries on the map, the fall of the Berlin Wall rebalanced the world, a bunch of rabid Saudis started the war on terror, and the financial crisis showed how criminally incompetent banks, central, public and private, are. Not one of these events could have possibly been predicted in 1970. The HSBC prediction is also free of anything unexpected and thus free of any value.

Here's my recommendation to those publishing such rubbish and anyone at risk of taking it seriously: Grab a copy of the report, printed on non-glossy paper if possible, and The Black Swan the next time the urge for the loo overcomes you. Retire to the porcelain and read the book. When you're done with your business, mop up the damage with the report and flush it into oblivion, satisfied in the knowledge that it was not entirely without use after all.

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Sadly, it is quite possible that HSBC did in fact not publish the report that forms the basis of this post. The blogosphere and newspaper sites feature references and rebroadcasts, but Googling doesn't reveal a primary source. PricewaterhouseCoopers might even have been the originator. Maybe the whole thing is a hoax. That would be unfortunate because everyone can see a bank cook up such nonsense.

Christmas revisited

In my life of thirty-odd years, I've spent Christmas away from home only twice. The first time was in 1998. In August that year I had started grad school in the US. I was on a scholarship that, for the sake of deepest cultural immersion, strongly discouraged traveling home before the two semesters were over. For the break, I rented a golden convertible and cruised up and down the southern Californian coast with a couple from the French overseas department of La Réunion. It didn't feel like Christmas for one moment. Though my parents sent me a couple of parcels with seasonal delicacies and I sent a parcel back from Utah, the sacred connection was broken.

The second Christmas away came during my last year in the US, at a time that was filled with interviews, conferences and trips, and too much time away already. I had gone to Europe the summer before and I planned on going again the following summer and then leaving the US for good. I couldn't justify spending the money – and I wanted the deep cultural immersion that I had studiously avoided thus far. I was not alone, but Christmas somehow managed to feel lonely anyway.

I've always maintained that for me, Christmas is above all family. By chance I realized on my way from London to Dresden that this is only part of it, one aspect of a more sweeping definition of the holiday. I had to change planes in Frankfurt. Nothing good can be said about this airport – it's truly as bad as they get, unfriendly, inefficient and slow – except the shelves with free papers that Lufthansa keeps generously stocked for their customers. In a reflex from times long gone, when I was still a regular train rider, I grabbed a Zeit, a broadsheet weekly that unfolds large like a living-room carpet. It's utterly unsuitable for economy class; it almost needs its own airspace. But it comes with a handy magazine of just the right size and format for the forty-five minute hop to Dresden, and the title story was quite fitting.

In a fine example of pointless philosophizing, the magazine presented forty questions dealing with the meaning and significance of Christmas but also etiquette. Most answers were provided by the magazine's editors and writers, but some came from external experts of various qualifications. The approach was light-hearted and somewhat self-deprecating, with humorous (but beautiful) illustrations illustrating some of the dilemmas. I got the feeling that the magazine thought if you need to ask these questions, you're beyond help, but it won't hurt answering them anyway.

And maybe something can even be gained. Though its current manifestation owes much to pagan and lateral cultural influences, Christmas is a Christian holiday at heart. This is often ignored, in Germany not any less than anywhere else. But Germany is a country based on Judeo-Christian values, that mentions God in the preamble of its constitution and is (currently) run by a Christian party (in coalition). It is fair to ask if there's anything Christian left in Christmas.

After going through the forty questions and answers and interpreting them in line with my own ideas, I've come to the conclusion that there isn't. Christmas is the strongest and longest-lasting tradition that glues us together as people. It is a pillar in the calendar, more significant as a point of orientation than the seasons because the seasons vary from year to year but Christmas is always Christmas. And it stands strong without religion.

Religion itself is nothing but rituals and traditions, a cultural convention upheld by certain groups through the centuries. I don't need that for Christmas. I don't celebrate the birth of Christ, I celebrate Christmas. Doing so doesn't empty the holiday of its meaning, it purifies it. It's pure ritual unadulterated by religion and unburdened by the presence of an imaginary being. Christmas is big enough without them.

Christmas is rituals that are set in stone for all eternity. Nothing is supposed to change. I don't like my mom’s questions of what I'd like to eat, do, get. It was always her responsibility to sort these things out, and in my mind this is how it should stay in all eternity. I don't want to get creative. All I want is arrive at home and do things as they've always been done.

The face of Christmas must be boring. I don't think an exciting holiday would cut it. I live in a world of constant excitement, unpredictability and change. The only thing that stays the same is Christmas, recurring every year with perfect monotony. Christmas is my oasis of calm, filled with the expected and the ordinary. I enjoy it tremendously. I open the door, drop my bag next to the sofa, hug my mom and leave the world to its own devices. For a week, nothing happens.

To devout Christians, Christmas is a time of miracles. I don't believe. If I ever did, I stopped long ago. But when I go to church on Christmas Eve – a family tradition that I don't want to miss – a miracle occurs, with unfailing regularity as if God had a hand in it. As I sit down in the uncomfortable wooden pew, as the church bells start ringing and then the organ playing the first hymn, time slows down and eventually halts. Frantic Advent, so full of work, parties and shopping, comes to an end and hands over to Christmastime, when time stands still. After church, imbued with the festive spirit, we walk home through fresh snow and the universe ceases to exist.

We sit down underneath the Christmas tree (which has in recent years unfortunately shrunk to a bunch of spruce boughs), light the candles, share gifts, eat and play. There is no TV, no radio, no telephone calls or internet, no visits of friends. The world is positively unhinged for a few days, no matter what happens out there. It has always been that way and, if I'm to ask, it always will. And no matter where I am in the world, I'll try my hardest to make it home.

reading 2010

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope 2011 will be a challenging and eventually satisfying year for all of you. In a break with tradition, this blog will continue as if there weren't a new year. There will be no talk of resolutions or changes, no hints of what's to come. I've done this in the past and nothing has ever come of it. What might happen this year is in my head and will stay there until it happens.

What's not only in my head is the new year itself whose start is, for this blog, an event of more than symbolic significance. Over the past twelve months, the two lists of books read and books acquired have grown progressively longer and started to crowd out other items on the page. It is time to summarize last year's literary adventures and clear the slate for more.

I've been good last year. I obtained, by purchase, gift or loan, 19 books. I have read, throughout the year, 21 and thus decreased my stack of unread books, which was threatening to dominate the shelf. In further relief to Billy, not all of the books I obtained are still in my possession: some have been given away, moved on or donated to the Oxfam.

I don't remember what is where, what I gave away and to whom, but I do remember the books I read. I made a list, after all. This list is repeated here with brief summaries, intended to serve as a reminder when my brain doesn't work so well anymore and to suggest material for when you get bored reading my blog.

• From Beirut to Jerusalem by Thomas Friedman – In an earlier post, I called this my favorite book of the year. Even if it's not as much a standout as that title makes it sound, it's still a great read. Immediate and fresh, though it's 20 years old. Political writing doesn't get much better. Plus, it's funny.
• The Alleys of Marrakesh by Peter Mayne – The author, an aspiring novelist, went to Marrakesh at the end of the second world war to write his book. He was an expatriate before the word was invented, renting rooms from the locals and living the life. While every other westerner was a colonialist, he tried to integrate. A treasure!
  
• Geographical Excursions in London by Hugh J. Gayler – The handout by a Canadian geography professor for his annual class trip to London go chronologically through the history of urban planning and design. It made me discover parts of my town I didn't know and see others with different eyes.
  
• Orchid Fever by Eric Hansen – Shortly after arriving in London, I purchased an orchid with violent pink flowers. It has now grown buds again, for the second time, in spite of my largely absent care. The people in Orchid Fever, in contrast to me, are positively (and maybe pathologically) nuts about their plants. Hilarious.
• The Kingdom by the Sea and World's End by Paul Theroux – A circumnavigation, primarily on foot, of the British Isles in a time of austerity and distant war (1982, not 2010) by the greatest contemporary travel writer, plus a small collection of short stories. World's End is a neighborhood a short walk from where I live.
  
• The Songlines and In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin – Of these two, The Songlines is by far the stronger. Chatwin reveals the culture of the Australian Aborigines, their maps drawn by song, and their oral histories. Utterly captivating. In Patagonia is just a trip by comparison.
  
• Arabia Through the Looking Glass by Jonathan Raban – As any example of well-aged travel writing, this books takes you on a journey not only through space but also through time, to place you will never be able to visit. Here it's the quaint fishing village of Dubai or the crumbling labyrinth of mud of Sana'a. Brilliant.
  
• The Best American Travel Writing 2003 – Great writing, sometimes happy, sometimes painful. The disappearance of large mammals from Africa or of the Aral Sea from the map might just make you cry.
  
• Do Travel Writers Go to Hell? by Thomas Kohnstamm – The author left a good job in Manhattan to cover the northeast of Brazil for Lonely Planet. How do you do that in seven weeks? After reading this book, you will use travel guides rather skeptically.
  
• A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens – Many more can quote the first line of this novel (It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...) than have read it. That's justified. Dickens is revered in the UK, but his writing lacks lightness. In this novel, almost every character returns at a later point, giving meaning to the earlier appearance and linking everything, as if the world consisted of two dozen people only.
  
• A Friend of the Earth by T. Coraghessan Boyle – The man with the impossible name writes for The New Yorker, but this dystopian vision of a world brought to its knees by climate change is not very convincing.
  
• Midnight All Day and The Black Album by Hanif Kureishi – A collection of stories and a short novel by my favorite London boy (thanks to the energetic Buddha of Suburbia). Neither is very good.
  
• Atemschaukel by Herta Müller – The novel by the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature tells of a young ethnic German from Transylvania who is sent by the Russians (who were then our Soviet friends and protectors) to a labor camp in the Ukraine. The story is dire and harrowing, but the telling is light, almost belittling. Brutality upon unspeakable brutality is heaped upon the protagonist, who just marches on, not feeling much. Maybe that's the only way of dealing with such a topic, especially if it's personally close to you, but I didn't like it too much. In contrast, I very much liked the technical aspects of the writing, especially the constant creation of (very German) compound words (the "breath swing" of the title, for example). They wouldn't stand much of a chance of surviving translation, unfortunately.
  
• The Black Swan by Nicholas Nassim Taleb – A Wall Street trader and hedge fund manager who retired to a position of academic philosophy and pure thinking. Nice if you can afford it. Even better if what you produce is worth the time (and lost income) you put into it. This book will make you see news and financial predictions in a different light. Great!
  
• Le passé simple by Driss Chraïbi – Autobiographical Moroccan coming-of-age story from the times when paternal authority was absolute. Probably important in its historical context, and full of shocking detail, but no Catcher in the Rye.
  
• A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian by Marina Lewycka – The title grabbed my attention. The first twenty pages were hilarious. Then, over the next 300 pages, it fizzled out.
  
• Wir waren jung und unbekümmert by Laurent Fignon – The two-time Tour de France winner (and one-time eight-second loser) died last summer of cancer. This autobiography retraces his career with humor, open words and honest admissions, be it the use of recreational drugs or the refusal of industrial doping.
  
• Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig – This should be required reading for every graduate student. Hell, it should be required reading for everyone. Read it now!

After going through these books, taking them from the shelf to refamiliarize myself with them, I'm surprised to see that I actually don't have all that many books left unread. There are a few, and some are heavy. As it's the new year, I made a separate pile with those that I will, for various reasons, attempt to read: The Finkler Question, Les Bienveillantes, Wie der Stahl gehärtet wurde, and Der Turm. Now there's a New Year's resolution after all.

Heathrow disaster

I arrive at terminal 1 with time to spare. The recent past has made me cautious. Last night I checked in despite an earlier scare when I was asked to call a service number because my request couldn't be processed. I had probably just tried too early. Later on I got an email telling me everything was ready now. In the morning, I printed my boarding pass and checked the Lufthansa and Heathrow airport websites again to see if there were any warnings or deteriorations of the situation. There weren't. My flight was going out, as scheduled, no worries.

Emerging from one of the tunnels that connects the tube station with the terminals I catch one brief glance of a surprisingly quiet interior, then of a barrier and a authoritative person in a yellow vest. "Where are you traveling today?" he asks. "Frankfurt", I reply, "Lufthansa". "Please step outside and walk along the terminal building to section K", he tells me, barring my way. I get out and walk in the indicated direction, picking my way past nervous throngs that cluster around the various entrances, a back and forth of travelers surrounded by piles of bags, all the way to the end of the huge squat building.

There I walk up to another barrier with the confidence of a seasoned traveler. I am checked in and have no business waiting around. I want to find a comfy chair and read the Economist, but my progress is blocked by another fluorescent yellow vest with outstretched arms and words of insult. "Please join the queue until your flight is called." It is less than two hours until the scheduled departure, but the terminal building, the warmth, the baggage-drop, the security check, the colors and lights of the airport shopping mall, are all off-limits. Knowing no better argument, I laugh and let my eyes wander.

Hundreds are standing in the cold, waiting, smoking, talking on their telephones, not moving anywhere. A light snow is falling, nothing to cover the ground and even less to evoke the festive spirit in anyone out here, but plenty enough to spread pain. Dozens of crowd control minions conspire to keep people in the cold – instead of helping with the luggage inside. Megaphones are wielded like status symbols but useful information is scarce. There are no signs of any sort. My fingers are starting to freeze.

I'm struck that there was no notice on the airport's website this morning, no warning saying, for example, We are still completely overwhelmed by snow that melted three days ago. We don't know how to handle the situation. Please dress warmly. We will make you wait outside. You will suffer if you decide to come more than one hour prior to departure, but you wouldn't do that, would you, you fool?

One of the main lines of fools emanates from between two marquees. I make my way over there to check things out, boldly ignoring the One Way. Exit Only sign. In England, not even the most hardened security guard can ignore an innocent "Excuse me", and I gain entrance without problems. In the tent are flimsy blue folding chairs, only insignificantly fewer than there are miserable creatures, huddled and shivering. It is cold inside, in spite of the hot air that's being blown in through wide pipes. But a single-walled tent does not deliver much in terms of thermal protection in the middle of winter.

From an area that looks as if it has seen heavy battle, hot drinks and soup are dispensed. As long as the portaloos function (remember that the terminal building is off-limits), one can at least keep warm from inside. Also on offer are a few sandwiches – possibly nutritious but more miserable looking than most of the stranded travelers –, telephones for making international calls, and internet-linked computers, all provided freely without asking. On the far side of the tent is a TV broadcasting news that no one is interested in. I still don't know when my flight will be called.

The entire operation is abysmally organized; the airport's strategy for overcoming the disaster that snow had caused four days ago is horrible. How can passengers that are checked in and ready to depart be made to wait for hours outside, in defiance of the freezing December air? It's almost as if a plan to deal with the situation had been drawn up a few days earlier and the persons responsible for updating the procedures in line with the developments on the ground had gone on vacation, possibly by air. But the execution is professional and most of the staff doing the poorly conceived work are friendly. There is no chaos and few complaints are voiced openly. Lines form in an orderly fashion. Passengers know that they mustn't grumble. Revolutions take place elsewhere.

On my way back from the tent I realize nevertheless how thin some nerves have been stretched, how close the situation is to exploding. An expecting father who has had to endure too much that morning and maybe in the days before accosts a yellow-vested official about the wait and the misery. "I'm told the tent is warm", says the official, probably not the wisest reply to the man's grievance. The man's face turns red, his veins trying to escape his neck, "I was in there; it is not. My wife five months pregnant and cold. Open the damn terminal." "Please wait until your flight is called. And don't raise your voice, sir." A tussle erupts but is quickly broken up by two of the official's more cool-headed colleagues. The man slouches back to the tent, epitomizing despair.

I was initially tempted to travel with hand luggage only, to avoid the chaos that had been reported over the preceding days. In the end, I decided against it; it couldn't possibly be that bad. Pulling my big blue duffel behind me, I had to accept that it was even worse. Worse than anything I've ever seen, worse than much I can imagine. The bright side is that everyone has to endure the misery, even those without luggage to check.

Just as I get back to section K, the place where I had first arrived an hour earlier, much warmer but with less of a story to tell, my flight is called. With a quick lateral movement I find myself near the start of a line that gets moving with a sudden competitive spirit. It doesn't get very far, but at least we're inside now and it's warm. Than the relief: "Anyone with boarding cards?" I raise my hand, jump what little queue there is in front of me, drop my bag off and am at the gate a little later. Here, peace reigns. The crowds and chaos are left behind outside.

out in the wild

Last night I woke up several times, my otherwise peaceful sleep interrupted by the steady ping-pong of water dripping off the rain gutter of my roof. This morning, when I opened my eyes wide enough to see, I realized that it wasn't a cautious rain that had fallen but the temperature that had risen. All the snow on the roofs had melted and most of it in the streets. The sidewalks had turned from glassy ice rinks to be navigated with studded boot only to slushy messes best avoided.

I couldn't avoid them; I had to walk to work. But over the course of the day, the temperature stayed above freezing and the thawing continued. It was even accelerated by one of those instantly recognizable London drizzles, more a slowly condensing mist than true precipitation. When I walked home at night, the sidewalks were clear.

Listening to the news, I get the feeling that I live in a bubble, in a paradise of clemency that has no relation to the meteorological misery that's suffocating the world around me. The Met Office, Britain's national weather service, is still warning of severe weather conditions and cautions that arctic air will stay with use until Boxing Day. (I don't know when that it, but assume it's the day the after-Christmas sales begin and the British don their padded gloves to fight for their right to consume austerity away.) Heathrow Airport declared, proudly and with the intense urgency of a Herculean task that will be accomplished come what may, that work was now underway to clear the southern runway of snow and ice.

More likely than my own protective bubble is an outside world of ineptness and preemptive capitulation. Heathrow, for example, was shut down by snow on Friday and remained closed over the weekend, corralling eager travelers into makeshift camps on the terminal floors and into tents outside. They are now beginning to clear the second runway, three days after the last snow, while thousands are still waiting to commence their trips into the sun or the arms of their families.

It is curious that the UK is home to the only airports in Europe that cannot seem to handle snow quickly and professionally. It is obvious that right now disruptions cause the greatest damage and are most visible. Christmas traffic forces airports and airlines to operate at capacity. But this is no excuse. There are some systemic problems that need to be addressed. In their quest to maximize profits, airport operators have done what business school curricula tell them to: cut costs and increase efficiencies. However, when an operation is run at close to maximal efficiency, there is no slack in the system when something goes wrong. One little glitch causes three related procedures to slow down or come to a halt, and the catastrophe takes off from there. In no time, a chain reaction of unforeseen effects causes the whole system to freeze up. Now it takes ages to unravel and restart operations because everything is interlinked, dependent on everything else to move properly. Meanwhile, countless victims have spent the third night out at a nonfunctional airport, turning into something not unlike refugee camp in the high mountains of Afghanistan.

It seems to me that there is no way to force airport to have enough equipment and powerful enough procedures to deal with chaos. How much is enough? How would a government decide? But the government could demand a tax from the airport for every hour it is closed out of schedule. This would make it financially sensible to take the necessary precautions to keep the airports open.

It is now nearly midnight. There's nothing left to thaw in my neighborhood, and the southern runway is operational again (though closed for the night). It is officially one degree Celsius, just above freezing, and not expected to get much colder for the next few days. Light snow is forecast, but the big freeze has for now been vanquished. On Thursday, I'm flying to Germany – from Heathrow. In this knowledge, I'll sleep peacefully tonight.

looking back

It's snowing. Again. Outside my window, fluffy flakes are whipped at an aggressive angle, all but obscuring the illuminated Christmas tree the council has somehow attached to the estate across the street. Ten minutes ago, it was dark like late afternoon because of the low-hanging clouds, but now it has brightened up. All surfaces are covered in a fresh white.

Gatwick Airport is closed again, for about the fifth time this winter, a season that only started a month ago, a season that, calendarically, hasn't started at all. Winter solstice is on Tuesday. I don't have to travel until Thursday, but it was another Thursday, two weeks ago, that my plans were disrupted before they even started for the first time ever. I had to postpone going to Lisbon for a week. Next week, a delay won't do. Christmas Eve is the night after I'm scheduled to travel. If I can't depart that day, I won't go at all. But I'm not traveling through Gatwick, and Heathrow is not nearly as susceptible to disruption.

It would be nice to stay in London for Christmas and the quiet days until New Year's. Christmas Day in particular is special here. The tube and buses aren't running, and neither are the DLR or any trains. The city is nearly motionless, the only time of the year. Peace doesn't last the entire day, but the morning of the 25th when the British are recovering, in their beds, from the excesses of the night before, the city is empty, as if deserted. I've never experienced this.

Family is important for me, though, and I don't wish to stay away from them for Christmas, for what would be the first time in seven years. In fact, I've only stayed away from home two times despite living an ocean away for many years and abroad for more than a decade. Three times may be a charm, but it doesn't have to be this years.

On the other hand, I could use the time. In Germany, surrounded by family and close to old friends, with a schedule busy with concerts, visits and fun, I have no time for myself. That's not the point at Christmas, I know, but I could use some downtime. I could sit back in a comfortable chair, with a pot of hot tea and some gingerbread, and think about the year that was and the year that will come.

Come think of it, I might start now. Snow is crashing down like an avalanche, suffocating London in a white that the city doesn't recognize. There is no point going out shopping for gifts or trying to get tickets for a show I'd like to see before it's time to leave for home. Instead, let me muse about some of the things that epitomize last year.

• Day of the Year – Of the pleasures that merit public retelling, it was the Oberelbe-Marathon in April that provided the best kicks and will prove the most memorable. I cracked the three hours and booked my spot in next year's London Marathon. The race itself was only painful during the last 45 minutes. The portion in the middle, a good hour and a half, was pure bliss. I was scraping very close my physical limits, which were off-limits, that day, to the vast majority of racers in that marathon.
• Book of the Year – In due time, and as there is each year, there will be a summary of the books I've read in the past twelve months, but one stood out and deserves highlighting right now. From Beirut to Jerusalem is twenty years old and has, for a book that's primarily political in scope, aged incredibly well. Thomas Friedman, now the New York Times's most annoyingly wiseacre and verbally incontinent commentator on current affairs, was once a Middle East correspondent and bureau chief with a keen interest in history and geopolitics. He was in Beirut when Israel invaded Lebanon and in Jerusalem when the intifada broke out. His observations and commentary are priceless, and absolutely gripping.
• Record of the Year – At the airport on the way to Colorado a couple of months ago, I scooped up the Beatles' Blue Album, the second half of their post-fractum Best-Of. These two CDs showcase the unlimited creativity and bold avant-gardism of the Beatles, a variety that's all the more surprising considering that the two disks cover only three-and-a-half years of recording. (Did you know the Beatles existed for just a little over seven years?)
• Discovery of the Year – 2010 wasn't the greatest year in terms of traveling. I didn't go to any exotic places or ventured off the beaten path. The countries I added to my list of Placed Visited were Spain and Portugal, hardly secret destinations. And yet, San Sebastian and the Basque Country were a revelation. The north coast of Spain is beautiful: The beaches are flawless, wide and warm; the mountains, high and rugged, appear to be made for biking; the food tastes divine and is consumed in joyful conviviality; and people are friendly and relaxed. If there were any jobs there, I'd try to make a move.

sounds of sadness

From somewhere around the next corner, a cheerless serenade wafts down the alley, laments of past injustices, of loves lost and chances turned sour. The presentation is a throttled wail interrupted and refreshed every dozen bars by a quiet staccato of oppressed syllables that unleash the force that grows in suffering. The singing is sparsely accompanied on a warm guitar. Fado fills the night.

I have just come down from the youthful hipness of Bairro Alto. Lisbon's upper hood is the place to be on a Friday night, full of trendy bars and colorful drinks, but when I was strolling through the cobbled streets at nine, they were still nearly deserted and rather peaceful. The only signs of life came from dark characters that stepped from their hiding places at irregular intervals and pressed little sachets of brown herbs into my face, the dried content rustling as they extended their arms. "Hashish, hashish", they whispered with aggressive urgency.

Whether they made any deals I didn't see, but I was sufficiently spooked that I didn't enter any of the countless venues of entertainment and diversion, for fear of getting trapped in an opium den or an illegal club with exorbitant door charges that are only revealed once the first innocuous beer has been consumed. Taking the Santa Justa elevator, a distinguished piece of antique furniture suspended inside a hundred-foot tall metal cage, down to Baixa, I was now decidedly hungry and on the look for a restaurant.

I make my way to where I suppose the music, but it's hard to localize the source of it in the frequently cross-sected streets, even when the blare of traffic is far. Then, turning behind the majestic theater, I see the man that sings and plays.

Emaciated and worn, he looks like someone who has known hard times, maybe slept rough. His appearance is grubby, his leather jacket broken and stained. Under his grimy hat, curly hair sprouts with impunity, the mixture of grey and white that can signify wisdom and sophistication. Here, it merely reflects the man's age.

He sits on an upturned drawer, leaning against the wall of an old building of a shade of purple that was once popular for evening gowns. The building is covered generously in the veneer of decay, windows dull and shutters unhinged. In front of the man is a portable amplifier and on his knees his guitar. The case is open on the pavement in front of him. A few coins twinkle inside.

The man's voice is mesmerizing, a baritone of liquid emotion, full of sorrow and pain. His entire body sings. The chest and shoulders rock involuntarily; the throat bulges and falls as he ululates. When the rush of quick syllables provides relief from the built-up of anguish, his lips move rapidly like a rapper's. He bends over the microphone and lets passion seep out, staring into the distance of his own tragic past, no eyes for his audience.

The audience doesn't seem to have much of an ear for him either. In a dense throng, they crowd around a door exactly opposite from the musician's improvised stage. The door opens into a hole in the wall, revealing space for not more than two customers. Left and right, ceiling-high glass cases hold hundreds of bottles of red liquid. A slow-moving grandfather who looks as if he would prefer his retirement over manning the till in the middle of the night, sells ginja by the cup, at a euro a shot, to be consumed in the street. You buy, pay and exit, drink in hand. Ginjinha Sem Rival, the black-and-gold sign over the door proudly proclaims.

Ginja, unrivaled or not, is the local brandy, made from and sometimes with cherries. It's pleasing to taste but apparently so toxic that even the most foolish kids don't dare to get wasted on it, never mind the cheapness of the ride. Some fancy places sell ginja in edible chocolate cups, potentially to soften the effect, but here the booze comes in flimsy plastic ones. This is a low-key operation and it shows in the clientèle.

It is a crowd of mostly middle-aged locals, with some younger ones and the odd tourist thrown in for variety, standing in groups of two or three. Cautiously sipping their drinks they're chatting with friends or just enjoy the night. The music provides a background without which the atmosphere wouldn't be the same. I buy one shot and get two little cherries in it, the fruity avalanche inside in the bottle contained by crafty application of the stopper, and linger.

The spot is precious, a bit of unspoiled authenticity in a city that had to make certain sacrifices in return for visitors' euros. The music blends with the brandy, the history of the buildings, and the mellow night to evoke nothing but Lisbon. It is also a brilliant example of economic symbiosis: the combination of music and drink must be the original recipe for merriment. After half an hour, I let the last drops of ginja scrape down my throat and start to walk, maybe stagger, down a street that almost immediately explodes in tacky tourist restaurants with garish lights and budget meals.

Two blocks down, the lights are dimmer and the languages fewer. Pushing open a glass door that's obscured my menu options pasted against it from the inside on paper tablecloths, I step into a tiny patch of a restaurant, a mom-and-pop operation on minimal space. A row of tables lines the left wall, a bar and, behind a makeshift separation, the kitchen the other. Long fluorescent tubes provide a harsh light; the decoration is minimal. A calendar from 1964 would have been just fine. It didn't look as if much had changed. Instead, there were three aquariums full of tropical fish happy they weren't on the menu.

The owner waits the tables and pours the drinks. I guess his wife is cooking, though I never see her. But when I order, the man sticks his head into the narrow door to the kitchen and shouts my choices. He then retraces his steps to the bar and pours another beer. While I eat, he goes to the entrance door repeatedly, opens it and sticks his head out for a while, possibly scouring the surroundings for potential customers. Bigger restaurants employ touts to drag tourists inside, ignoring the feeble protestations of people that should know better but won't resist because they're on a vacation and that's how things are. But my host always comes back alone.

The meal finished and the bill settled, I step out into a night that is nearly half-over. In the narrow lane are a good dozen cars, one behind the other like pearls on a string, parked against the wall with meticulously care and apparently in complete disregard for the law. Earlier, my multitasking waiter would have told me had I asked, a police van had come by, almost unnoticed, its occupants proceeding to clamp the right front wheel of every single car in the street.

When the drivers find out the next morning, exasperated cries of foul will undoubtedly rip through the calm neighborhood. But right now, as I am making my way back to the hotel, the night is peacefully quiet. There is only the faint echo of fado leaking sadly from the other end of the street.

spring

It was still freezing when I left London. Night-time temperatures hadn't risen above zero in a good ten days. There hadn't been any snow in a while, but the platforms at the Gatwick railway station were still covered in it here and there. I was looking forward to getting off the plane in Lisbon and stepping into a subtropical winter that has a touch of spring to it but feels infinitely sweeter because of the contrast. Lisbon was supposed to be 15 degrees warmer than London.

I had experienced spring in December once before, when two friends and I went to San Diego in 2002. We landed on a Friday afternoon, the air light with sunshine and the smell of hibiscus. After dropping our bags off at the hotel, we headed straight for the decadence of the gas lantern district, drowning a couple of pitchers of margaritas before the sun had time to set. I should have turned the December trip to the south into a tradition back then, but it took me eight years to repeat it.

When I did it, it wasn't quite the same. I arrived late; it was already dark outside. While it was warm, it had also rained in the afternoon, and the tarmac glistened with reflections of the night. Even at midnight, as I walked home from an unexpectedly delightful dinner of baby octopus over potatoes, washed down with beers for cheap, a soft drizzle was going and the sidewalks, mosaics in black and white, shone bright and fresh.

Back in San Diego all those years ago, we had set our radius of exploration quite wide, driving to Spanish missions, along the coast to La Jolla, and into the mountains, simply because the part of town that's interesting to visitors is rather constrained and quickly gives way to hostile Californian sprawl. The car we had rented turned out to be an absolute necessity, even for the few days we were there.

We also needed it because one of my friends, Andrej, had an appointment at a strip mall a dozen miles out, completely and typically inaccessible without a car. Andrej was the proud owner and an extremely capable player of a Dell'Arte, a jazz guitar of the kind Django Reinhardt had used for his magic. The instrument was listed at four grand, but Andrej had scooped it up for change when a local shop went out of business. Now he wanted to ask Alain, master guitar-builder and proprietor of Dell'Arte, what it would take to add a pick-up for an amplifier to his instrument.

The unmarked workshop was in the far corner of a nondescript mall, hidden among Asian take-outs and garish dime stores and normally closed on weekends. But our presence had been announced, and Alain had come in especially for us. That is, he had come in for Andrej who was burdened by what he perceived as a great honor. To avoid bothering the master unduly, Andrej asked us to stay in the car while he nipped in to discuss some technical details. It would take a few minutes only. I am eternally grateful that my other friend and I insisted we'd go in with him, promising to sit and listen quietly.

Despite his renown as a guitar builder – Ry Cooder has apparently bought from him – Alain was a genial type and in no great hurry to get business done. Andrej and he started talking about music and guitars, their passion palpable and infectious. Alain explained the process of guitar making and walked us through the room where the wood panels dry and the unfinished instruments hang to cure their glue. With a guitar taking between 60 and 70 hours to finish, his workshop produced between 3 and 4 per week. Alan said that only three out of every ten instruments turns out truly great. They will be played a lot and play out quickly. He much preferred the ones that are simply good because they can be pretty much played forever, becoming one with the musician over time.

After the theory came some practice. Discussing the merits of each, Andrej and Alain played a handful of guitars, producing inspired solos and improvised duets – until Alain opened an old scratched case. Silence fell and awe transcended the small room. The guitar inside was a Selmer from early 1900s, a priceless rarity, one of the few that Reinhardt had played that survive. Alain was trying to duplicate the design of this old piece of art, hoping to reproduce the traditional quality with new materials and methods of production. He handed it to Andrej. "You wanna play?" Andrej trembled when he took hold of the Selmer, the same guitar that his musical hero had played many decades ago. He caressed it for a few moments and took a deep breath before delicately plucking the strings, suddenly all alone in a world of bliss.

I don't have a guitar with me or any appointments that might end in magic. I also don't have a car. But I have a public transport pass and a city guide, the two essential ingredients to discover the charms of Lisbon. What's even better, there's no trace of rain anymore, and I don't have to wear a jacket.