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.