How could an ordinary person live an ordinary life in a city as extraordinary as Lisboa? That’s not just a sidewalk you tread; it’s an antique mosaic. That’s not just a house you sleep in; it’s a layer cake of architectural extravagance. That’s not just a café you sip espresso in, it’s Café a Brasileira; where Portugal’s early 20th century intellectuals and artists dreamed over drinks. That’s not just a bookshop you browse; it’s Livraria Bertrand, the oldest bookshop in the world.
This morning I peeled a mango by hand and ate the whole glorious sun-ball. But I couldn’t stomach sun-fruit every morning. The morning’s mango satisfied a childhood wish, a childish gluttony. If the morning mango became a habit, it would lose the gloss of the forbidden fruit. If I lived in a city as sumptuous and sun-sweet as the mango, would the city too lose its luminance?