Madagascar - first couple of days

What’s in a name, that sometimes keeps whispering in the back of your mind “I should go there someday”? Is it some form of the magic of words? I don’t know, but somehow I’ve lived with that name of Madagascar ever since, at about 9 or 10 years old, I watched a TV series of Paul et Virginie, and heard someone say “votre mari est mort, de la fièvre, au nord de Madagascar”. Through the years, that sentence, its sound, kept resurfacing again and again, as I looked at world maps as a child, or planned trips as an adult. Then recently, a young friend has been actually living in Madagascar, and I asked myself: “why not now?”.

So I went to Madagascar, a very real place, more reknown today on account of a few animation movies. And it was a great and very interesting trip. It was my first experience of a “real” African country (even if it’s not exactly Africa, but it’s more so than Morocco or Cape Vert), and it lived up to my expectations.

I landed in Antananarive, the capital, known as Tana. I guess it’s more or less like most 3rd world capitals – big, poor, with some islands of secluded prosperity, polluted and traffic ridden. Poverty is always disheartening, even if expected. This could be a beautiful city: spreading over several hills, a pleasant weather on a plateau, a soft and clear light, with lots of beautiful colonial buildings and the bustling activity of the ubiquitous street markets and stalls.

But one cannot stop noticing the pollution, the garbage, the young unemployed people idling on the streets, the beggars, the passed-out drunks on the sidewalk, the open-air sewers, the men urinating anywhere, the buildings unkempt and ruined. I walked a lot around the town, through the daedalus of small alleys and stairs on the hills, from the markets and shops downtown to the more quiet streets of the Haute Ville, dominated by the charred walls of the Palais de la Reine, a 19th century symbol of the wealth and power of the ruthless queen Rovalonna I. As the Lonely Planet guide says, in Tana all the world is a market, where you find on street stalls everything you can think of plus probably a few you wouldn’t remember; also meat and fish stormed by flies.

But you can also enjoy coffee and croissants at the French-influenced patisseries and eat excellent food at a number of restaurants. The French cuisine, combined with African and East Asian influence, is great. (You also find what it looks like the whole of old Renault s and 2CVs that disappeared froEurope, but I guess there must be others in other former French colonies). And, even if I had “vasaha” (the Malagasy word for “white”) written all over my T-shirt, shorts and backpack attire, I actually felt quite safe and at ease everywhere, even if sometimes annoyed by the frequent “la vanille, voulez vous la vanille?”. Maybe it’s because of the European former colonization, or because we’re used in Portugal to Africans, but I felt at home, unlike in Marrakech, for instance.

Then I went to Anzojorobe, about 80 km north of the city. Lots of traffic getting out of town – narrow streets, cars parking anywhere, taxi-bes stopping, men pulling loaded carts… But once passed the long suburbs, we drive through a beautiful plateau landscape, unfortunately mostly devoid of trees – deforestation is a huge problem in Madagascar, due to the use of charcoal as the main energy source and the smuggling of rosewood and palissander. Anyway, one hour after leaving Tana one feels in a different world, of wide landscapes and small ocher-colored villages.

We reached Anzojorobe, a forest reserve, then a short walk in the sunset light till the Saha Forest Camp – a very pleasant lodge in the forest, by a river with green rice fields, whose “tents” have canvas walls but all the comforts of civilization.

The next day, my first hike – an easy track through the forest, and my first sightings of lemurs (idris and sifakas) and several beautiful birds. The Anzojorobe forest is beautiful but not especially wild, it was a nice introduction to Malagasy nature though.

And after a good lunch and some idling, back to Tana, where we were greeted by a typically huge traffic jam. Plenty of time to watch the roadside stalls and the myriads of people walking by, many of them dressed up, many of them tipsy. It’s Saturday evening, and the driver tells us there’s a lot of people celebrating famadihana, the strange Malagasy ritual that consists in the yearly unearthing of the ancestors’ corpses, enveloping them in new shrouds and burying them again. I’d like to take lots of photos from all those people coming and going and making business, but I’m always shy of taking people’s pictures, always fear they feel I’m behaving as in a zoo or something.

So, after a very tasty dinner at Kudéta restaurant, and a few hours sleep, taxi to the airport and off to the North!

Les Caves du Vatican, by André Gide

André Gide is a most famous writer, and very influential in his time and to the next generation of French artists and intellectuals, so I always thought that not knowing his work was a serious lack in my culture. But what I read from him never impressed me - La Porte Étroite and Les Faux Monnayeurs, that I completely forgot soon after having read them. I tried again, with Les Caves du Vatican, and this time I started to understand why he was so considered.

It's a somewhat strange book, alternating between a serious, even dramatic, and an ironic, even comic, tone. Sometimes hilariously funny, it nevertheless poses some very serious and interesting questions - about human nature, religious feeling, the nature of morality and free will. All in all, I liked it, and it made me curious to read more of his work.

The Devil's Star, by Jo Nesbo

Another great thriller by Jo Nesbo, the third I've read, after The Leopard and The Redbreast. He's the greatest thriller writer since Raymond Chandler, and Harry Hole is a terrific modern Philip Marlowe. A real page turner! I will soon read another, already on my shelf. (This was the first ebook I purchased for my new kindle)

Voyage au bout de la nuit, de Louis-Ferdinand Céline

I had heard this book praised for a long time, but somehow I had never felt a wish to read it; maybe because of the author's fascist fame, maybe because I once read a book by him, Casse Pipe, that I didn't like. But I kept it on my "mental" list, and last May, when buying pocket books in Paris, I saw it and bought it.

I must admit it was quite a pleasant surprise. It's a great book, intense, beautiful and a most enjoyable read. The narrator tells his story of the First War experience, the African colonial set, a short stay in America, and the pettiness of the Parisian banlieue while being a poor doctor. His views and his observations of the human condition and nature are deeply pessimistic and pitiless, but expressed in a finely ironic humor and pervaded by a kind of tender sadness. His descriptions are mercilessly insightful, and reminded me of other merciless descriptions, such as by Thomas Wolfe or Jonathan Frazen.

And it was a good idea to read it in French, since the vernacular style is an intrinsic part of the book's charm. So, this good experience rekindled my wish to read another classic that's been waiting on my shelf for years: Ulysses!

Écrits sur l'Art, by Marcel Proust

I became a fan of Marcel Proust from the first time I read À La Recherche du Temps Perdu (first time, because I read it again 10 years later, and having another 10 years gone by now, it’s time to read it again, but next time in French – I read it in Portuguese). I was totally entranced by the middle of the first volume (Du Côté de Chez Swann), and it was one of those long books I wished were at least twice as long because I was so sorry to reach its end. I know Proust is not widely read, and is usually considered a boring reading – but I’m sure that if more people tried it, they’d be surprised and delighted at his wit, his all-encompassing sensibility, his extreme perceptiveness of human nature. I don’t like to make « best of » lists, but if I did one of books, this (La Recherche) would certainly get number 1.

I never read other works by Proust, apart from a few small texts here and there – and small texts and letters are all he left besides his great book. So I bought this collection of texts Écrits sur l’Art, and also two volumes of his correspondence, the last time I was in Paris.

Écrits sur l’Art includes a variety of writings about several different themes, some more serious, some more satirical, from society columns to literary and painting critique to essays on reading. The society columns and much of his art criticism confirm his talent for elegant gossip and accurate mocking more than his good taste. There is a preface to a book by Jacques-Émile Blanche so devastating (in such an elegant and apparently flattering tone) that is no wonder the dedicatee was furious. There are superb pastiches of several authors. And the best text, in my opinion, is an essay on reading – Sur la Lecture – that captures perfectly the magic of reading that i twill be most meaningful to any book-lover.

And then, there is his perfect and beautiful French – seldom have I read a prose where content and form are so inextricably linked, it’s like that language was created to build those sentences, that flow so easily and perfectly. I really look forward to read La Recherche in French.

Well, guess you have to like Proust to know what I mean here… and then you don’t have to read me! I leave just a few phrases as a foretaste.

L’admiration pour une pensée au contraire fait surgir à chaque pas la beauté parce qu’à chaque moment elle en éveille le désir. Les personnes médiocres croient généralement que se laisser ainsi guider par les livres qu’on admire, enlève à notre faculté de juger une partie de son indépendance. […] Une tel opinion repose sur une erreur psychologique dont feront justice tous ceux qui, ayant accepté ainsi une discipline spirituelle, sentient que leur puissance de comprendre et de sentir en est infiniment accrue, et leur sens critique jamais paralysé. Nous sommes simplement alors dans un état de grâce où toutes nos facultes, notre sens critique aussi bien que les autres, sont fortifiées.

Il n’y a peut-être pas de jours de notre enfance que nous ayons si pleinement vécu que ceux que nous avons cru laisser sans les vivre, ceux que nous avons passé avec un livre préferé.

Et c’est là, en effet, un des grands et merveilleux caractères des beaux livres (et qui nous fera comprendre le rôle à la fois essentiel et limité que la lecture peut jouer dans notre vie spirituelle) que pour l’auteur ils pourraient s’appeler “Conclusions” et pour le lecteur “Incitations”. Nous sentons très bien que notre sagesse commence où celle de l’auteur finit, et nous voudrions qu’il nous donnât des réponses, quando tout ce qu’il peut faire est de nous donner des désirs.
Le suprême effort de l’écrivain comme de l’artiste n’aboutit qu’à soulever partiellement pour nous le voile de laideur et d’insignifiance qui nous laisse incurieux devant l’univers. Alors, il nous dit: “Regarde, regarde, parfumés de trèfle et d’armoise, serrant leurs vifs ruisseaux étroits, les pays de l’Aisne et de l’Oise. Regarde la maison de Zélande rose et luisante comme un coquillage, regarde! Apprends à voir!” Et à ce moment il disparaît.

Dans la lecture, l’amitié est soudain ramenée à sa pureté première. Avec les livres, pas d’amabilité. Ces amis-là, si nous passons la soirée avec eux, c’est vraiment que nous en avons envie. Eux du moins, nous ne les quittons souvent qu’à regret. Et quand nous les avons quittés, aucune de ces pensées qui gâtent l’amitié: Qu’ont ils pensé de nous? – N’avons-nous pas manqué de tact? – Avons-nous plu? - et la peur d’être oublié pour tel autre.

A Sala de Vidro (The Glass Room), by Simon Mawer

A very good novel, The Glass Room tells the story of a house, inspired by the Tugenhat House by Mies van der Rohe, in Brno. The modernist house is the main character, the stage where the narrative unfolds, and it's beautifully described. The contrast between its light and transparency and the secrets and deceits of its inhabitants through the years is very well depicted, as its pervasive influence on their lives - the "living in a work of art". It's also a history of the period from the late 20s until the 60s in Czechoslovakia. The main characters are convincing and nuanced in their contradictions. And it is a pleasure to read, a novel that grabs you and takes you into its world, which is one of the main qualities of a novel.

L'Histoire des Rois Francs, by Grégoire de Tours

I bought this book at the Musée Cluny; always enjoy reading history, and usually find very interesting the way it was written centuries ago. And I find this era fascinating - the times when Roman civilization was still a recent memory and influence and a new and barbaric Europe was being shaped. The History by Gregory, bishop of Tours, reads like an adventures book, full of wars, murders, intrigues and tortures, with terrible villains like Chilpéric and Frédégonde and extremely vivid scenes. It reminds us how violent those times were.

Le Mausolée des Amants, by Hervé Guibert

By Hervé Guibert, I had read À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie, that I liked very much, and Moi et mon valet, also good. Le Mausolée des Amants - Journal 1976-1991 is a very good book. Emotionally very intense, if sometimes it sounds pretentious or too narcissistic (but are not journals always somewhat narcissistic?), the overall feeling that remains is one of tenderness - for his fragility, his shortcomings, his lust for life, his candor, his love story with Thierry.

He talked about his experience as an AIDS patient at length in À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie and in other books I haven't read. I particularly liked in this journal the way he talks about the genesis of his several books, which is something that always interests me (and gave me a desire to read them), and how he alludes to his relationships with his family, friends and lovers, the complexity, multiplicity and contradictory, often confused feelings make it ring very true.

And French is such a beautiful language.

Norway, beautiful again

I recently came back from my third time in Norway; it's definitely a country to go back to again and again. Three years ago, I went to the Lofoten islands, last year to Oslo, Bergen and the Hardangerfjord region; this time I spent a couple of days near Bergen and a few days above the Arctic Circle.

Arrived in Oslo in a cool and rainy day, which was a relief after Lisbon's heat - the weather is one of the reasons I love Scandinavia in the summer, and the light. Already familiar with most of the "sights" of the city from my last year's visit, I spent a great afternoon of chatting and drinking with a Norwegian friend I had met through facebook; it was really a splendid beginning.

The next morning we took the train to Bergen; it's a beautifully scenic trip. Bergen was unusually sunny - meaning it just drizzled a few times and there were actually periods of sunshine - perfect to stroll along the Bryggen and the harbour. Unfortunately, the Floybannen was not working, so I couldn't enjoy the view from the top of the hill on such a clear day, so we finished the day with some reindeer meatballs at a nice bar, the Pingvinen.

We rented a car and drove for two days around the country, spending a night at the small village of Eidfjord (I had also stayed there last year). The region is extremely scenic: fjords, waterfalls, wooden houses villages (my son said they looked like "pinypon villages"; the weather was good and we were in a good mood. I don't like to drive, especially in highways and speedways, so Norway is perfect for me, I just didn't like some long tunnels and a few steep roads - I remembered once, in Tours, in 2000, a Belgian doctor talking about all the highways that had recently been built in Portugal: "maintenant, c'est un plaisir rouler au Portugal!", and thought: "c'est un plaisir rouler en Norvège!". The highest point of the tour was driving on a narrow road through the Folgefonna glacier, a stunningly beautiful place, amid snowy mountains and iced lakes, the road ended at a closed ski facility, where the posts disappeared in the clouds.

A Norwegian Airlines flight took us to Tromsö, a nice small town strangely known as "the Paris of the North" (didn't see any resemblance...). Another car, and, after a short drive, a long wait in the sun and a ferry trip, we reached the island of Senja, another stunningly beautiful place (I can't help repeating myself, "beautiful" is just the best word to talk about these places).

The weather was wonderful, sunny and warm, it was midnight sun time, so there was always light, and the scenery so uplifting I felt really happy. I treasure moments like when I felt the seaweed smell when We stopped by a small rocky deserted beach, or when I was walking on the pier in Mefjordvaer at midnight, watching the bay amid the mountains. That's why I never regret the money spent traveling.

We slept at a nice inn in Mefjordvaer, the Mefjord Brygge, where I ate a surprisingly tasty and spicy cod dish, and then crossed Senja and caught another ferry to the Vesteralen islands, to Harstad. Being a rainy day, I didn't go to the Lofoten, and just drove around Hinnoya and Ofoten, slept at Bjerkvik, and caught the plane back to Oslo at the Evenes airport.

Oslo was rainy again, so we visited the National Museum - apart from the great Viking and Polar collection, also small but very good collections from other places - and headed for Vigelands Park to see the bizarre but lively and interesting Vigeland statues, before the time came to catch the plane back to Lisbon.

So, it was a very pleasant vacation, and also a good opportunity for bonding with my son, who turned out a better travel companion than I expected - of course there were a few moments of exasperation at teen's "logic" and he always put a fashionable boring look to the photos, but all in all it was a very positive experience.

Down and Out in Paris and London, by George Orwell

A good book by Orwell, his first published work. Humorous and touching, often funny, he manages to depict the life of the paupers in Paris and the beggars in London in the late 20s vividly and uncondescendingly. It still is very up to date, one feels most of his observations are timeless and could have been written today - the numbing effects of poverty, the social issues. The Paris chapters are the best, but the whole book is interesting and a very good read.

And it's interesting to remember that this happened at the same time as what's told in A Moveable Feast, by Hemingway - such different experiences in Paris!

Au Plaisir de Dieu, by Jean d'Ormesson

I watched a television series when I was a kid, in the 70s, Au Plaisir de Dieu, and I remember liking it, so recently I bought the book. It's a good book, about the end of an era, depicting the story of the decadence of an old aristocratic French family, a relic of the Ancien Régime, in the 20th century. It's very well written, in the classic French tradition of Martin du Gard, Proust, Marguerite Yourcenar or, later, Le Clézio and Tournier. I think it would be more powerful if it ended at the sale of the château, the last chapters are somewhat stretched, but the narrative is always nostalgically beautiful, with some great characters and very accomplished scenes.

Weekend in Barcelona

What a great time I had in Barcelona last weekend. Such a beautiful and cosmopolitan city; and having been there before, I just enjoyed the walking, the food, the sightseeing. And most of all, the company - I met a facebook friend from Australia, someone I had been chatting with for some time and had the chance of finally meeting live. I will always be thankful to facebook for the new friends I made there around the world. This time, it was as if we knew each other for years, such a pleasant feeling of familiarity. And the weather was wonderful. It's so good to know there are nice people out there, and to make new friends! Somehow, that makes me feel reconciled with life.

The Stranger's Child, by Alan Hollinghurst

I like Hollinghurst's books very much, ever since I read The Line of Beauty. He writes beautifully, and The Stranger's Child is just as elegantly written as one would expect, but it somehow falls short compared to his other books, like The Line of Beauty, The Swimming Pool Library or The Folding Star. This one is too long; it's always an enjoyable read, but sometimes one feels the author has become a little too self-indulgent, self-satisfied with his own story. There are great scenes, though, and the themes of the evolution of gay life in England along the 20th century and of the literary biography / memory are very well depicted. All in all, it's a very good book and a most enjoyable read, but Hollinghurst has far better work.

The Play of the Eyes, by Elias Canetti

The third part of Elias Canetti's memoirs is as interesting as the first two. He's in a way extremely self-centered and self-assured, but his pursue of self-awareness, his staunch devotion to language and words, and above all his keen sense of observation, that translates into fabulous portraits and a vivid depiction of a time and place - the Vienna of literatti in the 30s - is most captivating. I read it with a feeling of discovery, because I know very little of German literature, apart from Thomas Mann; Hermann Broch, Robert Musil and Büchner were just names, as were Grozs, Alma Mahler or Wotruba. It's exciting to learn about a whole body of literature just waiting to be read! That's one of the things I always loved about books and reading: the opening of new horizons, new cultures, new people. One goes from one book to another, and it never ever ends, even if one was to live a thousand years.

I love Paris

I spent a couple of days in Paris on account of a medical congress - which I confess I wouldn't have attended if it wasn't in Paris; I just grabbed the opportunity to go there again. Paris is one of those places you can go again and again and there's always plenty to see, it's such a beautiful city just walking through it feels exhilarating. Having been there a few times, I feel free from the "obligation" of going to the "obligatory" places, and I can enjoy just walking its streets, en flaneur, reading at cafés terraces, follow my fancy.

So I enjoyed the view over the Eiffel Tower from my room, walked several kilometers, visited the superb exhibitions of Matisse at the Pompidou, about the times of Debussy at the Oragerie and Degas and the nude at the Musée d'Orsay (where I looked again at some of my favorite paintings by Cézanne - the Card Players - and Monet), discovered the collection of the Musée de l'Orangerie and the fabulous Musée Cluny, enjoyed cappucinos and beers at several café terraces, listened to the music of French speaking...

As usual, I had to run away from the Gibert Joseph bookstore keeping my eyes away from its shelves after buying a dozen of books - mostly livres de poche, the cheapest and lightest, my suitcase is small...

The weather was wonderful, sunny and even hotter than here in Lisbon. People were sunbathing by the Seine and in the Place des Vosges, my favorite place in Paris a par with Saint Germain des Prés. And the Île Saint Louis.

Traveling is really my greatest pleasure, and it feels wonderful not just to discover new places but to go back to the ones I love, and Paris certainly belongs in that category. I hope I go there again, and again.

Debussy, la musique et les arts, at the Orangerie

Another superb exhibition I saw in Paris! The exhibition about the times of Claude Debussy is an extraordinary gathering of art works from a period I'm particularly fond of, with paintings, photographs, sculptures and designs related to and contemporaneous of the composer. I love his music, though far from being a connoisseur. And the works are all great and splendidly exhibited, from the impressionists and Hokusai to the Pabst figurines, Nijinsky's photos and Kandinsky.

And I finally visited the Musée de l'Orangerie, with its superb collection - the beautiful Monet Nymphées rooms, but also an impressive ensemble of works by Cézanne, Derain, Picasso.

Matisse at the Pompidou

I absolutely loved the Matisse exhibition at the Pompidou Center. I came to admire Matisse more and more ever since I saw some of his paintings at the Musée Picasso the first time I went to Paris. He's undoubtedly one of the fathers of modern art, in some ways greater than Picasso. I love the art of the early 20th century, when our way to look at beauty changed so radically. And this exhibition is superb, not only the works are many and excellent, but they're extremely well arranged, the way the paintings are shown in pairs or series of the same motives is very interesting and insightful, we "look" at the themes with the eyes of the artist. And the chronological order makes us aware of his evolution, which was the evolution of modern art, from post-impressionism to an ever more simplified and schematic take on the subjects, until near-abstractionism. Watching the work of these geniuses of modernism, like Matisse himself, Klee, Kandinsky, Malevich, Picasso, is always fascinating, they really changed the way we perceive the world, they tried it all. And it makes us painfully aware of how poor and unoriginal most of painting is since the 50s.

The Crisis of Islam - Holy War and Unholy Terror, by Bernard Lewis

Like What Went Wrong?, by the same author, this is an interesting and informative book about the causes of islamic fundamentalism and terrorism. Elegantly written, it depicts in a clear and intelligible way the tenets of Islamism and how they have been used - and distorted - by the fundamentalists to comply with their agenda. Like other religions, Islamism can be and is used and interpreted according to the wishes of the interpreter. So, you could argue that Islamism is no worse than Christianity, with its long list of religious wars and atrocities. And in that way it isn't, actually I usually say that Islamism, being seven centuries "younger" than Christianity, is now where we were in the Middle Ages. The big difference, and by no way negligible, is that we're not living in the Middle Ages, but right now, in the 21st century, and right now Christianity, apart from the right wing evangelicals in the United States and the pernicious influence of Catholicism in Africa - and those are certainly big problems - is not much of a threat, and the former christian countries are christian mostly in name only. In my opinion, only real education and probably economic improvement will free the Muslim peoples from their present stagnation and backwardness, and religion will go then the same way it did in the West. But I'm sure it's not easy, and maybe it will take a long time. I don't know how the West should deal with this problem, there are no easy recipes, but I believe we must defend our way of life, with no misguided feelings of guilt or condescension, keeping in mind that these peoples are as human as we are, so with basically the same goals and yearnings in life. And they are indisputably much farther from those objectives than we are.

Friends

Why am I writing about friendship? I'm not the best of friends, I have a bad temper and am too demanding, and even if I had /have some very fulfilling and intense friendships, I seem to not be able to keep them for long. Maybe that's because of my relying on the circumstances of life, I always thought we shouldn't force things too much. But maybe that's just another way of being emotionally lazy? Whatever.

Five years ago, I wrote this. I totally forgot the movie, but I didn't forget the friends I talked about. Where are they now? Or should I say, where are our friendships now?

I haven't seen my old friend Athena for a few years. I don't blame her, she got scared at a time when I was seriously disturbed, when things at home were a mess, and I was a real mess. She was building her family life at the time, and I think my tempestuous domestic situation made her anxious, and it was probably too much for her to deal with. I hope she's alright, and I know one day we'll meet again and we'll resume our friendship as if no time has passed, because ours is the kind of friendship it can resume anytime, we can be apart for years but we'll be as close as always the moment we meet again.

The second friend I talked about is as close as always; we haven't seen much of each other lately, but I know he's there and that I can count on him anytime. Again, it's a very close friendship, even if we don't see each other much lately.

As for the third friend I mentioned, we're as close as ever. She is my closest friend now, my chosen sister, the one who puts up with me every day. I don't know how I'd do without her. We're working together for 20 years now, we've gone through a lot together - work, exams, marriages, children, loss of loved ones... My temper is famously difficult, we've had a few rows, but never was our friendship and closeness menaced. We share so many private jokes - including several pet names, like calling her my hyena #1 and me the little moor, or being both called the old men from the Muppet show. If I had to name a single best friend, it would surely be her. Sometimes I really don't know how she puts up with me.

I'm losing the fourth friend. It's no use to blame him, or me, for it. It's just the way it is. Maybe I'm too high-maintenance, or he is. Anyway, I feel sad about our drifting apart, but I don't think I could do differently. We've had very good times together anyway. And I'm not closing any doors.

No new friends though. Maybe the common wisdom that says one does not make great friends after 40 is partly true. There are a few people I met through facebook, that I like very much and feel close to, but it's not the same as a live relationship. Even so, they have been - and are - a great company. I like to think of facebook as a kind of virtual cafe where we meet friends from different parts of the world, discuss small and big issues, share experiences; it actually reminds me of my college days, when I used to spend a lot of time in cafes and had several interesting and funny friendships there, chatting on the pauses of the study. I'm very glad I know these people, and will always be thankful to the technology that makes it possible.

I have several other friends, some from college, or work, or family - and with some of these I connected again through facebook after years of rarely seeing them. And then there are my children; I've made a lot of mistakes with them, but we get along pretty well and as they get older I like to think of them as my friends too.

Jerusalem - The Biography, by Simon Sebag Montefiore

This book is an excellent read for anyone who, like me, likes History. Very well written, amazingly even-balanced considering the subject sometimes touchy and the author being related to one of the prominent English-Jewish families who mattered in the city's history, exhaustively researched, it reads almost like an adventure book. One is drawn into the complexities of a city so revered for millenia by so many peoples, empires and religions, and it helps to understand its present dilemmas. It's a fascinating story indeed, full of sound and fury as the Bard would say, and with many humorous and unexpected details.

The book is organized chronologically - after opening with the description of the siege and conquest by Titus, it goes back to the origins of the Canaanite city and then proceeds along the centuries until the war of 1967, with a short epilogue about the last 40 years. One of the interesting insights is the notion of how many important population shifts there were, and it shows the roots of the present Arab and Jewish presence in and attachment to the city. One can sense the passing of time and the changes it brings, and how history is ever changing.

The author tries to be impartial about the present conflicts, and I think he reasonably succeeds. He tells his story passionately, though, and ends in a somehow gloomy mode of sursis, balanced between the sense of History's continuity and timelessness (expressed by the description, in the last chapter, of the routines of the several religious shrines in the Old City) and the impending doom hovering over the city caused by the present situation.

Jerusalem today lives in a state of schizophrenic anxiety. Jews and Arabs dare not venture into each other's neighbourhoods; secular Jews avoid ultra-Orthodox who stone them for not resting on the Sabbath or for wearing disrespectful clothing; messianic Jews test police resolve and tease Muslim anxiety by attempting to pray at the Temple Mount; and the Christian sects keep brawling. The faces of Jerusalemites are tense, their voices are angry and one feels that everyone, even those of all three faiths who are convinced that they are fulfilling a divine plan, is unsure of what tomorrow will bring.

And yet, things can be, and were different, as one can read in a previous chapter about the 19th century:

... but in between, in a half-submerged folk culture, there was much blending, despite the stringent rules of each religion. At the end of the Ramadan fast, all the religions celebrated celebrated with a feast and a fair around the walls, with merry-go-rounds and horseraces, while vendors exhibited obscene peepshows and Arab sweets, Maidens Hair and Turkish Delight. During the Jewish festival of Purim, Muslim and Christian Arabs dressed up in the traditional Jewish costumes, and all three religions attended the Jewish Picnic held at the tomb of Simon the Just north of the Damascus Gate. Jews presented their Arab neighbours with matzah and invited them to the Passover Seder dinner, while the Arabs returned the favour by giving the Jews newly baked bread when the festival ended.Jewish mohels often circumcised Muslim children. Jews held parties to welcome their Muslim neighbours back from the haj. The closest relations were between Arabs and Sephardic Jews. Indeed the Arabs called the Sephardis "Yahud, awlad Arab - Jews, sons of Arabs", their own Jews and some Muslim women even learned Ladino. During droughts, the ulema asked the Sephardic rabbis to pray for rain. The Sephardic, Arab-speaking Valeros, the city's leading bankers, were business partners with many of the Families. Ironically, the Arab Orthodox Christians were the most hostile to Jews, whom they insulted in traditional Easter songs and lynched as they approached the Church.

Pessimism

This month I have been to some end-of-specialty exams, where young specialists get their degree recognized by our Medical Board after a 5 years internship. The final question to a girl who had performed magnificently was: "so what do you think will be the challenges in the Nephrology field in the next 2 decades?". Her answer was about finding cheaper ways to treat patients, containing dialysis costs, the ethical questions of withholding treatment... A member of the jury then vented what we, older nephrologists, were thinking: "this is the sad result of the state of psychiatric depression that comes from the economic depression... How differently we all would have answered that question 20 years ago!".

Actually, everything she said was quite right and legitimate. But she wasn't talking about challenges for the next 2 decades, she was talking about our present concerns, the challenges we're facing right now. Any one of us, older guys, would have talked about stem cells, xenotransplantation, portable artificial kidneys, whatever. And it made us really sad that the present generation is so burdened with the financial crisis and its troubles that they cannot envisage a different future. That's one of the main problems with economic depression, the effect it has on people, it shortens their views, their horizons. People worry about the present, the morrow, stop thinking big.

What a difference from 38 years ago, when Lisbon - and all Portugal - was burning with hope, the 48 year-old decrepit dictatorship toppled by a coup by young army officers! For all the naiveté, for the the blunders in the next few years, it was a time of overflowing optimism. I was just a child then but I'm happy to have lived through those times, when people believed things would be better and were actually doing something for that. Will we ever be that optimistic again?