We are entering a place without high expectations. Someone told us that here we can listen to real Porto fado, but the modest, casual Portuguese café makes us feel that maybe we were given the wrong address. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixes with the smoke of cigarettes. In the air, we can also feel a bit of cleaning detergent. The only light in the room is given by an uncovered, bright bulb hanging sadly from the ceiling. Behind the bar two women, one young and one in her sixties, are preparing food. Bolos de bacalhau, francesinhas and caldo verde soup are prepared under the patient eyes of the Virgin Mary and Saint Christopher. The figurines stand on the shelf right next to a broken radio and a vase with fake roses.
Shyly, my company and I sit down at a simple, white table with crumbs scattered over its surface. Um copo de vinho e uma cerveja - says one of the cooks, putting our drinks on the table. While sipping my wine I observe the man sitting at the table. He has deep, brown eyes. A wide wrinkle decorates his forehead covered with grey hair. He is reading Saturday’s newspaper. Today’s big news – an argument between referees at some match.
Then, suddenly, the women behind the bar start shushing and telling us that in a moment we will hear uma grande fadista – a great fado singer. With the first note of the song, all our doubts are gone. The vibrating sound penetrates each cell of the body aiming straight into the heart.
Fado singing has started. We are in the right place.
A rich voice leads us to the entrance of another room, hidden between bathrooms and the kitchen door. At the end of it, behind guitar players, we can see a panorama of Porto, with its Romanesque cathedral dominating over houses with orange roofs. It’s not a window. It’s just a picture, pasted to the wall. In front of this background, modestly dressed in skinny jeans and an emerald shirt, is a woman balancing on her high heels with the rhythm of her song. Her face is blushing, recalling a youthful beauty. She is singing about lost love and the city. She is taking a deep breath, filling her lungs. And with the exhale she exclaims all her suffering mixed with melancholy. The city of Porto is her listener.
After big applause and screams about the grande fadista, we sit down, joining one table with two men who smile to us encouragingly. Another song starts. No one says a word. No one dares to move when the saintly notes of fado float in the air.
The listeners are mostly older men and women. They are hovering over their glasses, with hands supporting their chins. The wistfulness fills this place. The melody of fado takes them to the old times. Times of youth. Times of the fascist regime, when love and freedom were often synonyms. Maybe some of them drift on the notes of songs to the time of the Carnation Revolution. They feel the love that remains after the loss. They feel Saudade.'
A man without his front teeth is ending his song. Everyone, despite us, the only foreigners, joins him and is singing along. There is no doubt, that these people come here not to earn money on their great talent, but to gather each Saturday, in very a Portuguese style, over a glass of wine and good food. To contemplate their fate but also to celebrate life - its simplicity and everyday beauty.
When the concert is ending, all faces turn to our side. The last song is dedicated to us. The youth who came here to immerse into an old Portuguese tradition.
There is no better way than fado to express longing for things, feelings and people that passed away. Above all differences, we all feel this. In the speeding, uncertain modern world. We all feel Saudade.
While leaving the place, after replying to questions asked by friendly hosts, I glimpse at the figurines behind the bar. And I knew that the real sanctity of this place was uncovered in front of our eyes.
Today's pictures were provided by my dearest friend, Ewa. Visit her Instagram for more.
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