Having already walked past the Pantheon and the Church of Sao Vicente earlier in the week while wandering aimlessly looking for our apartment, we decided to make a formal visit to these two imposing buildings. From our favorite vantage overlook refreshment stand, both buildings are so close you feel you can almost touch them. Close in Alfama as the crow flies perhaps, but not as these tourists walk.
Although we thought we had faithfully followed the directions in the phone to Sao Vicente, we wound up at the Pantheon. The Lisbon Pantheon is not quite as imposing as the one in Paris, but the two share a similar history of originally being built as a church, then taken by the state to become the repository of the remains of great historical figures.
The present structure was begun in 1681 as the Church of Santa Engracia but not completed until just 50 years ago in 1966. The lengthy construction period spawned a local expression, something to the effect of ” as long as it takes to finish Santa Gracia,” which is the equivalent of the time it takes to rebuild a street in New Orleans.
The Pantheon requires–what else?–climbing a lot of stairs to get to the top, but climb we did. As we peered down from the dome’s viewing gallery to the floor below, Lynn could only hug the wall rather than walk up to the rail.
From the outside gallery of the Pantheon, we could see the back of Sao Vicente and trace the route there. It is only a block or so away. We actually found it without getting lost once in the 200 yards separating the two buildings.
The Church of Sao Vicente is a late Renaissance Mannerist monument, the seat of the Lisbon Cardinal Patriarch and therefore the Catholic Church in Portugal. Started in 1582, it was consecrated in 1629, only 47 years later, light speed by medieval and Renaissance standards. The interior highlight is the Baroque altar appropriate to a historic church. But the real attraction is the cloister next door. Tickets (4 euros for Lynn and 2 for senior me) are beyond a bargain.
Inside the cloister is a warren of displays, including a cistern that dates back to Roman times; scores of tile panels on the walls depicting various scenes, including 38 renderings of La Fontaine’s Fables; the tombs of the Lisbon Cardinal Patriarchs (up nearly to the most recent, as there is no more room in the burial chapel); more tombs of most of the kings of Portugal, including the unfortunate Carlos, who commissioned the yachts Amelia; Amelia herself in a tomb separate from Carlos, whose tomb is next to his brother; and–most incongruously–a room full of sea shells.
The cloister also includes several rooms of liturgical vestments on display dating back to the origins of Sao Vicente. Included in these are a few religious statues, some of which wear wigs. This is a particular quirk of religious statuary in Lisbon. We have seen several statues of all sizes with hair, which gives them the somewhat creepy appearance of figures from a wax museum.
By now, hungry and more than a bit thirsty, we walked out in search of the Military Museum on the riverfront. On the way, we stopped for lunch at a true neighborhood restaurant. There, we had today’s special of baked chicken, which was quite good, if plain. Lynn ordered the daily quiche, but it would not bake to the owner’s satisfaction, so he substituted a bowl of creamy vegetable soup, sans potatoes, he proudly pointed out. Three Sagre beers and lunch later, we ventured down the hills to search in vain for the Military Museum.
We never found it. Despite appearing on all the maps, the museum is not apparent when you get on the street where it is supposed to be. Finally, we gave up, preferring to walk back up to our apartment for a nap and the obligatory sojourn at our neighborhood overlook for evening cocktails. This evening a band played rhythmic African music, led by a most personable dancer and seller of their CDs. The Miradouro Santa Luzia has become our most pleasant routine for watching the sun set over the Tagus and the walking tourist groups pass in and out of the area.
Later that evening, as we walked down the steps from our apartment, the inevitable happened. Lynn, who will never be confused with a mountain goat, stumbled down a step in a heap. Incredibly lucky, she fell in a small corner portion of the hundred steps we navigate each day and rolled up to the fence of a very kind resident who came out to see if she was all right. A bit bruised and shaken, Lynn dusted herself off and intrepidly marched down the steps to what was our worst meal of the trip.