Sundial city

Spending the day following the autumn sun around Lisbon. Late November, I am on the move again, for at least the next six months it looks like now. No fixed abode, visa-less in Portugal, back and forward between here and London, 90 days there for 90 days in Schengen.

I can’t keep living life in three-month windows I say to myself. I imagine putting up my own bookshelf somewhere, a sleek plane of stainless steel, floating, no brackets, no longer having to anxiously memorise quotes, indexed by subject matter and theme, I wouldnʼt need to carry thoughts on the go, itʼs hard to even know how much Iʼve missed out on, but then everything I need I can carry, I take the maximum weight allowance, you can fit a life into a hard-shell XL Samsonite suitcase. I donʼt own lots of things but Iʼve invested in good quality luggage.

Being constantly on the move unburdens you of past and future. Gradually that attenuated expanse either side of the present recedes from your mind.

The sky is bright, clear, there are no clouds, and the sun is strong, its warmth is containing. I walk up the hill from Alexander’s flat, stopping at the various English bookshops on my way to the Praça do Principe Real, my friend Beatriz’s favourite park in the city, where she brings her son everyday after nursery.

Today, Sunday, the park is quiet and still. I donʼt notice anyone. The burnt leaves on the street floor do not stir. I find a bench half in the sun, half in shade. I sit down and unbutton my jacket. There is a continuous view down a steep cobbled street, stretching all the way to the river and across to the big red bridge, first named Ponte Salazar after Portugalʼs former dictator, renamed Ponte Vinte e Cinco Abril in celebration of the ’74 revolution. A cityʼs accumulated history, all these forgotten ruptures from the past, they sit there on the surface, always.

Up here from this observatory, I am on the tip of the globe. It was early afternoon but the shadow was already a solid night. Every minute thick, clean rays push round, this massive shaft of light moving in an angled swathe. I see time passing, I feel it physically, shifting in degree increments, in measures of stone. This park and the row of houses is a sundial, the city a universe. The present approaches a palpability when youʼre only just passing through.

Eventually there is no more bench left and I get up, meandering down the slope, keeping to the sunny side of the street. I head to the steps of parliament, its white marble steps reflecting the sun like one of those vintage, foldable tanning mirrors. Sitting here, writing and reading, as the guards change over every 15 minutes, their swords gently rattling, swapping archaic salutes, the sun staying here seemingly for hours longer, just now kissing the cornice of this immovable stately structure. Time held on the end of a floating point.