What can I say about the Park
Estrela? First of all that’s most certainty not it’s proper name. Since I am
exploring this city without a guidebook, only with my dim wits and the kindness
of my host, I’m learning about places and things in a disjointed manner.
Park
de La Estrela, by basilica, you will see it. My host explains in broken
English.
Basilica,
basilica, oh the church.
The light is casting its famous
magic spell, turning the most benign mailbox into a work of glowing art. The
warmth belonging to the color of this light has little do to with the
temperature, as I am disappointedly discovering.
As I entered Estrela I noticed a
crowd wandering through the bushes, children excitedly peering. I followed suit
and walked toward the gaggle of people to discover a large mother bird in the
brush and twelve yellow spotted puffballs.
This seemed the perfect opportunity
for taking out my Kodak disposable camera, an old art I’ve been revisiting.
Sure the puffballs would make nice post cards, but more so the people so
enraptured with them. As I followed the small crowd a toddler was set loose
upon the puffs. Thinking it cute, her mother laughed as baby terrorized
babies. At the excitement’s peak the
young human mounted to a trot, chasing the puffs through the grass spattered
with tiny white flowers. My enjoyment twisted into horror as the petit daemon
tripped, fell and nearly smashed three of the poor little creatures. The smarter of the infant birds made it back to their mom,
while the other two cried confusedly near the deadly feet of the toddler. Well meaning teens attempted to scoop up the
two confused babies, before the Human mother yelled in Portuguese something
that I assume meant “don’t touch baby birds!” The teens protested, exclaiming their well
wishes. In the end they used their sneakers to guide the ineptlings back to their
herd.
Mother and puffs made it through a
fence just in time to miss another catastrophe of toddler proportions. More admirers gathered, after snapping a few
timeless shots of humans admiring birds I headed to the café.
The Café is a stucco building
painted yellow with large windows covering half the circumference. It looks as
though someone thought if I were to make
my favorite round of cheese into a building it would look like this! Then
decided to go through with the idea, though the pointed roof ruins the cheesy
effect.
Right on the pond the café’s
outdoor seating is perfect for enjoying the trumpeting of geese, chaos of
pigeons and the beauty of the church bells. A mythic fountain on the other side
of the pond confuses my whereabouts; a man with long robes holds a lion spitting water. The palm trees and large
bamboo also seem like pieces transported from an expensive resort.
Inside the café, servers happily
respond in English, making me feel less like an unusual breed of stupid person.
I order a large beer and take a stab at how to order in Portuguese, the man
smiles while correcting me. They appreciate my effort, and I appreciate their
patience.
A seat right next to the pond littered with someone else’s dishes, is the spot I gravitate to. It has sunlight,
it’s main draw, I know it won’t last long and desperately want to feel warmth
on my skin. An internal debate on weather or not to bus said dishes occurs,
ending in apathy. If nobody minds pigeons
joining them for lunch, why should I care about a few empty glasses? Hell I
look as though I’ve been spending time with friends who had to leave early for
another appointment.
Not long after sitting down I
notice a young man choosing a seat with a friend, he is the same young man I
noticed two days ago. He looks shockingly like a past lover; one who loved me
dearly but who I dropped as though too heavy a burden. Only after enjoying his enticing
qualities thoroughly. His loveliness, both in spirit and build I miss the most.
Do doppelgangers also share the same warm touch and gorgeous chest? I wonder
now as I did the other day. He has chosen a table and disappears from view behind
a poorly placed tree.
Large geese are lined up on the
edge of the pond like a battalion, without any known reason they honk an alarm,
one by one plopping clumsily into the water. There’s a fantastic book The Sword and The Stone I was forced to
read in high school. In this book Merlin teaches young Arthur all about the
bird hierarchy by making him experiences the horrors of being in all ranks. I’m
not sure how correct the author is on how it all works, but having kept
chickens myself I find the whole thing fascinating. There are so many varieties
of bird enjoying the pond, one type will chase another with a
loud warning and visa versa. I wonder, after watching such an event between
geese and ducks, if the geese aren’t next in line for puff protecting. Baby
Geese are silly looking but soft. The silliest infant bird I’ve ever seen is
the great blue Heron, native to where I grew up. It’s young look like as bewildered as a deer in
headlights, with a hair style like alfalfa from the little rascals. I imagine if
you touched one it would feel more like long fish scales than soft young
feathers.
People are clearing out as the sun
goes down. Light casts bright reflections off the pond, the kind I always wish
I could capture but resemble a large white spot once developed.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately
about my own animal instincts. Early this afternoon I dozed off imagining what traits in another human, could induce me to breed. In such hypotheticals I
stick with the shallow exterior qualities, and a few feelings it would be necessary
for me to experience in their presence, such as safety, trust and awe. Male
ducks have beautiful feathers, and go to great lengths to impress their
counterparts. I couldn’t possibly submit to chasing my own duckling-terrorizing
young without a mate who greatly impressed me. Though my fantasies are enjoyable enough to lull me to sleep, my
pragmatic mind tells me no one’s feathers will be bright enough.
The geese are honking again, their
noise seems to be growing uglier as the sun goes down. The yellow puffs have
appeared across the pond, gingerly zipping across the water’s surface, as
mother keeps guard on shore. Across the pond to my right, on the paving stones
meant for meandering humans, two ducks have found each other. Their coital
display is awkward and appears very uncomfortable for the female. Lucky for her
it is over as soon as it began, I’ve known a few like that myself.
Soon the sun will no longer light
my messy table, the glitters will disappear off the surface of the water.
Looking up with thoughts of moving indoors, I discover the
doppelgänger is gone. Such is life, and surely
for the best.
