Ask for directions to Jardim Fialho de Almeida, and even the most die-hard Lisboeta won’t know what to tell you. With all due respect to that august republican writer of the turn of the twentieth century, this lush and lopsided little rectangular park is better known, and much beloved, as Praça das Flores. Flower Square.
Nestled in the tangle of residential streets between São Bento and the Jardim do Príncipe Real, Praça das Flores is not known for sightseeing or tourist attractions, for high-volume commerce or a hot club scene. It has not yet caught the eye of the marauding tuktuk hordes. It maintains a slow, slightly sleepy pace, as if most of the people in the streets have either just awakened from a good night’s sleep, or are anticipating a nap they’ll take as soon as possible, somewhere very close by.
The park sparkles brightest in the morning. Dogs pulling their groggy humans along at the ends of long leashes are the first to criss-cross the spokelike paths that radiate outward from the fountain in the center of the park. Parents pushing strollers follow. The elderly locals come out next, installing themselves on park benches. The espresso machine growls amicably from the esplanada at the venerable classic old coffeehouse and restaurant Pão de Canela, which anchors the south edge of the park; its kitchen sends out waves of cinnamon and butter perfume like goodwill emissaries straight to the temporal lobe. Locals occupy patio tables in a shifting cast of regular characters who check in with one another daily from behind their newspapers, swapping opinions on politics and bits of gossip. People pool on the sidewalk outside the pastelaria Renascença to the north, and in the open windows of luminous Pampa to the east. They sip their coffee and break their fast, watch the passers-by on the sidewalks, and exchange friendly words in Portuguese, in French, in American English.
Locals occupy patio tables in a shifting cast of regular characters… sipping coffee, breaking their fast, and exchanging friendly words in Portuguese, French, and American English.
Eventually Peixaria Centenaria flings open its doors to welcome the morning’s sea catch, and Café Tehran puts out lunch tables in the benevolent shadow of the park’s towering elms. The most urgent business seems to belong to the dogs, who bustle around marking their territory with an enthusiastic air. The humans, meanwhile, tend to dawdle and linger, taking their sweet time like a tincture for health.
It is true that many of the surrounding houses have been ceded to the tourist market by way of Airbnb and short-term rental companies, bringing a constant and ever-novel flow of Germans, Dutchmen, Englishmen, Spaniards, Italians and well-heeled Brazilians through the sidewalks. These are many fresh faces that we’ll likely never see again, and to be sure, they lend a certain crackle of energy to the air.
Here, however, the neighborhood’s beating heart remains securely with the long-term and permanent residents. Whether they are old Portuguese families who’ve held their houses for generations, or recent immigrants of privilege, the neighbors feel a sense of engagement with the shared public spaces and with one another. Because of this engagement, it is as if Praça das Flores is surrounded by eyes – watchful, yes, but smiling. We know one another by sight (if not by name), and we learn one another’s work-play schedules, because we cross paths and exchange greetings each day, day after day, week after week, month after month. When I disappear for a couple of days, my absence is noticed; when I reappear, my well-being is inquired after. This is the fabric of experience here: knowing, and being known.
