Upon landing in Lisbon, I wrote this and posted it on social media:
"All Hail the Lisbon Grannies! They are converting me to the Church of the Granny-Who-Gives-No-Fs. Their heads hang out open windows. They stare. They walk reeaaal slow on the cobblestones and you need to just match their pace. The old men try to please them. The babies climb on their laps. The Lisbon Grannies MESS with those in their midst. Ask Granny for directions at the bus stop and she waves you off-- she does not wish to be bothered.
They sell you shot glasses of moonshine on the street corner assuring, 'the alcohol is not too much!'
The keepers of secrets. The secret fun.
These Grannies are everywhere reminding me how invisible elder women are in some parts of the world. The Lisbon Grannies are alive and do not care. A reminder that the play and the mischief can keep you in your power. That the Grannies create the magic."
The visibility of old women in Lisbon reminded me of how invisible older women are in most of the world. Also, how isolated they often are. The Lisbon grannies ran in packs. They met one another on the street and blocked the corner while they gabbed. They spread table cloths for one another's side hustles in the tourist district. They gave SEVERE side eye that caused you to clutch your pearls. They smoked cigarettes and used canes on tiled sidewalks that were basically vertical on Lisbon's steep hills. The grannies ran the streets.
The grannies also didn't seem overly preoccupied with the tropes of old womanhood that I know at home. They weren't particularly affectionate to babies. They didn't seem all that interested in knitting. In other words, they seemed like actual people. Not charicatures.
When did we make old women ideas instead of people?
They gave me such hope that I, as a woman, can keep living. That I, as a woman, can stay deep in my magic and my mischief at every stage of my life. That I get to be a little girl, a young woman, a full woman, and an old crone and that each stage doesn't have to be predetermined. I can decide what it means. Maybe I'll decide to be an old burlesque dancer. Why not?
Maybe it's the old world charm of Lisbon that preserved these women's humanity. Maybe they made some type of pact. I don't know what it is. At one point Kevin asked, "where are all the old men?" We went into a little cafe selling pastries, coffee, and liquor while a soccer game played on a TV. They were all there.
They gathered around the table, talking shit, and gratefully accepting round after round of espresso from the young waitresses. They keep living too.
"All Hail the Lisbon Grannies! They are converting me to the Church of the Granny-Who-Gives-No-Fs. Their heads hang out open windows. They stare. They walk reeaaal slow on the cobblestones and you need to just match their pace. The old men try to please them. The babies climb on their laps. The Lisbon Grannies MESS with those in their midst. Ask Granny for directions at the bus stop and she waves you off-- she does not wish to be bothered.
They sell you shot glasses of moonshine on the street corner assuring, 'the alcohol is not too much!'
The keepers of secrets. The secret fun.
These Grannies are everywhere reminding me how invisible elder women are in some parts of the world. The Lisbon Grannies are alive and do not care. A reminder that the play and the mischief can keep you in your power. That the Grannies create the magic."
The visibility of old women in Lisbon reminded me of how invisible older women are in most of the world. Also, how isolated they often are. The Lisbon grannies ran in packs. They met one another on the street and blocked the corner while they gabbed. They spread table cloths for one another's side hustles in the tourist district. They gave SEVERE side eye that caused you to clutch your pearls. They smoked cigarettes and used canes on tiled sidewalks that were basically vertical on Lisbon's steep hills. The grannies ran the streets.
The grannies also didn't seem overly preoccupied with the tropes of old womanhood that I know at home. They weren't particularly affectionate to babies. They didn't seem all that interested in knitting. In other words, they seemed like actual people. Not charicatures.
When did we make old women ideas instead of people?
They gave me such hope that I, as a woman, can keep living. That I, as a woman, can stay deep in my magic and my mischief at every stage of my life. That I get to be a little girl, a young woman, a full woman, and an old crone and that each stage doesn't have to be predetermined. I can decide what it means. Maybe I'll decide to be an old burlesque dancer. Why not?
Maybe it's the old world charm of Lisbon that preserved these women's humanity. Maybe they made some type of pact. I don't know what it is. At one point Kevin asked, "where are all the old men?" We went into a little cafe selling pastries, coffee, and liquor while a soccer game played on a TV. They were all there.
They gathered around the table, talking shit, and gratefully accepting round after round of espresso from the young waitresses. They keep living too.
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