A few months back while visiting Coimbra, Portugal I ambled past a packed little concert hall one evening. Tourists were slowly filing into an auditorium nestled in the hills before a Fado performance.
The History of Fado Music
Fado music is a staple around these parts; a unique style of traditional Portuguese music originating from nighttime serenades from university students on the cobbled streets of one of Portugal’s most precious gems.
Nobody knows exactly where it came from. Some believe it was the students from Brazil who came to Portugal to attend university around the 1860s. Others credit their fellow countrymen, the ones who moseyed up north from Lisbon.
But like anything that defines a place it matters much less whose idea it was than its ability to unite a group of people.
Emerson Would Approve
Coimbra is a magical place full of young people with lofty dreams. There’s a buoyancy in their step among the fallen leaves and heavy bags replete with books. The university rests atop a hill overlooking houses, cafes, storefronts, and 11th century basilicas.
I took a stroll through the Cathedral of Coimbra which dates back to the Visigothic period. The cloister one story above offered some peace, mostly quiet, and a moment to daydream about those who walked the same path some 900 years earlier.
Not long after I found myself in the Botanic Garden of the University of Coimbra, created in 1772. It’s 13 hectares and collection of living plants that once helped teach medical sciences were good enough to land it a spot on the UNESCO World Heritage List.
I wondered how many college kids from the school a stone’s throw away discovered themselves in this place, while weaving in and around the carefully groomed dirt paths. Maybe they found themselves here after failing an exam, a breakup, or wrestling with an uncertain future.
How many found a fleeting moment of solace as Emerson might have near a pond or against a tree with nothing more than their thoughts and a notebook?
Of course, I reflected on my own college days and how much I’d changed, and of course, how much I hadn’t. Each analysis surprised me in unique ways.
Older Doesn’t Always Mean Wiser
Obviously I’m older now, more self-aware, and I like to think wiser. The only of those three that is guaranteed is the most former so I do take some pride in the work I’ve put into becoming a better human being.
What hasn’t changed though is my passion for being alive, the romantic relationship I still have with the world (for better or worse), my propensity towards introspection, which may have deepened to a fault, and finally, the same melancholy that follows me from continent to continent like a shadow long after the sun as set.
It’s a wistfulness I’ve been told can be seen in my eyes. It’s not something I deem a fault by any stretch.
In fact, I think melancholy is a wiser, more informed, and optimistic type of sadness that isn’t even all together sad. It just is. It can even lead to greater consciousness and a heightened sense of compassion for others and the world if you allow it to.
Where Did Those School Days Go?
The next day I navigated my way through streets with melodic names like Sa Da Bandeira and Rua de Tomar. If yesterday, I walked through the heart of the city today I walked into its soul.
For the first time in a long time I longed for my own school days as cafes brimmed with young people casually smoking cigarettes, while nursing espressos. Many animatedly moved their hands around over topics that looked and felt as serious as the Cuban Missile Crisis. I suppose one day they may or may not laugh at how trivial it all really was.
A Second Chance for Fado
After my trip down memory lane I made a promise to myself I’d check out the fado performance I pretended to not be interested in the evening before. At 5:34 pm I raced from my apartment to buy a ticket. I ran into the concert hall as if I’d been chased by a pack of crazed wolves.
“Are there still tickets available for tonight?” I asked like a school boy.
“Yes,” the young woman smiled, surprised by my earnestness.
I sat in the back row as four musicians rotated on stage. For the next hour they serenaded us with music dating back 160 years. College students would use their musical chops to court the young women they were in love with just below their living quarters. If she was moved by the music and hopefully the suitor, she’d flip her lights off and on 3 times.
I wondered briefly if such an act of earnest romance could be done today without a girl falling into a fit of laughter, or worse cynicism.
The performance itself was quite beautiful. It was a perfect end to my stay in Coimbra; a city whose name I realized I’ve been butchering for 3 days. (pronounced Queem-bra) The audience also seemed to approve as the constant photo-snapping and prohibited video recording provided testament.
A video played throughout the performance with black and white footage of college students singing in what must have been the 1960s. Giant crowds of people would gather on the steps of 800-year old basilicas and pack town squares to listen, undistracted, to the words of these beautiful crooners.
For a moment I felt envious and even longed for a past that wasn’t my own.
The Power of Expression
I also admired how the music was used as an effective tool for speaking out against the dictatorship of Antonio de Oliveira Salazar.
Music, like all art at its best, has the power to stir, shape, and lead movements. And though it didn’t start that way, it ultimately became why acting was so important to me. I believed in my heart of hearts I could change the world with a monologue, a great performance, and a lifelong commitment to my craft.
I suppose I still believe as much otherwise I wouldn’t be writing.
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