THE
BLUE BOX (Recycled Ideas)
by Don Cox
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So there we were, driving through sunny Portugal, getting
used to cherry blossoms and strange place names. A tourist
guide book can be valuable, otherwise how would you know
that "Caldas da Rainha" means "The Queen's Bath". A few
centuries ago the Queen went to the hot springs there. The
smaller towns aren't listed of course, but common sense
is all that's needed. The town of Bico must have been where
the early Portuguese invented Bic lighters and safety razors.
Junquiera is where you find garage sales and auto wrecking
yards. Chaos had a confused population and Porto de Mos
had racing cars. And so it went, town after charming town.
We finally arrived at Porto and checked into the Grande
Hotel do Porto, one of the city's older landmarks. Imagine
it's the 1920s and the Grande Hotel has just opened, sparkling
in new carpets and uniforms. Imagine the attitude of the
desk clerk and doorman, proud, elitist, disdainful. Now
imagine it's the year 2000 and neither the carpets, uniforms
or attitudes of the staff have changed. There's been no
plumbing maintenance either. It's all part of the good old
game called decaying elegance. The only thing that still
impresses is the gilt work in the ballroom, it was obviously
done as an after thought by the artist who did the Majestic
Cafe half a block away across the street.
This brings me to the real purpose of a return trip to
Portugal. I simply had to have another look at the Majestic
Cafe. You cannot conceive of a more remarkable display of
1920s art deco, replete with thick leather upholstery, marble
pillars and bevelled mirrors. It's full of Hemingway wannabes
who hunch over their novels and notebooks while drinking
endless cups of Expresso. But I don't have to go into a
lot of descriptive detail, you can see it all for yourselves
at www.alvo.com/majestic.
Have a good look, be intrigued, consult your travel agent,
plan a visit. Treasures like this don't last forever in
this world of Philistines.
There was a small sign outside the Majestic announcing
a poetry reading, and when I arrived it was due to start
in five minutes. What a piece of luck! We rushed in and
took a seat. As we sat down, there was a glissando of zither
and sitar chords from behind the small platform beside the
grand piano. Great Scott! It was my former travelling companion
Ingrid Johanna Johansen and my roofer the Swami Prem Samerpan.
Their gig that night was to provide incidental music for
the poetry reading. What a coincidence, I was completely
nonplussed.
While exchanging greetings with my two friends I learned
that the poet had been run down by a taxi. They begged me
take his place. The manager agreed, "I understand you are
a well known Canadian poet", he said, "and we would be honoured
if you would stand in for your fellow bard and treat us
to some of your work, or any poetic work that you are prepared
to recite." I was thunderstruck. "There will be a small
honorarium", he added. That did it, I was on my feet in
an instant and heading for the podium.
There were the usual explanations and introductions, and
then I commenced my recitations. I managed to provide the
better part of an hour without notes, some Kipling, a bit
of Shakespeare, some Housman, and of course about half of
the time was devoted to my own material. One in particular
got a standing ovation.
"Why re-invent the wheel" he cried
And threw his hat aloft
And raced about the greensward in his stocking feet.
"The technique's poorly handled
And the market's soft,
The cash flow's in a boggle and the staff's effete."
"We must optimize our output"
Said he, rolling on the grass
"It's a slow growth situation, one of those"
His voice trailed off,
He murmured "Not in our class"
And slowly rubbed some sand between his toes.
"How can the cash flow meet the need?"
The sun was hot
His hat and stocking in his hand he stopped to think.
Had he heard an oriole
Or had he not,
Or was that tinkle in his ear a distant bob-o'-link
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I'll have some more traveller's tales for you next week.
Bluebox ©2001 Don Cox
Website ©2001 OttawaWEB