Last night, over a truly, deeply delicious diner at Cantinha do Avillez in the Baixa-Chiado neighborhood, Aaron and I had a really interesting conversation. Part of the conversation related to the work that I do as a scholar of cultural studies, and I explained to him that a central theme of my work is to study narratives. This post is not so much about that conversation, but rather about my continuing thoughts about this idea of narratives. And as we went to Belem to eat the famous pastéis de nata and see the Monasteiro dos Jerónimos (whose main monastery we did not end up getting into due to an online ticket debacle), I was thinking a lot about one set of narratives in particular: those of tourism.
The lines at Pasteis de Belem, the best place to get pastéis de nata near Lisbon.
Lots of people on the streets of Belem.
Happy people eating pastéis de nata.
Being in Lisbon in the midst of the high season, the crush of tourists from various non-Portugal countries is inevitable. While I’ve been here I’ve overheard French, English, Italian, Hebrew, Russian, and Arabic – just to name a few of the languages. And over the last couple of days, both in Lisbon and at Belem, I have been witness to and been on the receiving end of the disgruntled lisboetas who are (in many ways understandably) frustrated about having their daily routes and routines overwhelmed by people who are not from there. This has gotten me thinking about tourism, its nasty effects, and my own reflections on what constitutes responsible tourism (if there is such a thing). But especially connected to yesterday’s post and the various Jewish artifacts that I’ve seen throughout my time here, I am also thinking a lot about the ways that Jews and Jewish history in particular are presented here – not to mention the role this plays in perpetuating particular narratives about Portuguese identity for both cultural and economic motives.
As a point of comparison, when I lived in Spain, I remember often feeling that in many sites of touristic interest there was a deep disconnect between the treatment of the lustrous past of the Sephardim and the lingering ignorance around a modern Jewish presence. For example, I distinctly remember visiting major Jewish sites associated with the Red de Juderías (Network of Jewish Quarters) such as the extant medieval synagogues in Toledo, which we proudly displayed as part of Spain’s important legacy of multiconfessional coexistence, yet would then go out into the street and hear people use the term “cerdo judío (Jewish pig)” to describe someone’s unruly behavior. Some of this disconnect is, of course, due to complicated histories of imposed Jewish absence and modern concerns about security. In my experience, the narrative promoted by these touristic sites (of which there are many) is one of benevolent ownership, often without real reparative work that speaks to the similarly longstanding legacy of anti-Judaism in the country as well.
The highly elaborate Manueline façcade of one of the side doors at the Monasteiro dos Jerónimos.
Here, though, my experience of the ways Portugal’s Jewish past is narrativized and promoted by the Portuguese tourism industry is different. First, there is actually quite a bit less material to look at – thus my excitement to share the two stones seen at the Convento do Carmo. Perhaps because of this, the amount of exhibition space afforded to Portugal’s Jewish past is much more abbreviated – such as at the Museu de Lisboa, which while it does an excellent job attesting to the presence and contributions of marginalized people of color in Portugal’s past, there is only one TV monitor that offers some information on the medieval Jewish community there. Similarly, there is one road in the Alfama neighborhood that has taken on the name of what was once a whole quarter of the city (Rua de Judiaria). And second, I have to wonder whether Portugal, like Spain, sees a need to promote certain narratives of its national self through its Jewish past. In Spain, there is a long history of telling specific stories about Jews at key moments of sociopolitical upheaval – such as the renewed interest in studying Spain’s Jewish history during the Segunda República, or Francisco Franco’s use of a totemic “Judeo-masonic socialist” as the antithesis to his dictatorial vision – even without there being a real Jewish presence.
The tomb of Vasco de Gama, the Portuguese explorer who “discovered” the route to India in 1498, in the church of the monastery.
In Portugal, these narratives function very differently, and there seems to be a comfort with briefly mentioning Portugal’s Jewish history at these sites and then moving on to other objects of seemingly greater interest, such as Manueline churches, relics from the Christian reconquering of Lisbon, and the remains of Roman temples and aqueducts. As I attempt to read more about why this might be the case – and whether this lack of focus on the Jewish history of Portugal goes beyond just a lack of material history -- I have more questions than answers. And they are questions that tie into my own reflections on what it means not just to be a tourist, but especially a Jewish tourist, in this country.
Tomorrow we are off to Porto, and I’m looking forward to sharing more reflections then – until then, boa noite!