The Little Old Ladies

The Portuguese old ladies are a common sight here in the old city. I have come to respect them greatly while I have been here.

They are usually stick thin, and hunched over a wooden walking stick, and sometimes accompanied by an equally wrinkled old man who hobbles alongside. Those who walk alone or with another lady as company are often dressed in black from head to toe, which makes me wonder if this is a sign of mourning for their lost loved one. Some of them pull trolleys along laden with goods, but I have seen more than one little old lady carrying her belongings on her head. I know that some of them are very poor, as I have seen an old lady sweeping the street in front of her home that was little more than a well kept ruined building on the side of the road. Some of them seem to make a living at the local indoor market, each bearing their own oranges, leeks and potatoes they are trying to sell, while also chatting in an incomprehensible dialect (even for Mark) with their neighbours.

There is one little old lady that I see very often. She seems like a tough old thing, as pretty much every day I have been here she has either been roasting chestnuts on a trolley in the winter or selling pistachios, monkey nuts and beans in the summer in the main square. I can’t help but wonder how many years she has been doing it for.

It also makes me wonder what sort of world they were brought up in. It must have been hugely different. Small, close knit communities where the women would grow crops while watching the children and the men would find what work they could. It must have been a world where foreigners were much less common, and the idea of communism was a real prospect (though it still is fairly fondly thought of here). A world where electricity was scarce, or expensive, and evening entertainment was fado sung around an open fire or in the local tavern. As time went by I expect they saw the introduction of new and exciting things. Records playing Amalia, television, washing machines, the reign of Salazar, the end of the dictatorship and the beginning of democracy. It was also the sort of world where baby mortality rate was 80 in 1000 (up until national healthcare was established in the 1970s).

I reckon they have seen a lot of change. It makes me wonder what will change in the next seventy odd years.