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March 6 – Xeque-Mate
The joy of waking up in a new country, an exciting new place I have never known before, is compromised by total blackness and only the vaguest recollection of the layout of the room. My watch is ticking somewhere nearby but my fingers can’t find it. I push myself out of bed and fumble across the room. I trip over my bags and step on my clothing, still wet from last night, as I try to reach the door.
Outside the hallways are as noisy as a bustling bath house with the comings and goings of men on my floor. I'm still naked but I have to leave the door open to see where my bags are, half-covering myself with my panniers while I figure out which one contains my dry underwear. I get dressed and locate my watch. It's 10:30 already.
Downstairs, the hotel manager is staffing the front desk. I ask to move to a room with a window and he says one will be available after 11. He will let me know when it's ready. I pick up a business card with the hotel address on it. It is called Pension 25e de Abril.
There is no point sitting in the blackness of my room. Down the end of the hall past the washroom there is a common area with a sink, a table, chairs and a sofa. Several weathered-looking men in their 40s and 50s are playing cards and smoking cigarettes. The ashtrays on the table are full. "Ola!" one of them greets me in Portuguese, but he switches to English to ask where I am from. I recognize him from the night before. His introduces himself as Johnny Solbratten, and the friend he is playing cards with, Kjell Olsen.
They invite me to sit down and they chat me up for half an hour in their drunken English. They offer me a whisky but I decline. It seems the men staying here are mostly unemployed Norwegians and Swedes who used to be merchant sailors. They remind me of the smoky, rough-edged men who inhabited the logging camps in the rain forests of British Columbia where I grew up. They are uncouth and uncultured – their conversation consisting mostly of drinking and finding whores – but they are generous with their food and drink.
The manager interrupts us to tell me my new room is ready. It is across the hall and down a couple doors. I gather my debris and move it over. The new room has a large window and plenty of light. It overlooks a busy street, filled with traffic and streetcars. I determine from the hotel business card that it must be rua Sao Paulo. On the far side of the street, a wall of coloured buildings four to six floors high are streaked with blackish mold, fed by the winter rains. Behind them rises the Barrio Alto covered with non-descript beige-coloured buildings. To the east, the street curves towards to the waterfront.
I open the window, lay out my wet clothes to dry and head out for a walk. I run into Johnny Solbratten in the lobby. He brings me with him down the street to his bank. The skies open up in a heavy shower just as we leave the bank. We dash into a local bar in the business district and order a drink to wait out the rain. When it stops he returns to the hotel and I go to the tourist information office to get a new map, the central post office to buy stamps for sending postcards to Canada. I have a coffee in a touristy café, and then return to the hotel along different streets to get a better understanding of the lay of the land.
After dinner I take another walk through the Bairro Alto to look for some of the gay bars that are supposed to be located a bit further north but I am getting the impression that the Spartacus Guide is sadly out of date. Most of the bars listed (Bric-a-bar, Memorial and Surf Bar) and some restaurants listed no longer exist, if they ever did.
However, I did find Xeque-Mate (pronounced “Check Mate”). It has a subtle facade with a doorbell and with the chess piece of a knight as its logo. Inside it was tiny and simply decorated. There’s a 3m square dance floor and a bar at the far end, surrounded by carpeted nooks with a few chairs and tables, all of them presently occupied.
It's a mixed crowd of men considerably older and younger than myself. At the bar, I chat with Peter, the proprietor, an older Englishman who moved to Portugal about 13 years ago. He tells me that this was the most ‘international’ gay bar in Lisbon, saying it as though it was some kind of code word. I look around to see what he meant – the clientele look like they might come from various countries. One of the younger ones smiles at me and I try to strike up a conversation but he only speaks Portuguese. I am able to get from him that his name is Luis and he is 22, but beyond that he becomes to shy to speak.
Harry, a retired man from Rotterdam, comes over to help me out. His Portuguese is broken but good enough to interpret my questions. Harry tells me he likes Luis but usually prefers much younger boys. I am a little taken aback by this, since Luis seems barely old enough to be seen in public with. After a short chat, I excuse myself by going to the bar to buy a drink.
I order my drink from Ricardo, out-going server at the bar who seems bored on this quiet Tuesday evening. His English is good and we chat for sometime. For a change of pace, I ask him if he’s like to dance. His demeanor changes completely and he looks over towards Peter nervously to see if he is watching us. Suddenly the penny drops and I get that he’s Peter’s property, his kept boy. Then it occurs to me that every couple in the bar is comprised of an older Dutch, English or German man and a young Portuguese boy in his late teens or slightly older. That’s what Peter meant by ‘international’ – a place where older, wealthier northern Europeans came to find poor, inexperienced Portuguese rent boys who wanted to be kept. I clearly don’t fit in here.
I excuse myself again, so not to bring heat on Ricardo, and I walk back towards Harry and Luis on my way to the door. When I stop to say good night, Luis grabs the bolo tie I am wearing and insists I give it to him, pleading, threatening and cajoling me alternately, all the while saying I can buy another one. I stop his hands from undressing me and I give Harry a puzzled look, hoping for an explanation. He just shrugs and turns away. Then Luis tries in the same way to have me give him my watch. I turn to Harry and ask outright what is going on. “He just wants to go home with you,” he tells me. Obviously, Luis has never gone home with a man without being paid in some way. “Tell him I want a man, not a monkey,” I say to Harry, but he has the decency not to translate. Luis is pouting fiercely.
I waste no more time in leaving. Luis makes one last attempt, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket at the door and saying, “Buy me beer!” “No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. His eyes are brimming with tears. I want to hug him but I don't dare.
Going home another route I pass a gay dance bar with men in their 20s and 30s lined up to get in. It looks like a regular club, not a pedophile-hustler bar, but I am getting tired and I’m in no mood to line up for half an hour.
PHOTO 1: Rua da Boavista, looking west from my window
PHOTO 2: Rua de Sao Paulo, looking NE, Bairro Alto behind
PHOTO 3: Lisbon streetcar, with stranger waving
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