My mother can't sing really. None of us can, in our little clan. But my mother likes to sing now and then, or as she says, “I'll talk you a song.”
When I was young and foolish, a silly teenager in Dublin, seeing girls on the sly, she would look at me knowingly and sing a bit from Down by the Sally Gardens: “She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree …” And I'd know my mother knew, as mothers always do.
A few years ago, though, I fell in love and never told my mother. I fell in love with the city of Lisbon.
How do I love it? Oh, I can count the ways: Lisbon, city of stone and soccer; city of cafés and conviviality; city of early-morning mist on the yawning mouth of the river Tagus; city of luscious pastries and ambrosial port wine; city of breathtaking light at noon and bewitching laughter at night; city of broad avenues and tiny cobbled streets; city of ancient trams gliding upward and upward into the steep hills that surround the downtown; city of churches and fado bars; city of sweet and pleasant people.
My mother's 70th birthday was in December and I decided to make it special for her. I could have gone home for a party, showering her with gifts. But I didn't. I took my mother and father to Lisbon.
When I was a boy, my mother and father took me abroad, out of Ireland, for the first time. In those days, among people like us, nobody had much money. Hardly anybody left Ireland for a vacation. But my parents and their neighbours banded together and paid in weekly instalments for a package vacation in Italy.
The trip was for the adults and to take place in September, in the cheaper off-season. In August, the teachers went on strike and the start of the school year was delayed by weeks. Arrangements had been made for a cousin to take care of my sister and me. Then, one day, my mother told me that my sister and I would join them on the trip to Italy.
God knows how they did it. But they did and we went – a few days in Rome and a few days in Rimini. We were the only children with the group.
I've never forgotten it. Not just Italy through a 12-year-old's eyes, but the gesture my parents made. And my mother's pleasure in taking us there.
I thought long about where my mother might enjoy herself in December. My mother's 70th year had not been an easy one. She has had surgery twice on her legs, and was briefly made immobile twice by it. One of her brothers died. She needed fun, relaxation and escape.
Over the years, my parents have travelled often. They have been to Canada numerous times, to Italy several times, to France, Austria, Spain and Denmark. They had never been to Portugal. It was time to share my love of Lisbon.
As soon as my parents arrived and we checked in at our hotel, I knew I had made the right decision.
I had chosen the Sofitel Hotel, part of the luxury French chain, famous for its comfortable beds. I had studied the Sofitel website and it promised personalized service. So I sent an e-mail in advance, explaining that it was my mother's 70th birthday and asking if a card and gift could be put in her room.
This simple request brought an outpouring of Portuguese hospitality and outstanding service. I heard from the manager of the Sofitel Lisbon, then the deputy manager, then the concierge. For a fee of $75, my mother would get the VIP gift package. I said fine, go ahead.
When we arrived, the manager appeared in the lobby to personally greet my mother, wish her a happy birthday and welcome her to Lisbon. We were shown to my parents' room by an entire team of hotel staff.
Unknown to me, in honour of my mother's birthday, the manager had also upgraded the room to a suite. There was a bottle of port, a box of chocolates, a fado CD, a book about Lisbon and a charming card from the manager. There were plates of pastries and fruit. My mother was delighted, beaming with pleasure.
