The city is endowed with an undefinable uniqueness -- not-quite-Spanish, not-quite-Mediterranean -- Old World charm lagging behind the earlier democratized Western European powers. The sun casts an atmosphere of sluggish haziness, lends a golden cast to the cerulean swathes of sky and the Tejo River.
Grand Renaissance architecture glitters with embellishments of hand-painted Moorish tiles. This type of thoughtfully-created beauty often seems thoughtlessly disregarded, a taken-for-granted part of the backdrop, painstakingly designed tiles flaking their enamel and losing themselves behind layers of pasted paper posters. They wait to be discovered by eager, awed tourists exclaiming over the multitude of patterns and colors to be found.
Lisbon is not a place to be in a hurry. Umbrellaed sidewalk cafes offer a refuge for lingering over coffees and pasteis de nata, thick custard pastries. The lethargy-inducing heat dictates a relaxed attitude toward commerce, stores seeming to keep their own hours, opening late in the morning.
With gentle persistence, the atmosphere entwines and ensnares the visitor, beckoning like a sultry, languid seductress, "Come stay awhile..."
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