30 J
juna 1. 20Q1
dusty green and yellow trolley
car clattered past us just as we
turned onto the busy Lisbon
street, so we decided on the
spot that we’d hop on the next trolley
that came along. We were on an
exploratory trip around a city complete
ly new to both of us. The ticket from
the Aerobús that
brought us from the
airport to downtown
would serve as a
three-day pass on all
the city’s public trans
portation, which made it easy to ride
wherever we wanted to go.
We saw a trolley stop half a block
away and headed there to wait. After
we looked around a bit, Rodger pulled
me over to show me a poster on one side
of the shelter.
“I saw one of these before,” he said.
“Look.” He pointed to a graphic of a red
AIDS ribbon in one comer of the sign.
I whipped out my dictionary, and
we pieced together that the poster was
announcing a march and rally in sup
port of people with AIDS. It was to be
held
May 4, 1997— that very
evening. The gathering place was easy
to find on the map: Pra^a Pombal, a
large plaza at the head of the major
boulevard that led down to the Rossio,
the square where the Aerobús had
dropped us that afternoon.
We went on our outing, then caught
a bus from the Rossio to the Pra^a Pombal,
which was a large circular park surrounding a
monumental statue of the Marques de Pombal.
We didn’t see anyone at first, but we heard loud
rock music and followed it around to a large
paved section of the park.
The music was blaring from a boombox sit
ting in the bed of a pickup. Several men were
handing rainbow flags down from the truck to
people in a small crowd that had gathered
around. At nearby tables, people were selling
rainbow pins, AIDS ribbon pins and lots of
other gay and lesbian paraphernalia.
We milled around a bit and soon saw two
approachable-looking men.
“Fala Inglesr I said to one, using just about
my only Portuguese phrase.
“Yes, a little,” he said, giving me the standard
answer. In fact, Carlos’ English was completely
fluent, and his friend Jao’s was almost as good.
They were both graduate students. Jao had
traveled up from the University of the Algarve,
on the southern coast of Portugal, for the rally.
Carlos did volunteer work with Abrao, the or
ganization that was sponsoring this event.
A
Lisbon reminds many people of San
Francisco
%
Going off the beaten path
A Portland man and his partner celebrate gay pride abroad
by
A n dy S imon
“We do offer AIDS support services,” he
explained, “but our focus is much broader. We
are the main organization of the gay and lesbian
community. Portugal is still a very conservative
country. We felt we had to call this march an
AIDS memorial march, but it’s really a Gay and
Lesbian Pride event— Portugal’s first.”
Carlos obviously
was pleased by the
turnout.
“There are so
many people,” he
kept saying, “and
they’re being so
open,” referring to
the fact that every
one was clamoring
for the flags that
were flowing from
the truck.
A
roar
of
approval was heard
as a group of
marchers unfurled a
40-by-20-foot rain
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bow flag that would be carried horizontally
through the march. Just then, the drizzle that
had been falling turned into a downpour; think
ing quickly, the people with the flag hoisted it.
Others joined in, using the smaller flagpoles to
hold it up as we all crowded under it to get out of
the rain. We stood there for several minutes, a
big and happy crowd
sheltering under a
huge rainbow flag.
After a while,
however, the seams
began to leak, and
many more marchers
were arriving. But by
the time the flag
shelter was taken
down, the worst of
the storm was over.
As soon as it was
dry enough for us to
light the candles we
all held, the march
began. About 500
men and women
paraded down the main thoroughfare— called,
appropriately, Avenida de la Liberdade. It
reminded me of some of Portland’s early Pride
marches: no floats, no costumes, just a lot of
people making themselves visible.
We crossed the Rossio and entered the
Baixa district, an area of wide, stone-paved
pedestrian malls. We headed down the central
mall. The march ended at the Arche de Tri-
omphe, which looks out at the harbor.
We met up with Carlos and Jao as the
crowd gathered around the speakers platform.
They were ecstatic. The march had been a
wonderful success. There was no harassment,
and what response there was from onlookers
was positive.
The speeches started, and Carlos began
translating for us. We stopped him, telling him
he had to be here for himself and not for us.
He agreed.
But twice he turned to us to fill us in. The
first time the crowd just had broken out into a
roar of boos and catcalls. Carlos explained that
the speaker was a journalist who had done an
exposé on a cabinet minister who had embar
goed AIDS support funds because of his per
sonal hatred for gays. So the next time his
name was mentioned and the crowd booed, we
booed,too.
Toward the end of the last speech Carlos
turned to us and said: “I should explain this to
you. The speaker has just said that there’s been
too much silence, so he’s calling for a moment
of noise rather than a moment of silence in
memory of all those who have suffered from
AIDS and who have suffered from anti-gay
discrimination.”
As Carlos was finishing this explanation,
even with my limited Portuguese I could tell
the speaker was counting. When he reached
three, the crowed erupted: shouts, whistles,
clapping, stamping— every sort of noise imag
inable.
Rodger and I were pleased to add our voic
es to those of the crowd. We felt we were mak
ing a contribution, however small, to their
cause, which in a way was our cause, too. For a
moment, just a moment, we felt like we were
participating in this important event for Por
tugal’s lesbian and gay community— not just
observing it. For that brief moment we had
gone beyond being tourists.
As the roar died down to a loud murmur of
voices, everyone congratulated themselves
and each other for a wonderful event. We
hugged Carlos and Jao, thanked them and
went in search of a long-delayed dinner.
jn
A ndy S imon is a teacher and. theater lover who
lives in Southeast Portland.