7.26.15
I realized yesterday, in yet another case of "D.A. doesn't pay attention", that all my references to "Ferreira Amaral" should really be to "Ferreira do Amaral", since that's the man's proper surname, and what's used on street signs. This oversight, while embarrassing, is made a little less so- but more confusing!- by the fact that all the Macau bus maps, and the signs on the buses themselves, refer to "Praça Ferreira Amaral". Oh well.
Saturday is spent visiting the historic center of Macau, which is another way of saying I spend it dodging the hordes of visitors touring the ruins of São Paulo, the Largo do Senado, and everything in between, which is mainly old buildings tenanted by places selling rather mundane consumer goods, the ubiquitous baked treats (almond cookies and pastéis de nata; I take the opportunity to finally eat one of the latter) and, for as of yet undiscerned reasons, jerky. Rather than mill around for an hour in the sun, I go to Cafe Ou Mun for an espresso, joined by my classmate Ambera. We chat, and I find just enough change in my pocket to pay for my coffee, since they won't take my $HK500 note- it's too early in the day and they don't have change.
Returning to the façade of Macau's most famous landmark, the 200 or so students from the Universidade make a rather rushed visit to the Museu de Macau, where I buy a Macanese cookbook. I've been to the museum before, and while there's a temporary exhibit about trade between France and China during the 18th century worth examining, I get the feeling we shouldn't linger, as there are more places to visit and lunch to be eaten at the Hotel Metropole. Turns out there's only one more stop, the Casa de Lou Kau or 盧家大屋, the significance of which (aside from some good examples of Chinese architecture) is lost on me, seeing as how it's packed and I don't get the chance to read many of the placards. From there, it's off to the hotel, where the Curso de Verão takes up an entire banquet hall and is fed several courses of Chinese food that doesn't quite rank as good, but certainly beats canteen food.
And thus ends our day with the Instituto Cultural, which feels more like a free-for-all than a guided tour, but so it goes. I'm mainly here because I've arranged to find Camilo Pessanha's grave with the help of Jorge Cavalheiro, the sagaciously-bearded gentleman ("Cavalheiro" is Portuguese for "gentleman"- get it?) who's been in Macau for decades. We meet at Caravela and set off toward the perpetually-being-restored Bairro de São Lázaro, situated next to the cemetery. "I've visited this grave many times and always have to look for it," Professor Cavalheiro says as we walk through the densely packed graveyard, which he says does not actually require one to be Catholic in order to acquire permanent residency. We find the grave fairly quickly, I take some photos, and, after making sure I can get back on my own, Professor Cavalheiro bids me farewell: a friend of his lives nearby and he's going to take advantage of the proximity. I'd hoped for more time to converse with him, but I'm happy with what I get, as he answers all my questions about Macau and himself straightforwardly and doesn't hesitate to repeatedly correct my Portuguese.
Professor Cavalheiro says he'll be going back to Portugal for good sometime in the next couple of years, and based on our discussions of Macau's astronomical real estate prices ("renting is expensive, and buying is impossible") and the general surge in the cost of living, I can understand why. There's more to it than that, I'm sure- based on what little I know, the city has become all but unrecognizable over the past couple decades, and no matter how much one loves a place seeing it transform that much is never easy, even if it's for the better. In Macau's case, it could be argued that rapid development has not been quite the blessing some might think, but I'm not in the mood to get into that right now, nor does my opinion count for much in the first place. I'm just pleased to have spent some time with someone who knows so much about this remarkable city.
7.27.15
Man, I didn't even finish talking about Saturday in my last entry, though there isn't much more to add. I visit the Jardim de Lou Lim Ioc/盧廉若公園, a classic Suzhou-style garden, which I'm a total sucker for. There's an art exhibit, complete with the artists involved, going on in what I think is usually the Casa Cultural de Chá, or Cultural Teahouse. I see some neat paintings and some good calligraphy and try a couple thimble-sized cups of tea, one of which I think is an oolong and quite delicious, the other a pu-erh type that's a bit too earthy for me.
Having spent most of the day on my feet on Saturday, Sunday rolls around and I tell myself I'm not gonna do shit. Except, of course, I'm totally gonna do shit, because I'm leaving Macau in a couple days and there's no rest for the wicked. I decide to visit Coloane, which once upon a time was the southernmost island of the territory and its least developed area until- you guessed it- the gambling laws were loosened and foreign gambling interests, mainly American, arrived, which resulted in much of the sea between Taipa and Coloane being reclaimed and covered in casinos and hotels. Taipa's now a horrible mess of perpetual construction; the Cotai strip, as the new patch of land was so christened by professional greedhead/shitheel Sheldon Adelson, lacks any of the little charm and none of the nominal walkability possessed by its Las Vegas counterpart; and Coloane, while currently not under assault by developers, remains a tempting target, since the Macau government continues to straddle the fence with regard to building casinos there.
Fortunately, Coloane remains home to Macau's biggest park, a vast, hilly, tropical sprawl which covers much of the island. The village of Coloane is quiet and fairly picturesque in a run-down, rural way. The Chapel of São Francisco Xavier is supposed to contain one of the saint's arm bones, though I don't spot it during my visit. (There is an exceptionally creepy, dead-eyed baby Jesus, though, and copies of O Clarim, the trilingual Catholic weekly newspaper, are available for 12 patacas a pop; I buy one because I want a copy of each of Macau's Portuguese papers, and it's interesting seeing the presence of an English section- a wise move given that the Filipino Catholic community here probably outnumbers the native Catholics.) I get the feeling half the buildings here aren't inhabited, and I hope I'm wrong, because if I'm not it means the real estate speculation Professor Cavalheiro mentioned has extended even to this easygoing corner of the RAEM. Strolling along the waterfront is pleasant as long as you don't look at the sea: at low tide the sand is studded with broken concrete and trash, and there are people out there jet-skiing and kayaking on water that makes Galveston's look downright inviting. Have fun, dudes.
From the vila de Coloane it's back on the bus, past some Chinese nuns, the prison, and some nice tropical landscapes, to the Praia de Hac Sá, or 黑沙海灘, Macau's major beach. 黑沙 means "black sand", though these days it's mostly grey, and even then only in places- I've read that they filled it in with regular ol' yellowish sand due to erosion. That said, it's a pretty nice place to spend time: I take off my shoes and stroll back down the beach after following the inland course along campgrounds and barbeque pits, the latter already claimed by Filipino families, groups of Muslim women in hijab, and shirtless, tattooed Chinese dudes. When you read, over and over, just how special Macau is for being a tolerant crossroads between east and west, it's easy to roll your eyes and think of such claims as being overwrought attempts at selling the city to the world. But here I am, some barefoot American longhair, watching all kinds of people enjoy a leisurely Sunday of sun worship and grilling outdoors- and, far as I can tell, this sort of behavior is the norm here.
I ran into Professor Cavalheiro on the bus from campus, and he recommended a place called Miramar for lunch. I have no luck finding it, so I hit up my first choice, the world-renowned Fernando's, where a sign out front announces "Não temos ar condicionado, ketchup ou cadeiras para bébés, mas temos comida e bebidas!" (We don't have air conditioning, ketchup, or booster seats, but we have food and drinks!). It's a good thing I'm not very hungry, because the place is packed and the wait, based on the number of people milling about and killing time at the bar, is long enough for me to not even bother asking for a table. Instead, I find a stool at the bar next to a couple Europeans whose language I can't decipher- one minute I think I hear Portuguese, but they speak to the bartender in English; the next minute I hear Dutch syllables, and the next, French, so who knows- and drink a couple bottles of Super Bock in styrofoam coozies. The predominance of Super Bock rather than Sagres in Macau remains a source of curiosity for me. I prefer Sagres, which some places have, but I'd like to know why the other is so popular. I can only assume there's some specific distribution deal in place, or some division along regional, or more arcane, lines among the Portuguese community here that puts Super Bock on top. Anyhoo, Fernando's is a nice place to relax for a bit before catching the bus back to campus, and the beers are reasonably priced.
Sunday night I go to Henri's Galley, purported origin of one of my favorite dishes ever, galinha à africana. Henri's, situated on Avenida da Republica two doors down from a Lotus dealership and commanding a good view of Nam Van and the Macau Tower, has been around since the '70s, and to my surprise doesn't feel like it. The furniture's been updated, as has the lighting, and while there's still a heavily Portuguese nautical theme going on, it's not too kitschy. The overall atmosphere is really nice, I gotta say. The staff is attentive and friendly, and the food- I get torradinhas de camarão, or shrimp toast, and galinha à africana- is great. The recipe for galinha à africana is printed on the placemats and is nearly identical to the one I've followed since I started cooking the dish at home, but there's no mistaking the difference between mine and Henri's. The restaurant's version achieves an amazing balance of coconut and peanut flavors, with the finely-minced shallot and garlic providing a perfect texture and the paprika giving everything a smoky background and lovely red hue.
Suffice to say that I leave contented, and set off up Barra hill to walk off the meal and see the Palacete de Santa Sancha and the surrounding neighborhood, which includes the former Hotel Bela Vista, now the residence of the Consul-Geral de Portugal em Macau e Hong Kong. I walk by a woman offering treats to a stray cat in a tree, which makes me smile. (The cat was on his way down by the time I passed.) There's hardly anyone around save cops on guard duty outside of Santa Sancha and a couple other buildings, and everything is quiet. In short, it's readily apparent that I'm in a wealthy neighborhood, but not once do I feel like I'm being eyeballed or hustled along, nor do I get the impression that the locals with whom I share the street are, either.
When I get back to campus I expect to hear from Calvin and his pals about getting together to drink wine, which we discussed earlier in the day, but no dice. I figure I missed my chance, and then, around 11:30, there's knocking at my door, and I hear Calvin and his friends talking in Cantonese. I'm already in bed, so I ignore them. I'm too old to start drinking at midnight, man, good as it sounds, which honestly ain't that good.
Later, folks. Expect one more update before I get home, probably from Hong Kong.
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