No place for old men.
I didn't have a hat or some such - remember I'm not fluent. As they weren't wearing them either, I tried to inform them that they were kettles calling the pot black but instead I think I said something about black dinner plates and hot water.
So I had to take them from beyond the safety fencing *snorts* which was, in my opinion, about as safe as crossing the road with a blindfold on.
Anyway. It was formerly occupied by a horde of old men, rain or shine, playing chess and reminiscing about the good old days. Presumably the ones where Portugal was less a free country and more a regime, run by a guy that thought Hitler was cool. Nice guy.
This was taken mid-afternoon. Look how much work's being done ... come on Lisbon - there's old men a-wandering.
As you can see - it's undergoing an overhaul. Which is fine. But where are the old men? They were always there - every single day. Are they dispersed? Displaced?
So much so that I've been looking for them. I even checked the cemetary out the other day. It's huge, full of large spaces and there's the odd bench here and there. All I found were several relatives of the dearly departed, thousands of folks enjoying eternal rest and one belligerent graveyard attendant.
But no old men.
I hope they're not wandering the streets of Lisbon, trying to adapt to modern life - playing mobile chess, reminiscing on the hoof and trying not to break a hip or two.
I'm worried about them.