Extra! My first 25 de Abril

I hadn't planned to document my first experience of Portugal celebrating its Carnation Revolution. It was too beautiful not to.

A woman at Lisbon’s April 25 parade held a sign depicting a typewriter and a sewing machine with the words “Por todas as vulgares mulheres extraordinárias” (“for all the extraordinary ordinary women”). It was that kind of day.

Yesterday was Portugal’s most important national holiday: April 25 celebrates the anniversary of 1974’s Carnation Revolution, the bloodless overthrow of a 48-year dictatorship. I wrote that I was going to Lisbon to watch the parade.

“For my first April 25 here I’ll just be watching and absorbing, not reporting,” I wrote. “I have no plans to write about it for an extra Queer Elder Expat tomorrow or for next Saturday. Maybe next year.”

As I also wrote at the end of my first Queer Elder Expat last summer: “Everything is subject to revision.”

Because this event was one of the most moving public experiences I’ve ever witnessed, and because I got some decent enough photos, here are some scenes from the day.

The parade was scheduled to start at 3 p.m. Expecting a crowd and wanting to find a good spot, I arrived early. People were just starting to gather at the Praça do Marquês de Pombal on Avenida da Liberdade.

On every corner, someone was selling carnations. I bought one for €1,50.

By 3 p.m., Avenida da Liberdade was filled with people.

The parade began with two military tanks. A lone woman soldier rode atop one of them, smiling at the crowd.

I especially liked these two signs: “Liberdade para ser eu” (“Freedom to be myself”) and “Eu não estava lá mas agora estou aqui!” (“I wasn’t there, but now I’m here!”).

People of every age showed up. Lots of kids rode on shoulders.

Official contingents of groups marched behind banners (political parties and advocacy organizations, from what I could determine), but in reality the parade was just an enormous crowd of people taking a leisurely walk along Avenida da Liberdade, celebrating their freedom while crowds on the sidewalks cheered and sang with them.

The three main chants were:

“Fascismo nunca mais!” (“Never again fascism!”)

“Vente-cinco abril sempre!” (“25th of April always!”)

And something that started with a verb I couldn’t understand but ended with “continuar abril” — I understood it to be about continuing to work toward the ideals of April 25. Apologies to everyone if I’m wrong.

Here’s a good fascismo nunca mais:

Often the crowd sang songs by the revered folk singer José “Zeca” Afonso. Mostly they sang “Grândola, Vila Morena,” which was broadcast over the radio to help signal the beginning of the revolution. But at one point they also sang “O Que Faz Falta.” The title translates to “What is missing?” and I’d invite anyone who’s interested to google the lyrics in Portuguese and then run them through a translation app (welcome to my world!) — the reward is rich. But basically: what’s missing is what the gang has taken from the people, and a crowd determined to take it back.

At one point, a man behind me with a strong clear voice began singing a beautiful “Grândola, Vila Morena.” He and his whole family sang it with a bit more gusto before I turned around and asked for permission to film, but they indulged me.

Many drum lines kept the crowd moving. These gals were my favorites.

After a couple of hours at my spot, it seemed as if the official march might be wrapping up before too long. I decided to join the walkers and head toward the end of the parade, though I wasn’t sure where that would be.

The procession headed past the “Monumento aos Mortos da Grande Guerra” (“The Monument to the Fallen in the Great War”). This statue is a great example of the beauty one stumbles across, seemingly randomly, everywhere in Lisbon.

When I spotted the folks with the rainbow flags, I fell in with them. I knew better than to try to talk to anyone because it wasn’t the sort of situation where you could ask someone to repeat what they’d just said, only more slowly. But I’ve marched in enough Pride parades in my 63 years to know when it’s OK to join in. Here’s another “Grândola, Vila Morena,” this time from the queer contingent.

The march ended a few blocks later at Praça dos Restauradores. The word “restauradores” means “restorers,” not restaurants. The monument there honors the Portuguese Restoration War of the 1600s, but that’s a whole different revolution.

Here people hung around figuring out where to go next. In my younger days I would have found the queer bar and danced all night. But I was tired and my feet hurt. So I headed to the subway and joined a few hundred other anti-fascists.

I took the Blue Line to the Santa Apolónia stop, boarded a ferry across the Tagus River and from there caught a train back home to Setúbal, thoroughly overwhelmed by the beauty of the Portuguese people.