Lisbon Found Me This Morning
When memory, rain, and music quietly align
By Rafi Mercer
Some days don’t announce themselves — they arrive quietly, already knowing what you need.
It’s been raining for days here. The kind of rain that dulls edges and slows mornings down. And without really choosing it, my mind drifted south — to Lisbon. Old Lisbon. Hills, light, worn stone, rooms that breathe. A city that understands pace without ever naming it.
I was thinking of Charle. We worked together years ago at Virgin — she was the Portuguese national music buyer. Effortlessly cool. Still is, I imagine. The kind of person you didn’t need to talk much with, because music did the talking for you. Certain records would come on and you’d just smile. No commentary required.
That memory pulled a sound with it. Cesária Évora. Sodade — a song that’s travelled the world in remixes and festival moments, but never lost its weight. Today, though, it isn’t the remix. It’s Live à Paris 1993, playing quietly beside me.
And it’s perfect.
Her voice doesn’t perform — it arrives. Full of joy, connection, soul, and an unforced peace that feels almost architectural. You don’t listen to Cesária to escape; you listen to remember how it feels to belong somewhere, even briefly.
Lisbon has that same gift. So do certain people.
I might message Charle later. Just a line. Music has a way of keeping old doors warm without needing to reopen them.
Some days are for speed.
Today was for listening.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
