One of every 10 here in Lisbon is African. I walk to and from the docks, passing through the stone arches in front of the water. Ship builders on the water’s edge work on carracks. The buildings are salty, lying well-rooted to the hills.

There is a great stone courtyard on the ocean’s edge, piled with goods for trade—sometimes it is also filled with slaves. It is always filled with freedmen looking for work. The low hills in the distance are dotted here and there with trees, and the spires push up and out above it all, crying for attention. The walls of the city show sometimes between the red and yellow stone buildings. In the right light, it is a beautiful place, and built by many who will never enjoy it.