PORTO, Portugal — What do you think of when you think of Portugal?
When my wife first suggested visiting here, I drew a complete blank. No associations whatsoever. Not a single destination — just the opposite. I knew Lisbon was destroyed by a huge earthquake in 1755, but only because the catastrophe darkens Dr. Pangloss’s sunny mood in Voltaire’s “Candide.”
Otherwise, my gut told me Portugal is a kind of low rent Spain. Still, I agreed to go because, as I’ve said before, if I didn’t take my wife’s lead, I’d still be a single guy living in a one-bedroom apartment in Oak Park.
I went expecting nothing. Certainly not the jaw-dropping procession of palaces, castles and mansions we’ve just finished touring, each an endless warren of elaborate rooms crammed with crystal chandeliers and gilded opulence, oil paintings of royals dripping in ermine robes and bejeweled bling. Look up, and the ceilings were crammed with cherubim and angels and Greek gods smiling down.
As I listened to tour guides gravely explain which royal posterior graced which dynastic throne, who begot whom and which king built what architectural folly, I couldn’t help but consider that I was seeing the other side of the tunnel my own country is currently plunging into, as the United States slides into monarchy.
Do I exaggerate? Has our leader not declared himself God’s chosen vessel? (“I am the Chosen One” were his exact words). Have the customary checks and balances — Congress, the courts, the rule of law — been subdued? Is not voting, the traditional method that American citizens use to show they hold power over their leaders and not the other way round, being undercut?
Is our leader not furiously impressing his image on nearly every flat surface he can find? From passports to National Parks passes, and soon to be grimacing from coinage, a flex going back to Nero.
Think of all the effort expended on that White House ballroom. Half a dozen ballrooms in Portugal dwarf the one occupying far more time than a man trying to manage a war that refuses to cooperate with his pronouncements ought to spend. Not to forget the planned Triumphal Arch, to be 50% taller than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
They’ve got a big arch in Lisbon, too, the Rua Augusta Arch. Still, a mere slip of a structure — 100 feet tall — compared to the 250-foot behemoth some are already calling the Arch of Trump. The Rua Augusta Arch offers a warning, if anyone is in the learn-from-history business anymore.
The arch was begun after the aforementioned earthquake of 1755, intended to celebrate the rebirth of the city. But they were celebrating something that hadn’t happened yet; the arch wasn’t finished until 1873. At a similar rate, Trump’s arch will top out in 2144. If you’re sick of hearing about that ballroom now, imagine how you’ll feel midway through his third term. Or his son’s first term. These kings, they like to keep power in the family.
But power ebbs, despite regal wishes. Portugal hasn’t been a global player since 1580. They kept building palaces anyway. These grand edifices are not the portals of glory their builders imagined them to be. Portugal is the oldest nation in Europe, settled since neolithic times. It enthroned 34 kings between 1139 and 1910, but after being immersed in its history for nearly two weeks, I couldn’t name one if you put a gun to my head.
Our president is clearly trying to immortalize his name by carving it literally everywhere. But that’s futile. I could be standing in an ornate ballroom, vastly superior to the one our dear leader is now struggling to build, and though an earnest guide has just explained its provenance to my face, by the time I cross the parquet floor into the next glittering salon I’d forgotten which king built the place. King Leonard? Leopold? Something like that.
I don’t want to give the impression that I spent my vacation grumbling over the sorry state of democracy back home. Portugal is lovely; its people, warm. As for my people … heck, look on the bright side: Soon we can celebrate the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding by once again throwing off the kind of tyranny that set us to rebel from a king in the first place.
Ballrooms, arches — neither guarantee greatness. You know what does? Being great. George Washington didn’t have to build his own memorials. Nor Abraham Lincoln. They were honored by others because they are worthy of honor.
Give Donald Trump credit for a rare moment of self-awareness. He seems to understand that he must drape himself in glory, now, because perhaps nobody will do so in the future.