On a sunny hill above Alfama stood an old olive tree, its branches bent by the wind from the Tagus. The streets of Lisbon wind around it and the light glitters on the red roofs like liquid gold.
A little boy gathered the olives as the city awoke and thought to himself:
"Like the olives, we too need time to ripen."
The olives smelled of earth, sun and salt – and the tree seemed to whisper:
"Patience, my little one. Everything that is valuable grows slowly and takes time – just like your city and just like you."
