Diary – 1 January 1970

In 1755 Lisbon was ruined by a massive earthquake, the shock waves from which were felt as far away as Switzerland. When the rumbling stopped, a great fire ensued, followed by a tsunami that washed away coastal villages. As I awoke on Tuesday morning, I had good reason to believe that Portugal’s capital was about to endure a second devastating tremor. On Lisbon’s Avenida de Joao II, the walls of my tiny hotel room seemed to be swaying and I could hear a terrible banging. My hands were sweating, my heart was pounding. Inside my head, the pressure was so intense that I feared that my eyes would pop out like corks from over-fizzed champagne bottles. Semi-conscious, I struggled to make sense of dreadful thoughts. Was this how it feels in the final moments before a catastrophic seismic event? Was I going to die? Er, not quite. There was, of course, no earthquake.