Lisbon

My fitness tracker thinks I climbed a mountain. My legs agree. But Lisbon pays you back for every step. Around one corner: a tiny square with orange trees and old men playing cards. Around another: a tile-covered wall telling a story from 200 years ago. At the top: the whole city spread below, the Tagus glittering, the red rooftops endless. Then back down, thighs burning, to find a ginjinha bar the size of a closet, where a woman poured cherry liqueur into chocolate cups. These hills break you and then they heal you.

No photos allowed inside. I had to write it down instead. A room the size of my apartment, packed with people sitting on mismatched chairs. The singer appeared without introduction. When she opened her mouth, the room stopped breathing. Fado isn't just sad—it's something else. Something Portuguese that doesn't translate. Saudade, they call it: longing for something you're not sure you ever had. Her voice cracked on the high notes and nobody minded. That's where the truth lives.