The Rhythm of Lisbon

Just as I prepared my bags for the bus to the airport, my monthly menstrual headache arrived. This wasn't going to be as smooth as I had hoped. Lately, I have been connecting more with my cycle and understanding that, on my period, my traumas come out. Which makes sense, as I feel very sensitive and emotional during this time. I notice I can also feel how others are feeling more deeply than usual. What a beautiful gift—yet horrible timing for boarding a plane and being in close proximity to others.

Getting on a plane brings me a rush of freedom. I feel exhilarated as I step into a new adventure and turn my phone on airplane mode for some much-needed disconnection from “reality.”

I arrived at 1:00 a.m., groggy and confused. I couldn't figure out where the Uber drivers were picking people up in my state, so I took a taxi—something I typically avoid—but I was desperate to lie down. The driver was kind and share a bit of his life in Lisbon, he charged me double but in the end I was happy to support a local. At the hostel, I settled in and tried to sleep, but every loud snore of the older gentleman I shared with sent chills down my spine. I hugged my arms over my chest as if shielding myself. My body still doesn't feel quite safe sleeping around strangers. I've connected this to some past event of being kidnapped in my sleep—whether this is past life or ancestral is unsure, but the fear is very real. This unease goes back to as early as I can remember. My parents would tuck me in at night as a child, and I would kick them away, fighting them in my sleep.

I felt both discomfort and excitement for the following day. The first day in a new city is one of my favorite feelings in the world. Every new street holds the promise of discovery, every cobblestone a whisper of stories untold.

I rose at 7:30, not rested but ready to explore. I encountered the man from my room in the morning, and he greeted me with a smile and said, “Aww, you're the one I slept with last night.” We had a good laugh. He was in his mid-60s, and it turns out he was from Poland, not far from the Czech border. We discussed Central Europe over coffee and said our farewells. I spent a good portion of the morning sitting on the terrace, watching the view and putting pen to paper—my dream morning. I realized I am living my dream life; in many ways, I already have what I have always wanted. What has changed is I have started to want more. An endless cycle of living in the future. I'm reminded that I have everything right now.

I headed out of the hostel to get lost and see what treasures the day would bring. I ended up at the Castelo de São Jorge. I went to the ticket booth, hesitated, and decided not to go. I didn't feel the call to do the thing you're “supposed” to do in a city. The other tourists were already starting to flock, and I wanted space. I wandered some more and found a church with a lookout point. I paid the 5 euros and went to the top. There I stood alone—the city of Lisbon my empire. I looked out at the sun-covered buildings and the massive Tagus River, and a wave of gratitude swept over me, a gentle warmth spreading through my heart space. I asked for guidance and inspiration on this trip—to be led to that which seeks me. Goosebumps covered my body, and I felt my heart expand.

It turns out the bell tower is actually a repurposed tower from the castle's defensive walls, so I visited a part of the castle after all. I stepped into the Santa Cruz Church of Castelo de São Jorge. Built in the 12th century on top of a mosque, it symbolizes the shift from Muslim to Christian rule in the region. While in the church, I felt the power of love, prayer, and intention. I lit a candle for my grandfather. I connected with his spirit and asked him to walk with me on this day—to bring the gift of connection and storytelling to my life. A few tears fell, and I descended the hill toward the meeting point of my walking tour.

I grabbed a pastel de nata on the way. As I bit into the warm custard tart with a caramelized top, its flaky crust got all over my face, and the sprinkle of cinnamon went straight to the back of my throat. A rush of pleasure tickled through my body. My first bite of Lisbon was a warm welcome—no wonder it is Portugal's most famous pastry. The pastéis de nata were created by Catholic monks at the Jerónimos Monastery in Belém, Lisbon, in the 18th century. The exotic cinnamon comes from the Portuguese explorers who traveled east, particularly Sri Lanka.

I found Nuno by the fountain. I had chosen his "free" walking tour because the way his words on GuruWalk resonated with me. We instantly made a connection, and it turns out his story has similarities to mine. He started as a teacher and has a deep love and appreciation for nature. He showed me many places I had never seen in Lisbon—this was my second time visiting the city. My mind opened as I listened to the tales of the devastating earthquake and tsunami that hit Lisbon in 1755 and his passion for Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, who wrote under dozens of names and in Portuguese, English, and French. His work is introspective and thought-provoking. He often used Lisbon as a metaphor for the self. Nuno made the city come to life.

An idea came to me on on our trip—to create a link to guides around the world on my website. A list of friends in places who share the same passions for teaching, storytelling, and writing.

On the tour, we stopped for coffee. I went for an espresso—even though it's been many months since I've had caffeine, I felt the desire to taste the culture, and with no sleep, I figured my body could handle it. It was divine—earthy and bittersweet, with subtle notes of chocolate.

The gentleman next to me started up a conversation. Rowan, a kiwi on a year-long adventure traveling the world. Our chat continued on and off throughout the pauses on the tour, and afterward, he suggested we get some lunch. We headed to a spot recommended by Nuno. We shared a spread of Portuguese flavors—golden, crispy pastéis de bacalhau, the beloved salt cod cakes found across the country; rissóis de camarão, crunchy shrimp turnovers that gave way to a creamy, savory filling; and bacalhau à brás, a comforting dish of shredded cod entwined with silky eggs and crisp potatoes.

We swapped stories. He shared a bit about his journey sailing with his father, He spent months out on the water, encountering swells as tall as the buildings we sat next to. The ocean is so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. I dream of sailing someday but also question whether I want to face death in this way. In one moment, the ocean can just eat you up—she can take your soul into her depths. The ocean is definitely a woman. I feel the emotions rise in me—she is controlled by the moon, and so am I. What answers does the ocean have for me on this trip? I crave the crashing of her waves and the calmness she brings to my mind. He shared how this year has felt like five years because of all the new experiences, stimulation, and activity. We discussed how routine and the mundane can lead to time flying by without us even noticing it. Travel, in my experience, helps to slow down time. It's so beautiful to encounter likeminded travelers, like ships passing in the night we share a moment of connection and then on to our next journey. It's these chance encounters that make travel so powerful and keep me coming back for more.

In the evening, I went for a stroll and found the moon, full in all her glory, shining over the Tagus. I heard music and followed its beat... I found four Spanish buskers playing the guitar and saxophone, singing under the moonlight. They had gathered quite a crowd. I sat and listened as their music moved me to tears. Their rawness brought me into my body, I felt tingles up my spine and my from my fingertips up through my arms. How beautiful it is to witness people doing what they love.

A deep desire rose in my heart—for everyone to have the ability to make a living from their passion. How beautifully the world could flow if we honored our individual gifts. I also realized how much more I enjoy this type of music than a sold-out stadium. As a woman who works the streets as a tour guide, I have so much respect for those who put themselves out there and ask others to honor their value. This is true vulnerability and trust.

I started to feel a rumble in my stomach—dinner time! I looked around, but none of the places felt right. I use my intuition to guide me to be in the right place at the right time so I continued roaming the streets until it felt right. I spotted a restaurant I had noticed in the morning, and there was a sign that said, “Fado at 8:00 PM.” I ventured in, hoping for a spot, and the waiter brought me to the front—the best seat in the house—basically in the lap of the musicians. I sat down, and the guitarist’s face lit up.

To my right, an elderly gentleman asked if it was my first Fado, as if he could sense my Virginity. He introduced himself—Geoff, from Tasmania—and was surprised that I, an American, knew where Tasmania was. Geoff happened to be a Fado enthusiast, a poet, activist, and a sociologist. The female Fadista was his best friend in the city. He shared his passion for Fado with me—a deeply emotional and melancholic genre usually performed with a Portuguese Guitarra (a 12-string guitar) and a classical guitar in dimly lit taverns or Fado houses, like the one I found myself in.

I watched the musicians’ hands stroke the guitars, and the gentleman on the right would smile whenever he hit the note just right. The woman’s voice trembled with raw emotion, and a tear fell from her left eye as she passionately sang from deep within her core. Her connection to her voice was inspiring. I had noticed the same thing with the Spanish musicians performing under the full moon. How beautiful it is to see others in flow, doing what makes their hearts sing.

Geoff shared with me the dark side of Fado—the Fadistas don’t make much money. Often, their salary is lower than minimum wage. The art is not as appreciated anymore; the restaurants only keep them there to attract customers rather than truly honoring their work. I much prefer to experience music this way—in an intimate setting, live and candlelit.

We must honor the energy of those who pursue their passions if we want to live in a world that flows with harmony. Buy from the ceramic worker on the corner, the jewelry maker in the square, the farmers at the market. We decide where we put our energy—our money.

At the end of the night, one of the musicians approached me to buy his CD. I said yes, even though I no longer own a CD player. He signed it, and now it’s a memory—a reminder to support individuals and keep art alive.

I walked slowly back to my hostel, taking in every sight of the city, now lit by street lamps. I reminded myself to notice the little things. When I got to my room, I looked at the sign to the right of the door. It said, “Fado.” A beautiful synchronicity—a confirmation that when I travel, I am in tune and connected to the rhythm of life.