My trip to Portugal – 2018

Porto

We left Florianópolis for Rio — the classic air bridge for those dreaming of Europe. On this trip, I was with Ju, Leonardo, and Guiga — who, in my heart, are family. Our final destination? Porto. That’s where our EuroAfrica adventure would begin. According to the photos (because travel memories are charmingly selective), we ran into a certain DJ Gege in the airport line. Who? I honestly still don’t know. But we moved on.

Once on Portuguese soil, we took the subway to Bolhão Station. From there, we walked to our apartment. And I have to confess: it was a sweet shock to arrive in Europe and, suddenly, hear everyone speaking… Portuguese. It felt like we’d crossed the ocean only to land in the neighborhood next door.

The apartment? Huge. All the interior walls were painted red, which gave me a feeling somewhere between “modern design” and “Chinese restaurant.” But the location made up for any aesthetic confusion — we were right next to Rua Santa Catarina, which, by the way, felt like a European cousin of Felipe Schmidt Street, back in Floripa.

It was there that we ate our first francesinha. No, it’s not a dessert. It’s basically a hearty sandwich: meat, bacon, things I didn’t even ask about, all covered in melted cheese, topped with a fried egg, drenched in a secret house sauce, and served with fries on the side. Comfort food at its finest. Midway through the meal, a Terno de Reis passed by singing — and right there, in the heart of Porto, eating a sandwich worthy of respect, I nearly got emotional.

After lunch, we headed to the famous Lello Bookstore, the one they say inspired Harry Potter. Beautiful, no doubt. But honestly? I expected more. Maybe actual magic.

The city was beautifully lit for Christmas — strings of lights stretched across the hills, giving it that classic European movie scene feel. But tiredness crept in. After a stroll through the market, we returned to the apartment, had dinner, and completely passed out.

We planned to wake up at 8 a.m. the next day. Cue laughter. We opened our eyes at 9, thanks — or not — to a man shouting something incomprehensible in the street. At first, we thought he was yelling “newspaper,” then “lottery tickets,” but eventually (and with patience), we figured out he was announcing the Christmas Lottery. And yes, understanding Portuguese in Portugal isn’t always as easy as it sounds.

We began our day at the Ribeira. Along the way, historic buildings vied for our attention. And when we finally got there, it all made sense: this was Porto’s heart. We crossed the Douro River via the bridge, and from above, the city revealed itself even more enchanting.

By the riverbank, we had lunch at a cozy restaurant with even cozier waiters. The menu? A tomato soup to start, which tasted more like warmed-up canned sauce. It was edible — but not exactly unforgettable… or maybe it was, because if I close my eyes, I can still taste it (and it’s still awful). Luckily, the main dish saved the meal, and of course, we had it with wine. After all, we were in Portugal.

We ended the day crossing the river again, strolling through the historic center, and heading back to the apartment to prepare our Christmas Eve dinner. Because, after all, it was yet another Christmas together — me and Julia — just like so many others spent in Alfredo Wagner, at her grandparents’ house.

Porto was worth every step. A city with a light soul, beautiful, peaceful. I could easily live there. Even with the temperamental stove in our apartment, we were sure Christmas dinner would happen… somehow. It always does.

Portugal Road Trip

We fell in love with Porto. But it wasn’t yet time to settle — Portugal had more stories to tell. We decided to rent a car and, right in the middle of Christmas, we dreamed up a road trip: from Porto to Lisbon, stopping in every town that had something to show us. We wanted it all: landmarks, bites of local food, sips of regional drinks, and those invisible details that only the road can give. The route read like a rhymed poem: Porto, Aveiro, Coimbra, Batalha, Fátima, Nazaré, Óbidos, Lisbon.

Aveiro welcomed us like a hand-drawn postcard. The moliceiro boats gliding down the canals looked like they were posing for us, fully aware of their photogenic charm. And we, surrendering tourists, simply followed the flow. The striped houses in Costa Nova looked like pure childhood joy, as if they’d been painted on a good day. They call Aveiro the Portuguese Venice — and honestly? Better. It doesn’t smell weird and doesn’t think it’s more important than it is.

From there, we drove on to Coimbra, where the scent of history competed with the melancholic sound of fado. We wandered through narrow streets like someone flipping through an old book. The University and the Joanina Libraryleft us speechless — the kind of silence you need so the wonder can settle in. The students in black cloaks made everything even more cinematic. I found myself imagining what it would be like to study there… and of course, I took the opportunity to snap a few photos with my newest book — the third in the series — because even authors are tourists.

In truth, I kept thinking how studying in Europe, especially in Portugal, had such a Brazil-Colonial undertone. Of course, as a woman, back then there wouldn't have been a spot for me. Thankfully, in 2019, women could study in Europe. I didn’t know it yet, but later that same year, my opportunity would come.

In Batalha, silence wasn’t a choice — it was a rule. The Gothic Monastery commanded respect. The stained-glass windows filtered the light like poetry turned into architecture. We walked slowly, eyes wide, trying to absorb that corner of the world that felt larger than us. The silence only broke when someone — I won’t name names, but it starts with J and ends with úlia — tried to film and fell down. The video turned out great, by the way.

Fátima was a nearly sacred pause. Even for those who don’t pray, there’s something there that stirs you. The Sanctuary is a place where even the air feels like it asks for silence. We watched the candles burning and thought about life, faith, or whatever it was we needed to think about. The coffee was simple, the bread even simpler — and it didn’t need to be more.

Back on the coast, Nazaré greeted us with the scent of salt and sea. We climbed up to the Sítio viewpoint, where the view matched the Instagram hype. That place is famous for its gigantic waves, where nature usually roars. But that day, it whispered. The sea was calm, almost like a lake. The waves remained in our imagination — and honestly, that was enough. The sunset, on the other hand, was very real: it painted the horizon in gold and orange and reminded us that not everything has to happen to be beautiful.

Óbidos felt like a movie set. A medieval village surrounded by stone walls, where each narrow street promised a new discovery. We were lured in by the famous ginjinha in a chocolate cup — and of course, we gave in. Walking along the top of the walls, looking down at the village, felt like walking through time. The past never really left Óbidos — it simply made peace with the presence of tourists.

By nightfall, we arrived in Lisbon. It was about time. And there it was, waiting for us — with its yellow trams, its fado echoing through the alleys, and that way of telling stories without ever raising its voice.

Lisbon

Arriving in Lisbon felt like opening a book I had always wanted to read. Ever since childhood, captivated by Brazil’s history, I knew I would one day set foot there — on those cobbled streets where it all began, on those hills where the Portuguese past spills slowly, unbothered.

Lisbon welcomed me like an old friend, with the smell of coffee, the ringing of trams, and that golden light that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world. Walking through Lisbon was like having a conversation with history — no translation needed.

And I fell in love. Just like that.

Even though I had spent countless summers during my childhood and teenage years with Júlia — and both of us are deeply passionate about travel — this was the first time we had ever traveled together. And I have to give her credit: Júlia organized everything. She planned every detail of the trip flawlessly, like a natural-born tour guide. Following her itinerary, on December 26, we set out to explore Lisbon — and of course, we went by tram. We boarded at Praça da Figueira, which, once again, reminded us of a distant cousin of Praça XV in Floripa.

Lisbon’s trams are like characters in the city — old, charming, and full of stories to tell. At every turn on the hills, they creak as if complaining about their age, but they carry on — because they know they’re carrying Lisbon’s heart. They were all decorated for Christmas, with twinkling lights in the windows and little ornaments that made the ride even more enchanting. We climbed aboard like someone stepping into a time machine, gliding through historic neighborhoods and seeing the city from a different angle, between the screech of the wheels and the soft ringing of the bell.

The story of the Lisbon trams blends into the story of the city itself — since the late 19th century, they’ve followed the same routes, connecting past and present in a journey you never want to end. We loved every bump, every turn, every stop. More than transportation: it was an experience. And a beautiful memory to carry with us.

We got off at Largo das Portas do Sol and walked to São Jorge Castle. The fortress, built by the Moors in the 11th century, stands like a silent sentinel, watching over Lisbon from the top of the hill. Walking along its walls felt like turning the pages of a history book: stones worn by time, towers that had seen kings, battles, and stories no one tells anymore. The silence there wasn’t uncomfortable — it was almost an invitation to pause.

But what truly took our breath away — even more than the climb — was the view. From the top of the castle, Lisbon stretched out like a red-tiled quilt, cut through by narrow streets and the shimmering silver of the Tagus River. We stood there for long minutes, looking at the city the way you look at an old love: recognizing every curve, every detail. Lisbon unveiled itself completely to us. And it was there, at the castle’s viewpoint, that I was sure — I was exactly where I had always wanted to be.

Nearby are the Santa Luzia Viewpoint, the National Pantheon, and the famous Feira da Ladra flea market — but the latter only runs on Tuesdays and Saturdays, giving us one more reason to come back.

From there, we wandered down through Alfama, slowly, like people who understand that in Lisbon, the journey is always more important than the destination. The narrow streets, drawn without logic or planning, guided us like a labyrinth that only makes sense to those willing to get lost. Clotheslines hanging from windows, weathered azulejos, and fado echoing faintly in the distance completed the scene — a neighborhood that seems to have made a pact with time never to change.

That’s how we arrived at the Church of Saint Anthony of Lisbon — the city’s famous matchmaking saint. Did I make a wish? I don’t remember. But something tells me I did, because later that same year, I met Rory. Coincidence? I’d rather believe it was a little tourist intervention.

Just around the corner, almost hidden between ancient walls, was the José Saramago Foundation — a literary pause in the heart of Alfama’s maze. Walking through those streets felt like reading an old book with your eyes wide open — Lisbon told us its story through tiles, clotheslines, and cobblestone paths. No rush, no full stops.

From Alfama, we kept walking downhill until we reached the Praça do Comércio, that wide-open plaza where Lisbon spills itself out in full view of the Tagus. There, between yellow buildings and the golden afternoon light reflecting on the river, we visited the Lisboa Story Centre. Small on the outside, but essential — the museum tells the city’s story like an old friend pulling up a chair to chat. The 1755 earthquake, the fire, the rebuilding... it all came together there. Lisbon wasn’t just beautiful — it was resilient.

Right across the street was the Café Martinho da Arcada, where Fernando Pessoa used to sit at his regular table. I couldn’t resist the mental image: the poet watching the same streets that now belonged to us for a moment, as if Lisbon were the constant stage and we were just passing visitors.

We walked along Rua Augusta to the famous Arco da Rua Augusta, Lisbon’s post-earthquake triumphal arch. We didn’t climb it, but they say that from the top, you can see the perfect grid of Baixa Pombalina laid out at your feet.

We kept walking through Baixa until we found ourselves once again in Rossio Square. And it was there, at Largo de São Domingos, that we stopped for one more glass of Port — because when in Portugal, one must indulge.

As the sun began to turn the streets golden, we decided to end the day the way Lisbon deserves: at Delirium Tremens. Yes, the same Belgian beer brand — but with a uniquely Lisbon twist. There, among pink elephant decor and a menu overflowing with beer options, we set aside the wine and the ginjinha — it was time for beer.

We sat down without hurry, knowing our bodies were tired but our souls still wanted one more toast. The Delirium Tremens — strong and slightly spicy — was the kind of surprise Lisbon loves to offer: unexpected, delicious, and slightly off the beaten path. Between sips, we toasted to the day, to the stories we had gathered, and to that quiet joy of knowing we were living a moment worth remembering.

Lisbon had already given us so much. And there, between friends, laughter, and good beer, she kept giving.

And it was there, at Lisbon’s Delirium Tremens, that the night transformed. After the beer came the laughter — and before we knew it, we were dancing. Nothing planned. Nothing touristy. Just the sheer pleasure of letting our bodies follow the music, between chilled pints and that beautiful feeling of being exactly where we were supposed to be. We filmed ridiculous videos (which, of course, we swore never to post, but five minutes later they were on our stories), laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and made the kind of promise you only make on happy nights: we’d come back.

It was, without a doubt, an unexpected late afternoon — off the traditional itinerary. But one of those that make a trip become what it truly is: a collection of moments too full to fit in photos.

Belém

The next day, it was time to explore Belém — the neighborhood where Portugal’s history breathes through every stone. But first, I have to confess: my biggest discovery was gastronomic. It was there that I tasted my very first pastel de nata. Just one bite and I understood what all the fuss was about. Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar — it was, no exaggeration, a tiny event within the trip.

With happy bellies, we boarded tram 15, heading toward Algés. We got off at Pedrouços stop, just a short walk from the grand Jerónimos Monastery. We strolled through the gardens, photographed every angle, and used the fallen leaves to give our pictures that cinematic touch — as if European winter had been hired just for our photo shoot. The monastery, with its Manueline architecture, was a stone-carved masterpiece — every detail asked for a pause, every column felt like an invitation to marvel.

From there, we walked toward the Belém Tower, that stone sentinel guarding the edge of the Tagus. Built in the 16th century, the tower had once been a military post, a customs checkpoint, and now it’s the backdrop of countless selfies. As for us? We admired it from afar. Sometimes, looking from a distance is enough — and right there, between the river and the tower, the scene was perfect without needing to cross the drawbridge.

Along the banks of the Tagus, we wandered leisurely toward the Monument to the Discoveries — that massive stone caravel, forever sailing forward into the unknown. We stood there, gazing at the statues of Portugal’s great navigators, and imagined the courage — or madness — it took to set sail for the ends of the world in those days. Seeing it all by the water, with the wind brushing our faces, was like hearing a whisper from the past saying:

“Be brave. It’s worth setting sail.”

A bit further on, it was time for gluttony to take charge again: the unmissable stop at Pastéis de Belém, also known as Confeitaria de Belém. Since 1837, they’ve proudly produced what they call the “original” pastéis de nata. And after tasting it, I won’t argue — the crust crackled with each bite, and the filling had the perfect balance of sweetness and creaminess. Sitting there, sipping a coffee and simply existing, was one of those small-but-great joys of the day.

That night, we swapped monuments for conversation. Denise, my friend from my master’s program, had insisted I meet a dear friend of hers — David — and so we went out for dinner together. The food was great, but what stayed with us was the easy laughter, the stories shared, that lovely feeling that Lisbon was offering us new friends along with pastries. At some point during the meal, David casually joked that the Portuguese were now paying the “Madonna Tax” — ever since the singer had moved to Lisbon, prices had gone up. According to him, Lisbon had become “trendy” among the rich and famous — and Madonna, naturally, was the preferred scapegoat.

I laughed, but it made sense. In recent years, Lisbon had gone from historic city to celebrity hotspot — actors, musicians, even modern aristocrats had chosen to live there, drawn by that perfect blend of big city and small village charm. The houses in Lapa, the apartments in Príncipe Real, had all become high-demand luxury listings.

That dinner, between forkfuls and laughter, made me realize that Lisbon had reinvented itself once again. No longer just the city of poets and fado, it was now also home to the stars. And what amazed me most? It hadn’t lost its essence. The trams, the smell of coffee, the Tagus catching the light — and now, a discreet layer of glamour quietly tucked into its alleys.

Sintra

Sintra felt like stepping into a fairy tale written by a slightly eccentric author. The entire town looked hand-drawn — colorful palaces clinging to the cliffs, mysterious gardens, and that stubborn fog that sometimes hid, sometimes revealed the scenery. Walking through Sintra was like wandering through a place where history, legend, and fantasy intertwine. Everything felt excessive — and at the same time, absolutely magical. I had dreamed of visiting Sintra since I was a child. And being there felt like I’d crossed an invisible threshold: we were no longer in Portugal. We were somewhere where the real and the imagined walked hand in hand.

We arrived with that giddy feeling that tells you the day will be special. Right outside the train station, the famous 434 bus was already waiting. That day, I wasn’t feeling my best — a little feverish, nothing major — but I’d made up my mind: with or without a fever, I would enjoy Sintra. We took the so-called Circuito da Pena, a loop that strategically climbs the mountain, stopping at all the highlights: the National Palace of Sintra, the Moorish Castle, and finally, at the very top, the Palácio Nacional da Pena. We’d climb up and then make our way back down — a route carved by the mountain itself.

Our first stop was the Moorish Castle, perched high above Sintra. The undulating walls, following the mountain’s contours, looked like a miniature version of the Great Wall of China. The wind was cold, but the view made up for it — we could see the entire town nestled between the green hills and the blue Atlantic in the distance. Walking those walls felt like balancing between past and present, literally above the clouds.

Next came what we’d been most looking forward to: the Palácio Nacional da Pena. And if Sintra was already storybook-like, this palace was the most extravagant chapter. Painted in bold yellows and reds, with towers and details that seemed picked by a very indecisive king, it was as bizarre as it was fascinating. We strolled through the gardens like visitors on a movie set.

On the way down, we took the 434 bus back to Sintra’s town center, where our sweet reward awaited: the famous travesseiros from Casa Piriquita. The bakery is over 160 years old, and the pastry — a puff filled with almond cream — was worth every minute of the wait. Not far from there was the Fábrica das Verdadeiras Queijadas da Sapa, another regional classic with an 18th-century recipe.

We made a quick stop at Mercearia do Beco, where we had dinner near the Quinta da Regaleira. We ended our Sintra visit strolling through the charming town center, browsing little shops and cafés, and feeling that familiar tug — the wish to stay a little longer.

But Lisbon was calling us back. We boarded the train on the Sintra-Lisbon line, tired but happy, and watched the scenery roll by through the window — as if we knew we had left a small part of our hearts somewhere among the castles and mist of Sintra.

Back in Lisbon, we returned — of course — to Delirium.

Cascais

The next day, we traded Lisbon’s historic charm for the fresh breeze of the coast and set off to explore Cascais — the kind of place where the sea meets sophistication effortlessly. The town looked straight out of a postcard: clean streets, white houses with colorful accents, and that relaxed vibe of people who know they live in paradise. We walked slowly along the shore, with the Atlantic sparkling under the sun and the boats swaying lazily in the harbor.

Cascais had the soul of a fishing village, but with the elegant flair of a seaside retreat. Between the little shops, cafés, and small beaches with pale sand, we quickly understood why so many people choose this corner of Portugal to live — or simply to slow down. The sea invited us in — even if just with our eyes.

Along the promenade, the smell of roasted chestnuts followed us as we walked. We couldn’t resist: we bought a warm paper cone and devoured them along the way — the simplest and most traditional snack we could’ve picked.

In Cascais, we stumbled upon something that looked straight out of a fairy tale: the Casa de Santa Maria. Its tower, the architectural details, and the stone bridge next to it created a near-cinematic scene. It was impossible not to stop, take photos, and admire that place — it felt like it had been pulled from the pages of a storybook. With the sea right there and the sunlight cutting through the shadows, that little castle turned out to be one of those unplanned finds that end up becoming one of the most beautiful moments of the day.

From downtown Cascais, we made our way to the impressive Boca do Inferno — a rocky cliff formation where the sea crashes violently against the walls, creating a spectacle of waves and sound. We stayed there for a while, mesmerized, listening to the Atlantic roar through the stone caves. The force of nature had a different tone in that place.

We wrapped up the day in Estoril, Cascais’ elegant neighbor. We walked along the beach, passed by historic hotels, and felt that everything moved even slower there. At the top of a cliff, a violinist played, and we sat down to watch the sunset — that perfect moment when the sky turns gold and the sea becomes a mirror. It was the perfect farewell to the Portuguese coast: the sun dipping into the Atlantic, and us there, in silence, just watching. No rush, no words, nothing else needed.

That night, we returned to our Airbnb and finished the day with wine and beer we had picked up along the way — a toast to everything we had seen, felt, and lived.

Our Last Day in Lisbon

We spent our final day in Lisbon the way every farewell deserves to be spent: without rushing, without grand plans. We wandered the city, walking in and out of shops — and, of course, our beloved Primark (which we fondly call Penneys back in Ireland) was our official stop to spend the last of our euros. We bought souvenirs, little treats, and those gifts we get more as an excuse than out of necessity.

For lunch, we had a bacalhau dish truly worthy of a trip-ending meal — in a charming restaurant where time seemed to slow down just for us.

Before heading back to our Airbnb, we stocked up on pastéis de nata — a lot of them. In the elevator, I joked that I wanted to buy 100 euros worth, and nearly gave a poor lady next to us a heart attack.

“That’s a lotta paxtel,” she said, thick Portuguese accent and all.

Back in our little Lisbon home, the suitcases were open, ready to carry more than just clothes and souvenirs — they’d be filled with everything we had experienced. We laughed a lot that final night. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe from joy. Or maybe because we knew that the next day, we’d be flying off to Morocco — my first time setting foot in Africa.

And so, before 7 a.m., there we were, hunched in front of the fridge, facing the final challenge of the trip: finishing the leftover wine and beer we’d collected over the days. Drinking it all before the flight sounded ridiculous — but at that moment, it was the only logical solution. Between rushed sips and uncontrollable laughter, we toasted to the journey ending, and to the next adventure about to begin.

Lisbon was behind us that morning.

But the truth is — Lisbon never really left us.