Notes from Lisbon

A small, very pink apartment in Graça with a window onto a courtyard of laundry. Eighty-two steps up. Worth all eighty-two.

A pastel de nata every morning, without exception. Grilled sardines once. Bread and cheese on a bench above the river, which is technically a meal if you do it properly.

Lisbon is a city to be walked into, slowly. I climbed more hills than I meant to. I let the city tilt me.

I came home with sore calves and the conviction that pink is, in fact, a primary color.

A quieter sense of my own pace. A reminder that travel, at its best, is just attention with better light.