With my passport stamped and my checked bag in tow, I find my driver Diego holding a sign with my name on it. He was a short, adorable, thick glasses middle-aged gentleman with pearly white teeth. I weaved through the crowd and waved. “Hello, Rachel! Welcome to Lisboa. Let me take your bags…” he smiled. My suitcase was almost the size of him and he happily tugged it to the dashing Mercedes Benz that waited outside. He opened the door and I rolled into the air conditioning—thankfully on full blast.
My hostel was steps away from the Lisbon city center. I had never stayed at one before and didn’t know what to expect. I rang the doorbell and a tall gentleman appears (quite the contrast from Diego) and extends his hand. “Collin, welcome to We F*** Love Tourists [this was the actual name of the hostel] we have four flights of stairs to go up, let me grab your bag.” Collin heaved my trunk of a suitcase over his shoulder and we climb. There wasn’t any air moving in the stairway and I broke a sweat fast. When we finally make it to the top and my view isn’t obstructed by Collin and my suitcase, a tiny adorable picturesque IKEA-style lounge was revealed. A balcony door is wide open to the city that has sheer curtains blowing from the breeze.
My room had three beds, one bunk bed, and a regular twin. As I was brushing my wet hair in the room mirror after a much-needed shower, the curtain of the top bunk slowly slides open. “Hello,” a soft British voice says. I turn to see a girl about my age peek around the corner. “I’m Rheena!” She opened her bed curtain more. I was relieved she didn’t appear to be napping due to the book in her hand. “Rachel” I smile. She returns the expression. “Want to go on a walk later before the hostel dinner? I just got here too and want to explore.”
We wander the steep cobblestone streets of Lisbon and soak in the new world around us and in sweat. The sidewalks are tiled in an intricate swirl pattern and the buildings were all of soft pastels, rust-colored roofs, and detailed tiles. I learn while we were stopped at a little cafe that Rheena is from London and just started her month-long “holiday” around Europe. We enjoyed each other’s company and talking about our cultures. We also laughed at how I expressed my love for “the tube” in London and how she thought I was crazy for thinking that.
For dinner, all of the hostel guests gathered in the cozy IKEA-esque upstairs lounge. About fifteen of us gathered around a table as plates of traditional Portuguese tapas and wine were placed. Out of the fifteen of us, I was only one of three Americans there. There were people from Turkey, New Zealand, Argentina, and Denmark, all solo travelers like me. The dinner conversation was intriguing as we talked about cultures, jobs, etc. My biggest takeaway was that foreigners feel sorry for Americans who typically only get two-weeks vacation a year. *sniff sniff* They have a point.
Once the tapas were demolished, wine bottles empty, and the chatter louder, we went out on the town. Exhausted, I downed a cup of coffee (which I do not recommend after having wine) and went to a little show. As a slightly drunken group, we laugh our way through the cobblestone streets to a small restaurant. No windows, no lights, just candles, and fine china hung on the wall. Once seated at the table a bald gentleman comes around with drink orders. He looks at me for a half second and smiles. “You look like you need a gin and tonic,” he says with a thick accent. I laugh because that was going to be my order. “Yes sir!” I grin.
A woman dressed in black appears at the back of the restaurant. Two older gentlemen with fantastic mustaches seat themselves and their guitars behind her. The guitars strum away and the woman sings her heart out…but in Portuguese. Not knowing a single word, I vibe with the rest of my new hostel friends to the music.
After the show, we hit the town. On “Pink street” we hit up several bars. As we would hop from one bar to the next bartenders would beg for us to come in for a free drink, despite their bar being packed. To my surprise, most of the bars were cash only, and later in the night, more and more people in my group ran out of euros. At our final stop, I doled out some of my euros to the group and laughed “I’ll be your sugar momma”. Then I had to go on and explain in a noisy bar what a “sugar momma” was because other than the two Americans, everyone else didn’t know the context.
I lost my voice that night screeching “International Love” by Pitbull.
