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It’s my second time in Portugal, and I am traveling alone. I have plans to meet a friend, but not for a few days. I’m renting a little apartment in Costa da Caparica, south of Lisbon, overlooking the Atlantic. Portugal’s coast is known for beautiful beaches, a tourist and surfing destination. Early February is off-season, yet, compared to New York, the weather will be temperate, and the rainy days of a Portuguese winter happened last week. My apartment has a bus stop nearby and my hosts recommend which ones to use for arrival. I know enough to buy a public transport card. Unfortunately, the machine provides a white card, which I read is not accepted by the bus company south of the river. This is a frustrating development; it would be much cheaper and easier to use that than paying per ride. Regardless, I’ll need euros anyway, so I exchange my American cash and find my first bus. The relief is short-lived. I know the name of my stop, but they aren’t announcing the stops; there are no signs. An older man spots me and speaks to me. I’ve been practicing Portuguese on my phone, but it’s not been nearly enough. I understand he’s asking if I want to get off now. Trouble is, I don’t know. I stay on the bus. Turns out, he’s right. How did he know? The driver points me back the way we came. I walk a few blocks until I see several stops and yet, somehow, not the one I need. I approach an older woman. “Com licença,” I say. She shakes her head ‘no.’ Maybe she doesn’t speak Portuguese? I ask if she speaks English. No. I resolve to find it myself, when she speaks again. I say the bus number, “a Costa.” She nods and walks me to the correct stop, enlisting the help of another man on our way. I thank them, “Obrigada.” I wonder about her initial reluctance to help. Maybe she thought I was asking for money. Perhaps she relented when she saw the distress in my eyes. She lingers a bit as if to make sure I’m okay. I use my euros to pay rather than try the wrong type of card; no one wants to wait on a silly American girl to board the bus. I sit and exhale a sigh of relief as the city of Lisbon meanders by. I revel in the feelings of awe that resurface from my first time in this city: admiration for the history and architecture of a city that, even after devastating earthquakes, fires and a tsunami in 1755, is older than my entire country. I appreciate anew ‘los azulejos,’ colorful tilework that can be spied on buildings throughout the city. The Cristo Rei, counterpart to Brazil’s Christ the Redeemer, looms overhead as we cross the 25 de Abril bridge, renamed to mark the end of the revolution and dictatorship in the 1970s. I reach my stop without further issue. It’s the last stop so I can’t miss it. In the next few days, I ride the bus many times. My friend gets a stomach bug, and I am alone nearly the entire week. I discover that my white bus card does work on all buses. On one occasion, I wait an hour for a bus that eventually arrives, only to discover later there is a bus strike. That evening I join groups of people waiting, hoping their bus will be one of the few that comes. Mine does, an express! On my last day, I take one final ride up into the green hills away from the coast, filled with mixed emotions. When I arrive in New York, there’s a man on the elevator to the AirTran asking a group of young people in halted English for “Train 1.” They’re unsure how to direct him. As we exit, I turn to him and grab an airport employee. Together we figure out he needs Terminal 1. We point him in the right direction. He thanks us and heads off. I am calm. I am home. I am no longer a girl alone on a bus — at least until next time.