By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
“When you travel, you don’t want to be looking to towers. You want to be looking to people.” - Joana, Travel Guide. I’ve been traveling solo for two months now, and I can’t really explain what drew me to Lisbon. It’s the capital of Portugal, a city that sits at the mouth of the Tagus, the longest river in the Iberian Peninsula. Lisbon is best known for its acclaimed seven hills that can be seen from the water, though if you catch me on any day as I put my legs and lungs to the test, I will tell you there are way more than seven hills. To climb them is to learn the history, and to reach the top is to reap the rewards of a breathtaking view. The streets here wind up and down at bizarre angles with jagged cobblestones that look older than time. Buildings are nestled so close to one another, as if by huddling together they’ll stay warm. Some of their exteriors are painted in flashy colors of coral, yellow, and blue. The warm hues of their terracotta roofs always make me smile. Where does one fix their gaze when everything is beautiful? Traveling alone has taught me more than anything that I am the orchestrator of my life, and responsible for moving my story forward. It is not always easy to put myself out there, and I’m the first to admit that when I’m back at home, I like to have a plan. When I’m traveling, I break this rule because I’m hungry for the experience. I want to say yes, to see where a path leads. The right people and the right steps, and suddenly I am somewhere I would never have found on my own. Tonight, on a whim, I followed two new comrades off the beaten path of tourist traps, through quiet neighborhood streets until we arrived at a little local bar where I could hear live music coming from inside. I didn’t know where we were going, and I was getting used to not letting that bother me. This place was no bigger than a living room. We walked into the dimly lit space and sat on small stools that were way closer to the ground than I anticipated. Inside here felt like home, like no matter where I came from, I belonged and was welcome. And yet if you were to ask me how we got here, I couldn’t tell you or replicate the steps. We ordered the house red wine and settled in for the next performance. The room began to fill. Two people made their way to the center: a young woman with flowing dark hair, and an older gentleman in a collared shirt with his long locks pulled back into a ponytail. They beamed as if they were old friends, and said some words in Portuguese while we nodded along. Welcome. They each picked up their guitar and something magical happened. As they played easy off each other, they were two voices, but one melody. Music is universal; the perfect blend of cords and notes can take my breath away. She sang and her tone was enchanting. The words I didn’t know, but the rhythm we all do. Together they performed some untold story that resonated with the crowd. It vibrated through smiles and closed eyes, breathing in thick layers of song. I felt fortunate, a foreigner, to be in this room. And yet looking around we all were transported. When the last strum was plucked and we returned from our journey, we rub our hands together, a milder form of clapping, to show appreciation and to also not wake the neighbors. I smiled and looked at my two friends. I never expected to find this hidden gem on a quiet neighborhood street. How did they know I needed this moment? Tonight, we created space for the rest of the world to rush in. We created space for people, beautiful people, and the universal way we all sway when we’re carried by the depth and realness of a voice, a sound, of something that draws us completely in. Oh to be drawn in. Completely.