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My first solo travel experience started with a delayed flight that left me stranded in a very dodgy part of the outskirts of Lisbon, with no phone, no access to my accomodation, and no idea of what to do. Wandering around the twisting alleyways at 3am, I found my room through sheer luck, but of course, I was locked out. With a little finesse and a lot of brute force, I managed to get into the lobby of the building, but no further. Being the unfussy type, I decided that this was a big step up from staying outside to have my organs harvested, so I decided to just kip at the bottom of the stairs (blow-up mattress to the rescue!) and sort it in the morning, being near comatose from tiredness. Just as I had laid down, I heard the front door open and a strange, scraggly silhouette shuffled in and stopped, staring down at me. Now wide awake, I gazed up at an (almost certainly drunk) 50-something-year-old man gesticulating wildly at me that I shouldn’t be there. After checking to ensure I hadn’t soiled my pants, I tried my best to respond to him. With the miracle of sign language, I explained I had nowhere to go and had to sleep there at the bottom of the stairs. The old man looked thoughtful for a moment, stroking the week-old stubble on his wizened chin and swaying slightly. Then, with hand gestures vaguely indicative of tourettes, he explained that I should follow him, lest nasty things happen to me or the ‘policia’ (the only word I understood) should come and molest me. Eek. With naivety and a complete disregard of personal safety, I decided to follow him. After 7 flights of dragging my enormous suitcase and mattress behind me, we entered a dark hallway. To add to the ‘this is how every horror movie ever starts’ vibe I was getting, I noticed there were shadowy figures staring accusingly at me from alcoves in the hall. I got the sense people like me were never, ever seen in this part of the building. At the end of this hall, we came to a single door that my guide opened. I shuffled in behind him nervously. Inside, there was a single bed, a small table in the corner, and an entire wall missing, leaving a gaping hole to the outside of the building. Cosy... Turning back I noticed the old man was trying to communicate once again. Using sign language Helen Keller would be proud of, I was invited to sleep on his bed and even offered the single blanket he had. Declining the offer for philanthropic and hygienic reasons, I happily laid my mattress on the floor. He gave me the thumbs up, and retired to his bed. I realised with surprise that I felt no fear anymore. Rather, I was filled only with gratitude to this poor waif, who was offering me what little he had in order to help someone else down on their luck. Listening to his hacking smoker’s cough, or hearing him get up during the night to pee out the missing wall onto the street, I was overcome with a mixture of thankfulness and confusion. Thankful that there were still people out there with nothing yet who were still willing to help. But also confusion and no small amount of guilt that I should be there, money in my pocket and a bright future ahead of me, whereas he had virtually nothing. What fluke of birth sent me on one path and him on another? These were the thoughts that accompanied me to a surprisingly restful sleep. Early in the morning, he woke me up, motioning I needed to disappear quickly so I wouldn’t get him into trouble. With a parting gesture, he placed his arms over my shoulders like a long lost brother and smiled, obviously pleased to see the gratitude painted on my face. Overwhelmed, I pressed all the cash I had into his hands (ignoring his attempts to give it back) and left feeling unbelievably encouraged that whatever my travels brought, I could hope on human kindness to help me through.