This is the last time I’m trusting a local with directions. The previous two hours have been spent trudging through old cobbled labyrinths of dimly lit streets, blind to the old men still drinking under crowded parasols and occasional scooters that zoom past. It is a little after midnight when we finally stumble upon our destination. The Mediterranean rain cascades upon the deserted streets, thick and warm, thousands of miniature explosions all around us. My legs are beginning to cramp. I dream of sleep. The three of us had spent the day training and filming in Miraflores with one of the locals; a gangly and uncoordinated looking teenager. Simao, our closest resemblance to a host, insisted we stay at the Igreja das Chagas, lauding it as the best sleeping spot in all of Lisbon. An easy roof climb and good shelter from the rain, an enticing offer indeed. “Plus it’s a Church,” he exclaimed in broken English before hurrying off, “They have to offer you sanctuary.” It was foolish to have hoped that his directions and logic wouldn’t be as hasty as his departure. To clarify; Lisbon is the city for Parkour. I think it has something to do with the city’s deeply rooted cultural ties to the arts, which permeates even the simplest designs and infrastructure.The concrete estates and tower blocks are as undoubtedly picturesque as the old quarter and beaches. Such structures and intersecting grey walls often go unnoticed, but for us these geometric puzzles were a manifestation of jumps and challenges hitherto consigned to imagination. Someone else could take a tour at the Museum of Art, Architecture and Technology. We were here strictly on business. And that business was jumping. Our pilgrimage to Lisbon will culminate at Kaos, an aptly named amalgam of balconies and stairwells above a motorbike garage. Tomorrow I will send the catpass precision; a world famous jump recognisable from grainy internet videos. The jump rewards technique and mental fortitude rather than reckless self-endangerment; parkour in its purest form. But we will be unable to train if this rain persists. The weather, bad directions and physical fatigue are all attempting to sabotage us. At least we have found shelter. If you ever find yourself sleeping rough in Lisbon, avoid the Igreja. Several alarm systems snake up the orange brown walls. A Doberman sleeps in the yard. We aren't sleeping here tonight. This certainly isn’t part of the plan, if there ever was a plan, that is. We're probably the world’s worst tourists. The concept of tourism baffles me. You spend money travelling, sightseeing and eating before flying home. You browse, barely noticing the neatly trimmed bay trees that line the streets or the Pixação graffiti growing freely behind. The actions and itineraries of tourists merely reflect a domestic routine played out abroad. Arriving as outsiders. Leaving as outsiders. But was it really necessary to sleep in a stairwell or under a balcony to feel authentic? I don’t know. Tourists will never experience our freedom of choice. Everything stems from a single choice to continue. As we walk, an exponential number of possibilities spring forth from the myriad of side alleys, hidden gardens and courtyards that may offer respite. Right now the only wrong choice is to crawl back to the familiar safety of a hotel room, for a predictable night’s sleep. Despite mutual exhaustion, we are enjoying ourselves. With endless options comes the ability to believe. We might find the best roof in the entire city to sleep on. Tomorrow we might be kicked out bright and early by a confused caretaker who, after some explaining, may point us in the direction of the best pastel de natas and Portuguese coffee in town. Kaos could be completely waterlogged. I might injure myself warming up. Perhaps it will be the best day of the trip. Who knows? Right now all we can do is keep trudging through well mapped streets, ignoring stiff backs and cramping calf muscles. A couple of vagabonds in search of something indescribable yet instantly recognisable. Cold and tired, but laughing. Pretty similar to a running jump, actually. Trust your steps. Commit. One foot forward, then the next. Just like that.