Getting Lost in Coastal Portugal
- Ahona Anjum
- Oct 29
- 3 min read
April 2025
I am your resident Type A - in fact, I would challenge you to find someone more Type A than me. I love lists and structure and to-dos and making plans. Usually, it’s fantastic - it’s how I was able to travel every single weekend when I was in Bocconi. But sometimes, even the most Type A person needs a break. And maybe the place to take that break is Portugal.
The Portuguese chaos started before I even got there. Whereas all my other trips were carefully slotted into weekends or breaks, this one was wedged right into the middle of the week. It was the only way I could afford the flights to Lisbon - so I took it. Four missed classes and yet another all-nighter at the airport later, I landed in Portugal, exhausted but oddly free.
Lisbon was one of those cities I just knew I’d love - the architecture, the seafood, the people. I was right. After checking into my hostel, I picked up a physical map (yes, paper!) and started walking. But very quickly, I realized Lisbon would not appreciate a fifteen-minute-interval itinerary. So I let the city lead me instead.
I wandered through winding alleys, stumbled upon yellow trams that looked straight out of a movie, stopped for matcha in a tiny side street, and hiked up what felt like a mountain for that iconic red-roof view. I didn’t have a list. I just followed footsteps, laughter, and the smell of pastel de nata drifting through the air. Lisbon rewarded me for every wrong turn.
Who would I be without my seafood adventures? I gave my structured brain a small win by committing to one rule - seafood for every meal. Octopus, seafood paella, roasted salmon - order first, Google later.
The next day, I felt the pull of the ocean. I bought a random ticket to Sintra, with no idea what it was known for. I just followed tour groups until I found myself standing in front of palaces and mosaics that looked painted by hand. I even stumbled into Hans Christian Andersen’s old home - a piece of history I never knew I was looking for.
Then came Cascais - the kind of coastal town that feels like it was made to be wandered through. Cafés spilled onto cobblestone streets, and the ocean shimmered in that unreal shade of Portuguese blue. I walked for hours, letting my feet choose turns without purpose. Somewhere between the cafés and the sea, I realized how rare it is to feel unhurried - to let freedom have texture.
My last stop that day was Cabo da Roca - where the land literally ends and the ocean begins. The cliffs looked like the edge of the world. I stayed there for hours, coffee in hand, watching waves crash against stone, feeling like time had finally stopped trying to catch up with me.
On my final day, I let my inner planner peek through again - a small list of Lisbon must-dos. I visited Livraria Bertrand, the oldest bookstore in the world, where I had to remind myself of Ryanair’s strict baggage limits. I ended at the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge - Lisbon’s twin to San Francisco’s Golden Gate. As I stood there, I thought about how these two cities - thousands of miles apart - had both found me at such defining points in my life.
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