Wandering Lisbon, Alone and Alive

Lisbon greets you like a faded painting kissed by the sea—its streets a labyrinth of steep cobblestones, its walls dressed in tiles that hold centuries of stories. There’s the scent of warm bread drifting from hidden bakeries, the distant clang of a tram winding up the hills, and light that seems to spill like honey across the city. It is a place made for wandering, for losing track of time, for simply being.

I arrived with no plan other than to spend a little time with art friends, Alex Castro Ferreira and Ivy Newport, and to follow my own feet wherever they chose to carry me. There’s something liberating about stepping into a city on your own—no itinerary, no one’s needs to consider but your own. Just time, unclaimed and wide open.

I wandered, and the city answered with beauty. Street art bloomed across walls like wildflowers, and the tiles—oh, the tiles! Each one felt like a tiny work of art, patterns and colors that told stories of centuries past. I spent hours just staring at them, tracing their history with my fingertips and my camera.

One of my favorite stops was the Tile Museum, where entire walls of centuries-old azulejos shimmered like a gallery of painted poetry. On another day, I hopped on the train to Sintra, where the palaces rise like something out of a dream—turrets and gardens, colors so vivid they seem to hum. And I couldn’t resist visiting Retrosaria Rosa Pomar, the most fabulous yarn shop, filled with skeins of soft Portuguese wool in colors pulled from the land and sea. I left with treasures for weaving and a sweater vest yet to be born.

Every evening, I looked forward to dusk. The sky would turn into a watercolor wash of purple and orange, and time seemed to stand still as the swallows began their acrobatics, swooping and dancing through the fading light. It was like watching a secret performance meant only for those who paused long enough to see it.

My favorite find? The flea market—a treasure trove for the wandering artist. I discovered old papers softened by time, black-and-white photographs, weathered books, and vintage tins with typography so beautiful they made me want to create on the spot. Back at my Airbnb, I set up a little makeshift studio on the kitchen table, collaging with my finds—ticket stubs, napkins, even pieces of the pastel de nata cartons from my daily indulgence (yes, every day, because how could I not?).

What I loved most was the quiet joy of simply being. Of wandering without anyone else’s map, savoring the moments that unfold when you travel at your own pace. Solo travel isn’t for everyone—I hear it often from my retreat guests, who sometimes feel nervous about coming to Scotland alone. And I understand that. But I will say this: if you have the chance, try it. Even if it’s just somewhere close to home.

There is a deep kind of freedom in seeing something new just for yourself. Lisbon reminded me of that.