Lisbon & Sintra: Steep Streets, Fado & a Bowl of Daal Chawal

We had our bus to Lisboa at 1 p.m., reaching the city by 4. But before saying goodbye to Porto, there was one thing left to do: Pastel de Nata—one last glorious bite. It was raining, we had our backpacks, but the craving was stronger than comfort. So, we detoured, walked into that famous shop with all our luggage, and stood there savoring it one last time, paired with coffee. As I write this, I can almost taste it. Europe has me hopelessly in love—with its desserts, its quiet indulgences, its unapologetic charm.

We clicked a photo near the "I Love Porto" sign, smiled at the drizzle, and boarded our bus—hearts full, sugar high, and clothes a little soggy.

Day 1
Lisboa Welcomes: Cold, Rainy, and Steep

By 4:30 p.m., we were checking into Norte Guest House in Lisbon. The plan? Hit at least one Hop-On Hop-Off bus route today, then cover the other two and a walking tour tomorrow. But Lisboa had its own agenda.

Steep roads. Cold wind. Rain that didn't pour—but whispered constantly. Shoes wet. Socks soggy. No sign of sun. It felt less like sightseeing and more like survival cardio. Lisbon isn't gentle—but she's honest.

At 5 p.m., we rushed to the bus stop, only to be told our online ticket wasn't enough — we'd need to exchange it for a physical one. The catch? The counter was 2.5 km away and closed at 6. We sprinted. Drenched and breathless, we reached at 6:05 p.m. Missed it by five minutes. The last bus had left. Of course.

Day 1
The Universe, and a Bowl of Daal Chawal

A little defeated but still hungry for something warm, we wandered the nearby lanes. That's when we realized: we were staying right by the famous Santa Justa Lift. Beautiful to look at, but ridiculously overpriced. We gave it a pass—and let our legs suffer the slanted climbs instead.

By now, I was drenched, drained, and craving only one thing: hot daal chawal. My comfort food. My hug in a bowl. And somehow—miraculously—the cosy vegan buffet we chose had exactly that. Imagine, in the chilly corners of a European capital, a plate of daal chawal finding its way to me. The Universe must love comfort food too.

Day 2
Stories in Stone and Cinnamon

We woke up at 9 a.m., still groggy, still wrapped in the light drizzle that seems to love Lisbon as much as its tiled walls do. In the rush, we forgot to check with the hostel for umbrellas and just left—classic us.

At 11 a.m., we met our walking tour guide—a true Lisboeta. Born, raised, and fluent in the city's contradictions. She led us through four distinct neighborhoods, tracing stories across blue-tiled façades, the soulful Alfama district, churches that survived brutal earthquakes, and streets narrow enough to barely breathe in.

We learned about Fado music, felt its sorrow in the air even without a song. Took Ginja shots in chocolate cups—a local trick to warm the chest and chase away coughs. Saw the world's oldest operating bookstore, walked down the narrowest street in the world, and caught charming details: how in Alfama, people tile their homes with their own photos and bios, so you know exactly who's behind each door.

And cinnamon. Oh, cinnamon. It's Portugal's unofficial love language—sprinkled on everything from coffee to custard tarts. And honestly? I'm a convert.

Day 2
Buses, Bookstores, and a Quiet Regret

After the tour, we boarded our Hop-On Hop-Off bus—finally using the ticket we'd fought so hard for the day before. The moment we sat down, Lisbon turned up the drama: heavy rain, rhythmic and relentless. We saw the city through misted windows, rooftops swimming in silver.

We completed all three routes, ticked off every color-coded loop, then set out—again on foot—to visit the iconic oldest bookstore. Harshit nudged me to buy something, but I didn't. Maybe it felt too rushed, maybe I was tired, maybe I just couldn't decide. But I regret it now. One of those small regrets that linger quietly. I've promised myself—I'll go back one day, and when I do, I'll pick out a book without overthinking.

Day 3
Sintra: Slopes, Palaces & a Slice of Cake Before Goodbye

Our last day in Lisbon came with a choice: laze through the city or hustle to Sintra. If you know me, you already know which path we picked.

We woke up early, packed our bags, and checked out of Norte Guest House—except there was no one at the reception. So in peak Bollywood-thriller fashion, we left a handwritten note, slid it under the glass window, and tucked our backpacks behind a sofa, hoping for the best. (They were safe. Lisbon isn't out to get you.)

We caught the train to Sintra, just an hour away but a whole different world. The moment we arrived, Lisbon's slopes felt like gentle suggestions. Sintra? It's a stairmaster disguised as a fairytale town.

There are plenty of palaces to explore here, but we aimed for the iconic Pena Palace, perched at the top like a storybook fortress. We smartly booked a private drop till the peak, saving our knees the uphill battle, and decided to walk down to the station post visit.

Rain greeted us again, along with sharp winds that tried to turn our umbrella into modern art. Pena Palace was whimsical and haunting under grey skies—moodier than the postcards, and perhaps even more beautiful for it.

We started our descent—steep, winding, and scenic with forests peeking through mist and occasional giggles from the path. Harshit, true to form, slipped again, and this time a lady tying her shoelaces froze mid-lace to ask if he was okay, still bent down, still unfazed. A scene so random, I can't unsee it.

Day 3
And the Skies Cried With Us

Back in Lisbon, we were starving and exhausted—but mostly craving warmth. We stopped by a nearby café, and as we ate, we watched streets flood under pouring rain. Within an hour, the roads dried up like nothing had happened. No chaos, no honking. Just quiet restoration. That kind of resilience—that's something Europe wears well.

We grabbed our bags from behind the sofa (still there!) and made our way to the FlixBus for Faro. The rain followed us all the way, and the bus WiFi didn't work (of course). But something about that moment—dark clouds, wet windowpanes, winding roads—it was the perfect setting to reflect. There wasn't much to do but watch the journey play on loop in my head.

We reached Faro at 8 p.m., carrying the weight of our soaked shoes, full bellies, and the bittersweet ache of a day well spent.