Portugal: A Journey Between Seasons
Winter had felt so long, but when my mum came to meet me in Paris, it was like a warm embrace—figuratively and literally. Seeing her in the city I’ve now made home felt like something golden, like stepping into a pocket of time where everything slowed. It was autumn break, and we decided to head south, chasing the light. Portugal was waiting.
From the moment we arrived in Lisbon, we fell in love. Our boutique hotel overlooked a quiet square near the sea, where seagulls called out above the tiled rooftops, and every day felt like opening another treasure chest. The steep hills twisted through the city like veins, and the trams clattered up their slopes—Nos. 28 and 12 were the best for getting lost, for seeing the city through the window of another era. Every small avenue was a mystery to uncover, and looking up at every windowsill made me wonder of all the lives intertwined in this special place.
The higher we climbed, the more Lisbon unfolded beneath us—a sea of white and terracotta rooftops, golden light spilling across the Tagus River, seagulls suspended like paper kites in the sky.
Portugal has always been a place of explorers, its history woven into the waves that carried its sailors across the world. Lisbon, being one of the oldest cities in Europe, saw the rise and fall of empires, its streets still echoing with the footsteps of poets, revolutionaries, and dreamers.
Just outside the city, Sintra felt like stepping into a fairytale—the Sintra Palace rising in majestic colors above the lush green hills, its towers straight from a storybook. The town itself was a misty, magical place where cobblestone streets wound between hidden cafés and gardens, where time stretched a little longer. Along the coast, the whitewashed villages perched against the cliffs like they had always been there, watching the Atlantic crash endlessly below. The waves were unbelievable, and so were the brave thrill seeking surfers out there gliding along them.
Further north, Porto carried a different kind of magic. A city draped in nostalgia, with azulejo-covered churches and streets that seemed to ripple toward the river. Porto’s history is deeply intertwined with Lisbon’s—a city of trade and resilience, forever balancing its identity between the past and present.
It’s also home to Livraria Lello, a bookshop so enchanting it’s said to have inspired J.K. Rowling while she lived in Porto, working on the first pages of Harry Potter. If you see the inside, and feel the inside, you’ll understand why. The staircase inside twists like something out of a dream, an ode to the stories that have passed through its doors. And then, there’s the food—francesinha, a decadent sandwich drowned in a rich, spicy sauce; pastéis de nata, their golden, flaky shells hiding warm custard; and bacalhau, salted cod prepared in a hundred ways, each more comforting than the last. The Portuguese take their coffee seriously—bica, short and strong, served in tiny cups, a ritual as much as a drink. And for tea lovers, chá preto, deep and fragrant, a staple of slow, thoughtful afternoons.
Then, another train, another coastline. Our last stop of this sweet journey between seasons.
San Sebastián awaited. The overnight train felt like a sleepover where you’re too excited to fall asleep for the fun awaiting.
The wind was sharp, slicing through the streets, but when the sun came out, it softened everything. We sat on the shore, looking out at the ocean as still as a lake, dreaming up spring and summer slowly approaching. The city itself was something elegant—a place of Belle Époque architecture, grand promenades, and pintxos bars tucked into golden alleyways. San Sebastián had always been a meeting point of cultures, with its Basque identity strong and proud, its coastline once a retreat for Spanish royalty. We walked the La Concha promenade in the evening, the streetlights flickering on as the tide curled in, the city glowing in the twilight.
And then, our full-circle return to Paris. Sigh, time flies. Standing on the Pont Neuf above the Seine, I felt my throat tighten, knowing I had to say goodbye again. But as we watched the moon rise over the rooftops I now so loved, and the sunset linger just a little later than the week before, my mum reminded me—the seasons always change. Be present.
When her taxi pulled away, it felt like something breaking inside me. But when I returned home, sitting in my room, something else settled—a feeling of being held. Held by where I’ve been, by where I am, by all the love that carries me forward.
“Nada é permanente, exceto a mudança.”—Nothing is permanent except change.
I now look forward to spring, and to all else this chapter of my life will hold.
