Joseph Chen

Above Europe, clouds retreat, rivers shrink, and the sky burns white as the continent braces beneath an impossible heat. Mother Nature whispers, “Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the honored one”—and unleashes Vollzanbel once more upon the continent.

Our original destination was Vienna—home of majestic baroque architecture, bustling traditional coffee houses, and a vibrant art scene. The one and only City of Music. But nature commanded otherwise, sealing the city beneath a hundred-degree veil of heat. For what reason, for what punishment, none of us could say. Alas, when we arrived in Zürich from Chicago on LX7, we turned tail to Lisbon whose city had escaped, miraculously, the initial onslaught. So, onwards we went, embarking on LX2086 and allowing Baltic Air to generously ferry us to the few remaining safe havens of Europe for the week.

What met us there was what we needed. For one of our party members, the bard Ming, had endured a year of torturous indoctrination at N.W. Feinberg, where he mastered legendary techniques of stretching and massage and learned the arcane tongue: “Tell me if this hurts.” At last, he had earned a week’s reprieve for a brief yet desperately needed retreat—one which I, in an act of unparalleled mercy and charity, graciously organized. The other was our resident healer, Lady N—not to be mistaken for Lady M, the legendary New England producer of baked wares—who spent her days treating the realm’s smallest patients, armed only with a stethoscope and immunity to screaming. She had likewise earned temporary release from her post. Together, our weary fellowship descended upon Lisbon in search of rest, wine, and deliverance.

And so, from our lodgings near Martim Moniz, our fellowship spent the days that followed wandering Lisbon in search of fine provisions, worthy drink, and whatever mercy its hills might grant us. Of the many establishments encountered along the way, these were deemed most worthy of entry into the chronicle:

• Kossie’s Café — Our favored neighborhood refuge, where strong coffee and bowls of açaí restored the weary each morning.
• Seagull Method Café — Purveyor of the finest morning feast of the journey.
• Lisbon Shop — A crowded trove of tourist wares, within which a discerning traveler might still uncover worthy treasures; there, I found watercolor prints of the city.
• By the Wine — A respectable feast elevated by exceptional wine and a most gracious steward, who guided our party through the vineyards of Portugal.
• Zé dos Cornos — A humble tavern hidden within the city’s narrow passages, serving magnificent octopus and pork ribs at prices so fair they bordered upon charity.
• Lupita Pizzaria — A house of fire and dough responsible for some of the finest pizza our fellowship had encountered in all its travels.
• Sanctuary of Christ the King — A pilgrimage across the Tagus, rewarded with sweeping views of Lisbon and the lands beyond.
• Loja de Burel — A house of garments fashioned from burel, the dense and weatherproof woolen cloth long worn by shepherds of Serra da Estrela, home to the highest mountains in Portugal. There, Lady N claimed a cloak of her own and emerged properly equipped for future quests.
• Mercado de Santa Clara — A bustling market of relics and curious wares, where we acquired several pins and a painted map of Lisbon, its streets traced in intricate grids as though laying bare the grandeur of the realm itself

Thus concluded our brief adventure in Lisbon. We had crossed the continent not by design, but by decree of the heavens, driven westward by heat and delivered instead into a city of steep hills, tiled façades, generous wine, and meals worthy of remembrance. What began as a retreat from nature’s wrath became something better: a few precious days in which the bard rested, the healer laid down her instruments, and our weary fellowship ate, drank, wandered, and—for a little while—was restored.

At last, we departed aboard TAP243, where, by fortune or divine favor, our party was granted passage in the cabin of the privileged few. Reclining upon cushioned thrones above the clouds, we returned home bearing painted relics, a shepherd’s cloak, several pins, and the solemn conviction that no hill in Lisbon had ever been designed with mercy in mind.

p.s. i was listening to a Frieren-inspired playlist which may have influenced my writing a wee bit

more photos here:
azulejos — lisbon, portugal
views of tagus — lisbon, portugal