The first time I arrived in Lisbon, in May 2011, I booked a small pension on Rua do Salitre. The next morning, I headed downstairs for coffee at a local bar. As I ordered an espresso, I heard an unusual yet strangely familiar sound in the background—the clacking of someone writing on an old typewriter.
I had just closed a chapter of my life in Shanghai, and that metallic sound was the farthest thing from the buzz and energy I had left behind in Asia. I remember walking down Avenida da Liberdade, supposedly the busiest street in town, and seeing only a few cars—and even fewer people—passing by. Compared to Shanghai, Lisbon felt small, slow, and old. What was I to do here?
The idea of spending the summer in Lisbon came in part from Serena, my childhood neighbor, who had moved here and fallen in love with the city. She was always praising Lisbon, and I was curious to see what she had found in a place no one seemed to talk about back in 2011.
A few days later, we met for dinner so she could show me around. It was a warm evening in early June. Our first stop was the Adamastor viewpoint, where we caught a beautiful sunset.
Miradouro do Adamastor
We then walked to Chiado for dinner at Mezzogiorno. When Serena introduced me to the owner—also from Southern Italy—he looked at me and said, almost prophetically: “You came just at the right time of the year to fall in love with Lisbon.”
Now I understand. June is the best time of the year to visit. The city comes alive with the Marchas Populares for Santo António’s night. But what I love most about late spring in Lisbon is the quiet bloom of the jacarandas. In May, before the tourists arrive, you can spot the vibrant purple trees across the city. Parque Eduardo VII is my favorite spot to see them.
But what I love the most about late spring in Lisbon is the quiet bloom of the Jacarandas.
Our evening continued in Bairro Alto, where we entered Tasca do Chico, a fado bar. Tasca do Chico isn’t the kind of place where musicians perform for a fee and leave. Here, anyone—from amateurs to legends like Mariza—can stand up and sing. Serena had a special status; she was one of the few non-Portuguese invited to sing there.
The place was packed. We couldn’t find a place to sit, so I leaned over the counter, ordered a glass of wine, and asked Serena about the origins of fado.
“It’s a music of longing,” she explained. “Portuguese sailors left their families for months. The women sang Fado to express their emotions.”
Portuguese people may seem warm and emotional to Northern Europeans or Americans, but, compared to Italians, they still feel restrained. I sometimes think of the Portuguese as the Scandinavians of Southern Europe. Overt emotional expression, especially of sadness or anger, is rare in public—but there are accepted rituals for letting it out.
One of the most beautiful is fado vadio, a style of amateur, unpaid fado. Years later, I brought my German friend Coni to the other Tasca do Chico in Alfama. This time, we found seats and ordered wine and flamed chouriço. The lights dimmed, and a plump man appeared in the center of the room. He wasn’t a professional singer. But when he began to sing, his voice came from such a deep place that I felt—beyond words—that his feelings were my feelings, and possibly the feelings of everyone in that room. The only place he could have been in that moment was right there, singing fado.
During Coni’s stay, I showed him many places around the city, but he still says that night at Tasca do Chico was the highlight of his trip.
Portuguese sailors left their families for months. The women sang Fado to express their emotions.
As spring blossomed into summer, Serena introduced me to another quintessential Lisbon spot: Tejo Bar. If you walk in around 9 p.m., it may not look like much—just a small, unassuming room with an out-of-tune piano, a few chessboards, and a concrete counter where Mira, the ever-smiling owner, serves caipirinhas. But the magic starts after midnight.
Tejo Bar is a space where musicians from Alfama’s fado houses come to unwind. One of them might quietly pick up an instrument and strum a few chords. Others grab percussion instruments scattered around and join in. Someone starts humming, and a jam session unfolds naturally.
Since loud applause would disturb the neighbors—one of whom, rumor had it, was a theater actor with a sensitivity to clapping—songs ended with a soft rubbing of hands. If someone clapped out of habit, others would raise their hands silently to signal the rule.
I don’t remember how it began, but that summer a strange tradition took hold: someone brought an old stuffed puppet. Throughout the night, people would write down things they wanted to forget on slips of paper and pin them to the puppet:
At the end of the night, Mira would lock up the bar, and everyone would gather outside with the puppet on a bedsheet. At a signal, we would slowly begin a mock funeral procession. Some walked solemnly, others smiled mischievously at curious passersby. The procession wound through the streets of Alfama and ended at Cais das Colunas, where someone would set the puppet on fire.
The ashes would drift into the Tejo River and out to the Atlantic—along with our collective worries.
The crowd at Zé’s funerals was one of the most diverse I can remember. Everyone was welcome.
Though the puppet was burned each week, it was given a name and even a Facebook profile: Zé de Alfama. The mysterious Zé’s “social media manager” always confirmed his attendance to his own funeral and even posted comments on his behalf. Eventually, when we ran out of puppets, Zé took the form of whatever was available—a globe, a box, a doll.
The crowd at Zé’s funerals was one of the most diverse I can remember. Nuno, a photographer, brought CouchSurfing guests from all over the world. Antoine, a Frenchman fluent in Russian, often played guitar and sang with Tania, a talented Portuguese singer. There was Antonio, a real estate agent with his Polish girlfriend; Laura, a TAP flight attendant; Spiros, an Italian music therapist—and many others. Everyone was welcome.
The jam sessions repeated familiar tunes: “Lisboa Menina & Moça,” “Recado a Lisboa,” Bossa Nova classics like “Berimbau,” and Spanish songs like “Bésame Mucho.” One Sunday, as we sang about a cavalo (a horse), Ricardo—who helped out at the bar—suddenly jumped from behind the counter wearing a horse-shaped cardboard box around his waist, mimicking a trot.
Everyone burst out laughing. I remember staring in amazement at the care that had gone into building that cardboard horse—an object he must have spent hours crafting, knowing it would burn on the riverbank just a few hours later.
I don’t know if Zé helped, but I remember that summer as profoundly healing.
Later, when I had to choose where to base myself in the world, I chose Lisbon.
I no longer live there, and I haven’t been to Tejo Bar in a while. I heard Madonna even visited at one point. But when I think back to that summer, I always picture Ricardo—quietly building a cardboard horse, just to make people smile before letting it go to the sea.
That innocence—in essence—is one of the reasons I fell in love with Lisbon.
