Five days by the Atlantic.

Lisbon, before we knew it.

An evening flight from Berlin. The window seat, the orange-lit clouds over Galicia, then the long descent toward the Tagus. We did not yet know which tram we would take, which pastelaria would become "ours," or which fado we would hear through an open window in Alfama at midnight.

A slow morning in Alfama.

Our first full day. We had no plan beyond coffee. Alfama does not reward plans — it rewards getting lost. Every staircase led somewhere smaller and quieter: a tiled courtyard, a café with three tables, an old woman shaking a rug from a second-floor window. We did not check the time until almost noon.

Cais do Sodré, after sunset.

We avoided the riverside all day — too obvious, too many tourists. After dinner we walked down anyway and the night was already soft, pink-lit, loud in a different language. The Pink Street does not photograph the way it feels. The market at Time Out was closing, but a guitarist in the corner kept playing.

Sintra, in the clouds.

We took the 40-minute train to Sintra expecting postcard colors. We got fog instead. The Pena Palace emerged out of the mist like something invented rather than built, and the gardens at Quinta da Regaleira felt like a place where someone had once tried very hard to keep a secret. We did not see the sun all day. It did not matter.

Cascais, where the river ends.

The train to Cascais follows the coast for half an hour. We got off at the last stop and walked toward the ocean. The wind was stronger than we expected. Boca do Inferno was louder than its photographs. We stayed on the rocks until the sun went down, then ate grilled fish in a place where no one spoke English and somehow it did not matter.

The long way home.

Our last morning. We went back to the pastelaria we had found on Day 1 and ordered the same thing. We bought postcards we did not need and ceramics we did not have room for. The tram to the airport left on time. We did not say much.

What we brought back.

A bag of ceramics. A notebook of menus. A handful of tram tickets we kept meaning to throw away. Lisbon, it turns out, is a city that does not need a thesis.