I used to think luxury hotels were reserved for honeymooners, business travellers, or people who didn’t flinch when they saw a three-figure nightly rate.

There’s a Portugal that most people never see. Not the tiled streets of Lisbon or the cliffs of the Algarve — beautiful as they are — but the quiet corners where life moves slowly.

It happened in Lisbon — although it really could’ve been anywhere. I’d turned down a narrow street on my way to the Miradouro da Graça viewpoint, certain I knew the way. Ten minutes later, I realised I had absolutely no idea where I was. No map.

I thought happiness would look like a postcard — sunsets over the Amalfi Coast, croissants in Paris, something cinematic. But when I finally set off across Europe with nothing but a backpack, it turned out happiness was quieter, smaller. It showed up in train stations, shared hostels, and the moments in between.