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.

I still laugh when I think about it now — though at the time, it felt more like living in a low-budget sitcom. It was Lisbon, midsummer, and I’d booked myself into one of those charming old hostels where the walls are thin, the floors creak, and the reception desk doubles as a bar.