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.

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.