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.

It makes Romania somehow cozier than can be replicated or even captured on film, it is the hospitality that is not practiced and taught to tourists, but the one that is natural, as the one of a long-lost friend.

I used to think travelling was about where you went. Then I realised it’s mostly about who you go with — or whether you go with anyone at all.

I’d been planning it for months — quietly checking flight prices, pretending I wasn’t up to anything, and finding excuses every time my mum got suspicious.

Let’s be honest, I consider myself a seasoned traveller, yet my suitcase is a chronicle of good intentions and last-minute panic.

One Sunday, I woke up feeling stuck. No plans, no energy, just a strong need to get away. So, I grabbed my bag, went to the station, and booked the next train without checking where it was headed.