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.

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.