Lisbon in the Rain, Ungrudgingly

The hills are still there. They're just slippier, and the custard is warmer.

Lisbon is a city built for sunshine, which is exactly why you should see it soaked. The calçada turns to polished soap, the trams hiss like kettles, and every Lisboeta you meet apologises for the weather as if they personally ordered it.

I started at the Miradouro de Santa Luzia with the viewpoint to myself and a sky the colour of a sardine tin. The river was invisible. I told myself this was mysterious rather than disappointing, and went to find a pastel de nata at Pastelaria Chuva Miúda, where the woman behind the counter dusted mine with cinnamon without asking and then gave me a second one "for the rain."

The Museu Nacional do Azulejo is the correct place to spend the wettest hour: five centuries of tiles, a cloister that drips politely, and a long blue panorama of the city before the 1755 earthquake. Lunch was bacalhau à Brás at Tasca do Zé Gordo, elbow to elbow with two taxi drivers arguing about football.

By evening the rain had thinned to mist. From São Pedro de Alcântara the whole city glowed orange and wet, as if it had been varnished. I walked down to Ginja do Tio Rui for a cherry liqueur in a chocolate cup, drank it under the awning, and stopped apologising for anything.

Lived February 14, 2026.