The Friends of my Friends

It's 2 a.m in Bairro Alto. Cobbled streets teem with life as students, ex-pats, locals, and tourists mingle. The fact that we may never meet again after tonight does not dampen this evening.

The air rattles with laughter. Language barriers topple. I watch Nuno fervently pour another pint of Sagres, pairing it with an unexpectedly refreshing shooter of vodka, amarguinha (almond liqueur), and a drop of lemon juice.

A group of 20-somethings huddle around him. Nuno rings a bell tied to the end of the beer tap: "chin-chin?" The crowd replies, "chon-chon!"

His song ends, and we drink. Lisbon feels like Bacchus' summer home.

I walk outside and start a conversation with a Bolivian man about the sociology of drug legalization. Then, a glimpse in my periphery steals my attention. I pivot, coming face-to-face with Anita: a young woman I once worked with back in Toronto, Canada. Our eyes widen, and our jaws drop as we recognize each other through the crowd. "What the fuck!" we belt, double-taking to make sure we're not hallucinating.

We haven't seen each other in nearly two years. While we were never the closest of work friends, we'd bond over the occasional quip at the expense of a garishly dressed customer. And here we are – in the same foreign country, on the same Friday night, standing outside the same bar.

We catch up. Anita mentions her flight to Paris the following morning before introducing me to her Brazilian hostel-mate, an honorary local, and my next liaison: Livia. The night peters out. I make plans with Livia over shawarma (fun fact: Portuguese shawarma is tastier than the Israeli counterpart – who would guess). A smile creeps across my face as I walk to my hostel. I fill my lungs with the balmy June air and imagine every possible tomorrow.

The following day starts like every other, with an obligatory pastel de nata. The tart's creamy, flaky, sweetness balances a dark, full-bodied espresso. I'm a man of many vices, but those edible palm-sized delights bring more satisfaction than the next dozen on my list. I digress.

After breakfast, I walk to Praça do Comércio, which is outfitted with an astroturf field and movie-theatre-sized screen to broadcast the 2018 FIFA World Cup. I find Livia sitting outside a coffee shop, surrounded by the people I was about to meet. She introduces me to Sol and Maria. I get the sense that these are enlightened humans, free from the burdens of other-imposed expectations.

Sol is olive-skinned, and his name translates literally to "Sun." The 5-foot-6 firecracker has a head of thick, black hair. Warm, honey-coloured eyes adorn his prominent brow, and last week's 5 o'clock shadow frames his elongated face. His early thirty's jawline is toned by years of singing and dancing. He's not a performer, but being born gay to an orthodox Catholic family gave occasion to practice his presentation. Sol walks with a humble, confident tenacity and speaks to understand. We bond over a shared passion for dancing aggressively to loud music.

Maria is Sol's spiritual counterpart. Ash brown, sun-kissed, chest-length hair frames her round face. A slender frame and dark, walnut skin highlight inviting hazel eyes that shine with the excited glimmer of youth, though she speaks with the resolute voice of maturity. Her head, balanced on an elegant neck, conveys an inner calm – an insightful dignity, free from pretension. Maria likes to surf.

I spend the next two weeks acquainting myself with the trio. I piece together their backstories, wholly unaware of how quickly and deeply I would bond to those soulful individuals. They become my locals, and I, their tourist.

Around 3 a.m. one evening (or morning, if you're that kind of person), we toy with the idea of a nightclub. We enter, go down a flight of stairs, past soundproof windows, and into a dark room, filled with sound, and lit by lasers that skitter along the walls. We join the sea of bobbing, bouncing people. Raving ensues.

I lose track of time and escape to the balcony in search of air. At the top of the staircase, I look left and spot my extended family already outside, arms folded over the railing, watching a yellow sunrise over the Tagus River.

They don't notice me as I approach, continuing their Portuguese conversation. While I don't know the meaning of their words, I wholeheartedly understand what they say. Sol dances lazily and out of rhythm to the thump of the bassline. Maria wants breakfast.

I smile and reflect back on the twists of fate that lead me to here and now.