I Followed a Stranger’s Advice in a Foreign City—And It Changed My Life

I Followed a Stranger’s Advice in a Foreign City—And It Changed My Life

Subtitle: Sometimes, all it takes is one unexpected moment—and one stranger—to reroute your entire journey.

By ZIA ULLAH KHAN

I wasn’t supposed to be in Lisbon.

Portugal hadn’t even made my list. I had intended to spend two weeks in Paris, sipping overpriced espresso and pretending to write poetry. But flight prices changed, my Airbnb host canceled, and I—irritated and impulsive—booked a last-minute flight to Lisbon just to escape the disappointment.

I arrived with no plan. No map. Just a weathered backpack, a phone low on battery, and a cloud of uncertainty hanging over me.

It was my first solo trip, and I was already questioning everything.

On my second evening, after aimlessly wandering the Alfama district for hours, I stopped outside a tiny tile shop tucked between pastel-painted buildings. The scent of grilled sardines wafted through the narrow streets. I remember thinking, This city is beautiful, but I feel completely invisible here.

That’s when I met him.

He looked about sixty, wearing a worn hat and holding a coffee like it was part of his soul. He was sitting on the shop’s front step, watching tourists pass by with an expression that hovered between amusement and indifference.

“You look lost,” he said, in clear English.

I hesitated. “Is it that obvious?”

He chuckled. “Only to those who’ve been lost before.”

His name was João. He told me he used to work as a photographer for a travel magazine but had retired early to "watch the world move slower." We spoke for a few minutes—mostly small talk—before he suddenly said:

“You should go to Sintra tomorrow. But not the tourist part. Take the back train. Don’t follow the signs. Go left when the others go right.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds… vague.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “That’s how magic happens.”

The next morning, curiosity got the better of me.

I took the train to Sintra, ignoring the loud crowds following signs to the famous Pena Palace. Instead, I turned left. And then left again. I walked aimlessly, my phone dead, my sense of direction non-existent.

After about 30 minutes of uphill wandering through pine-scented woods and crumbling stone paths, I stumbled upon something I wasn’t meant to find.

It was an old, forgotten garden. Ivy curled around broken columns, a dry fountain stood in the middle like a ghost of the past, and red roses bloomed wildly in one corner, as if defying time itself.

There was no gate, no entry fee, no selfie sticks in sight. Just silence, wind, and the sound of my own breath.

I sat on a moss-covered bench, suddenly overwhelmed.

And I cried.

Not because I was sad—but because I finally felt. Felt the weight I’d been carrying. The breakup I hadn't processed. The career that felt more like survival than passion. The life I was leading because it looked good on paper but didn’t feel good in my soul.

In that forgotten garden, far from the “must-see” attractions, I let it all go.

I sat for hours, just being. Watching the light change. Writing in my journal. Breathing in a way I hadn't in years.

When I returned to Lisbon that evening, I found the tile shop again. João was gone. Just an empty step and a cold coffee cup.

I never saw him again. Never got to say thank you.

But his words—“Go left when the others go right”—echoed in my head long after I left Portugal.

That one choice, to follow a stranger’s advice in a foreign city, shifted something deep inside me.

When I returned home, I quit my job. I started writing full-time. I began choosing my own path, not the one others expected of me. And every time I hesitated, I remembered that garden in Sintra… and João's quiet smile.

Sometimes, the universe doesn’t send signs. It sends strangers.

And if you're lucky—or just lost enough—you might just listen.