Getting Lost in Lisbon: The Magic of Wandering Without a Map

M Mehran

The first rule of traveling, they say, is to always know where you’re going. Book your tickets early, plan your itinerary, mark every must-see on the map. But the best memories I’ve made while traveling didn’t come from careful planning. They came from getting lost.

I learned that lesson in Lisbon.


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It was my second morning in the city, and I was supposed to meet a group tour near Rossio Square. I had every intention of being punctual, but a wrong turn led me down a narrow street, one of those cobblestoned lanes where laundry hung between pastel-colored buildings and the smell of bread drifted out from hidden bakeries.

For a moment, I panicked. My phone battery was low, my Portuguese was nonexistent, and my tour group was probably already gathering without me. But then something shifted. I looked around and realized: this is why I travel. Not to check boxes on a list, but to stumble into streets that make me feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s story.

So I kept walking.


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Lisbon is a city that rewards wanderers. The sidewalks are mosaics of black and white stone, designed centuries ago by artisans who turned even ordinary pavements into works of art. The streets curve and climb unpredictably, each corner revealing something unexpected: a splash of street art, a hidden chapel, a doorway painted the color of saffron.

I climbed one hill and found myself at a viewpoint I hadn’t read about in any guidebook. Below me, red-tiled rooftops spilled down toward the Tagus River, and in the distance, the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge arched across the water like a crimson ribbon. An old man stood nearby, strumming a guitar. A small group of locals had gathered to listen. No tour bus could have delivered me here at that exact moment. I felt like the city was letting me in on a secret.


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That day, I wandered for hours. I ducked into a bakery where the woman behind the counter insisted I try a pastel de nata still warm from the oven. I walked through an antique shop cluttered with forgotten treasures: maps with edges frayed, porcelain teacups that once belonged to someone’s grandmother, letters written in looping cursive. I even stumbled upon a tiny bookstore where the owner pressed a translated book of Portuguese poetry into my hands, saying, “For your journey.”

By the time I finally checked my phone, the tour had long since ended. But I didn’t feel like I had missed out. Quite the opposite. I felt like I had traveled in the purest sense—immersed in a place, not just moving through it.


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There’s a freedom in traveling without a script.

Of course, there are risks: you might get lost, you might waste time, you might never make it to the “must-see” attractions. But sometimes the risk is the reward. When you don’t know what’s coming next, you’re more open to noticing small details: the way sunlight spills across a tiled wall, the laughter of children chasing pigeons in a square, the quiet rhythm of a city going about its ordinary day.

Wandering reminds us that travel isn’t only about places. It’s about presence.


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A few days later, I did make it to Rossio Square, this time on purpose. The group tour was fine—informative, organized, filled with postcard-perfect stops. But when the guide paused to give us free time, I slipped away again, choosing instead to follow the echo of fado music down a side street.

I ended up in a small bar where a woman sang with such raw emotion that the entire room went silent. I didn’t understand the lyrics, but I understood the feeling—longing, joy, heartbreak, all tangled together. I ordered a glass of vinho verde, let the music wash over me, and thought: this is the Lisbon I will remember.


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Since that trip, I’ve carried the lesson of Lisbon with me wherever I go: leave room for wandering.

In Tokyo, it led me to a family-owned noodle shop tucked beneath the train tracks, where the owner treated me like a regular. In Marrakech, it took me through a maze of alleys until I found a rooftop café overlooking the medina, where mint tea tasted sweeter because I hadn’t been looking for it. In Mexico City, it guided me into a courtyard filled with paper lanterns, where strangers invited me to dance.

These moments never make it into the travel brochures. But they are the soul of travel.


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Wandering doesn’t mean being careless. It means being open. Open to wrong turns, to unexpected conversations, to the possibility that the best stories begin where the guidebook ends.

When I think back on Lisbon now, I don’t remember the names of all the monuments. I remember the guitar music, the taste of that pastry, the kindness of a bookseller, the sound of fado on a quiet evening. I remember how it felt to be lost, and yet completely at home.

And maybe that’s the real magic of travel: not just finding new places, but finding new versions of ourselves—ones that are braver, freer, and a little more willing to get lost.