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. No plan. Just me, the warm smell of baked custard tarts drifting from a nearby café, and a hill that felt steeper every time I looked up.
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