Lisbon

Every staircase taught me something about my knees. Lisbon is on seven hills, supposedly. It feels like more.

There is a kind of melancholy the Portuguese have a word for — saudade — that I think is just the feeling of remembering something you are still inside. Pastel de nata at the right cafe, looking out at the right tile, is sufficient for saudade.

I spent an afternoon listening to fado in a small room in Alfama. I did not understand a word. I understood the whole thing.