Lisbon's Thrift Store Ghosts & Rain That Won't Quit

so i’ve been in lisbon for three days and my suitcase still smells like wet wool and regret. i came for the *vintage silk scarves and the promise of cheap port wine, but the atlantic drizzle has other plans. it’s not a proper rain, just this… persistent ghost-hug of humidity that makes my leather jacket feel like it’s marinating. i just checked the temp-17.93°c feels like 17.61°c, which is basically lukewarm tea weather, but the 70% humidity is turning my hair into a frizzy sculpture. a local told me to embrace it, call it ‘the sea’s breath.’ i call it a threat to my denim collection.

my mission was clear: score a 1970s lithuanian tablecloth and a pair of men’s leather oxfords that look like they’ve seen three wars. i’ve been pounding the alfama cobbles, ducking into every ‘solar’ (that’s what they call those tiny thrift shops, right?). someone told me-on a tram 28 packed like a sardine can-that the best stuff hides in the mouraria quarter, behind doors with fado posters peeling off. i believed them, because nothing says credible intel like a man smelling of sardines and gin.

found a velvet blazer with a single mysterious button missing. the lady owner, dona maria, apparently, quoted me a price while chain-smoking by a washing machine full of lace curtains. i tried to haggle. she laughed a laugh that sounded like gravel in a tin can and said, ‘this blazer has seen your future. it’s €45.’ i bought it. it’s slightly too big, the elbows are polished, and it smells faintly of cloves and mothballs. perfect.

according to my weather app, the pressure’s at 1028 hpa, whatever that means for morale. it means the air is heavy, like someone poured honey over the city. the sea level pressure is the same, which feels poetic until you realize it’s just maths. i’ve started referring to the humidity as ‘the gloaming’ because it makes everything look like a faded polaroid. it’s a vibe, honestly.

if you get bored, sintra’s palaces are just a short, nausea-inducing bus ride away. but why would you? lisbon itself is a layer cake of forgotten stuff. yesterday, i heard two tourists in time out market arguing about whether pasteis de nata are better warm or cold. their debate was louder than the fado bleeding from a nearby restaurant. i sided with ‘warm’ because i’m basic, and because the pastry chef at manteigaria gave me a stink-eye when i asked for one to go. he’s right. you sit. you let the flaky crust and egg-yolk custard ruin your diet in peace.

reviews here are not yelp stars; they’re overheard rumors. i was in a cafe in estrela-all azulejo tiles and existential dread-and this guy with a typewriter for a laptop told me, ‘avoid the miradouros at sunset. it’s a tourist cliché and you’ll get pickpocketed by someone dressed as a statue of liberty.’ i went at sunset anyway. he was right about the crowds, wrong about the statue. it was a statue of d. pedro iv, which is somehow less exciting.

my friend back home sent me a link to some lisbon food blog that swore by a secret bifana spot in the alcantara docks. i took a tram, got off, and followed the smell of grilled pork and garlic. it was a hole-in-the-wall with employees who didn’t blink. the bifana was juicy, fatty, and perfect, eaten standing up while a container ship sailed by. i paid €3.50. that’s a five-star experience in my book. see the spot mentioned on this local forum.

last night, i dreamt of yellow trams turning into running buses on the 28 route. woke up to the same drizzle. my vintage finds are safely stuffed in plastic bags from the el corte inglés (a luxury i indulged). i have a wool dress that might be from the 40s, a set of porcelain cats (why not?), and a leather map of porto that’s seen better days. my bank account is weeping, but my soul? slightly less damp.

i’m told the sun might actually show up tomorrow. i’ll believe it when i feel it burn through this lisbon haze. for now, i’m off to campo de ourique market-someone whispered there’s a woman who sells broken jewelry and tells fortunes based on how much tarnished silver you have in your bag. my bag is heavy with copper and doubt*. perfect.

more chaotic travel diaries like this // another angle on lisbon’s grit