Fado

Lisbon, Portugal, is a complex, strange place. It’s somewhere else — a city of hills that murder your legs and drug dealers on every tourist block asking if you want to buy a bag of blow, and then, around the corner, the most amazing views and pastel de nata bubbling out of half the storefronts. The city moves uphill, so by nature it forces you to slow down, to stop, to have a drink, to think, to make your people wait just a moment. The food is incredible and the Portuguese are charming. After my first rip into a bifana pork sandwich among chattering locals who yelled for more beers, Add magical Fado performances and an unexpected Patrick Sweany gig and I realized Lisbon was a place I’d think about for the rest of my life.