Lisbon in November, when the light finally softens

The rent in Alfama had a rule attached to it: leave the shutters half open, always. My landlady, Célia, said it was so the house could breathe. What it really meant was that at four in the afternoon a long slab of amber light would come across the tile floor and stay there until the church bells started up on the hill.

November is when Lisbon becomes itself again. The cruise ships thin out. The Miradouros are quiet on weekdays. You can order a bica at Café Brasileira without waiting in a queue that snakes past Pessoa’s bronze knees.

A walking week

I gave myself a rule: no metros for seven days. Lisbon punishes you for it in calves and rewards you for it in the small things — the woman who sells roasted chestnuts near Largo do Carmo and always has an extra one for the dog waiting outside the pharmacy; the tiled façade on Rua da Bica that changes colour completely between 9am and 3pm.

Cities you love the most are the ones you learn to be bored in.

What I actually did

Ate grilled sardines standing up at Cervejaria Ramiro. Took the 28 tram once, out of obligation, then never again. Spent an entire Sunday at LX Factory watching a bookseller argue in three languages about a first-edition Saramago.

By the third week I could tell time by the trams. That, more than any monument, is the souvenir I brought home.