There’s no way around it—Lisbon is a city that refuses to let you stand still. Every step seems to demand another, either pulling you up toward the rooftops or sending you tumbling down toward the river. I’d barely set foot on the cobblestones before realizing this wasn’t going to be a leisurely stroll but an endless rhythm of climbing and descending, as if the streets themselves were testing my resolve. Up the stairs, down the slope, up again, down again—the whole city is a workout disguised as sightseeing.
Walking here is like being trapped in a loop. I climb past crumbling façades with their peeling paint and iron balconies draped in laundry, only to find myself at another set of steps, another rise to conquer. Just when I think I’ve earned the view, the path veers downward, drawing me toward the shimmering strip of the Tagus. And then, of course, what goes down must go up again. The tram clatters alongside me, mocking my effort, as though whispering: you could have let me carry you, but you chose to walk.
The people around me are caught in the same loop. A group ahead trudges upward, stopping halfway to take photos, breathing hard but pretending they’re just appreciating the architecture. A woman in a loose striped shirt breezes by as if the incline doesn’t apply to her, her sandals clicking out a steady tempo against the stone. Tourists stop mid-descent, then look up at the climb ahead with that same mix of dread and determination I know too well. Everyone in Lisbon becomes a participant in this silent contest: who will give in and hop on the tram, and who will keep marching on foot, stubbornly proving nothing to anyone but themselves.
By the end of the day, my legs are carrying the memory of every step. The city lingers in muscles as much as in memory—each uphill battle followed by the thrill of rolling back down into another neighborhood, another square, another sudden view. Lisbon has no mercy, but maybe that’s the point. To know it, you have to walk it, endlessly up and endlessly down, until the rhythm of its hills becomes your own.
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