The days leading up to our trip were electric—excitement buzzing through my veins like electricity. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I spent way more than I should have on a new wardrobe, picking out pieces that made me feel like I was glowing from the inside out. I wanted to look gorgeous, confident, ready to take on whatever Portugal had waiting for us.
On the morning of our flight, my nerves were so high that I had to pee every few minutes. I kept pacing around my room, trying to calm myself down but failing. When I finally met up with A, my badass queen who’s been by my side through everything, we grabbed a quick bite at the airport. Neither of us had any clue what to expect, but we had our masks on, ready to brave the world. We joked about having perfect, glowy faces by the time we landed.
Then we touched down, and it was like stepping into a different universe. The world shifted from black and white to full, vivid color. The air smelled different—a mix of salty sea breeze and fresh pastries from nearby cafés. The houses looked like something out of a dream: pastel walls, red rooftops, intricate tilework. The architecture told stories that words couldn’t capture. People walked with a certain effortless style and warmth that made the city feel alive, welcoming. It was almost overwhelming, especially because neither of us spoke a word of Portuguese. But that didn’t stop us—it made every interaction an adventure, a game of smiles, gestures, and guesses.
Our hotel was nestled right in the city center, and honestly, Canadian hotels don’t hold a candle to it. It wasn’t just a place to crash—it was a home. Marble floors, big windows letting in golden sunlight, soft beds that felt like clouds. I remember saying to A, “This is home.” And it felt true.
More than anything else, I felt safe there. Something I had hardly experienced in Canada. The city had a calm confidence, a quiet rhythm that put me at ease. Walking its streets, I never once felt on edge or out of place. That feeling alone made the trip unforgettable.
That first day felt like we’d lived there for years. We quickly mastered the subway—navigating the map like pros. Everywhere we looked, men who made heads turn. I found A’s reactions hilarious—she looked like she’d never seen a man before, eyes wide, jaw dropped. And honestly, can you blame her? Canadian men rarely made me stop and stare, but here? Even the everyday people were gorgeous. The kind of beauty that’s effortless but magnetic.
But then, all too soon, our last day came. The weight of leaving settled in, dragging us down. Both A and I were miserable, sinking into a sadness that clung to our bones. I still remember our final conversation in that café, the words heavy and raw: “I don’t want to be here.” It wasn’t just about the trip ending; it was about the painful return to a place that felt smaller, colder, less alive.
I told my dad—who’s always worried I’ll end up old and alone with a thousand cats—that if A and I had stayed just two months longer, we probably would have been married by now. It was half a joke, but mostly, it was true. That trip showed me how much more life could be—colorful, vibrant, full of possibility.
The only thing that keeps us strong now is knowing this isn’t the last trip we’ll take together. We’re already dreaming and planning the next one. Because the world is too big and too beautiful not to keep exploring.
The moment I landed back in Canada, I made a promise to myself: I’m going to hustle harder than ever before, build something real, something strong. I want to make sure I never have to come back here—except maybe to visit my parents and my sister.
Though, with everything changing in Iran and the hope that the regime might finally shift, my parents plan to return there soon. So maybe Canada won’t even be a place I return to for long.
This trip to Portugal wasn’t just a vacation. It was a spark—a reminder that the world is bursting with color, waiting for me to chase it. And I’m ready.
Comments
Post a Comment