Eighteen days, five cities, and 98.1 miles of cobblestone later, I’m home in Los Angeles with sore feet and a full heart. Lisbon’s hills, I’m fairly sure, were designed to test my character, and they passed.
It started earlier, at the clown retreat in Big Sur at the end of September. This time I went as an assistant, not a participant, and I learned how open I am to connection, and how much people appreciate it. Somewhere between the laughter and the bruises, I came back to myself. I could have spent this season sad. Instead I chose to go looking for what was waiting.
New York was a sweet warm-up: a perfect-weather walk through Central Park and my favorite green shakshuka at Jack’s Wife Freda. London was the same kind of stop: a night in Soho, jazz at Gerry’s Club, and tea at The Wolseley.
Lisbon was relaxed and a little exotic. Every morning began with a pastel de nata, and my palace balcony made me feel like a princess. I listened to fado, took the day trip to Sintra, and found the castle phenomenal. The best meal was at Ramiro: giant prawns, clams, and shrimp in garlic butter, fresh bread, and a cold beer. Lisbon’s food beats Paris food any day, and I’ll defend that at any table.
Milan was instant style and cool. I stood before Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, watched the rain silver the Duomo’s rooftops, and found the best cream puff of the trip at Marchesi. The rare 1995 yellow Chanel jacket nearly made me cry. I grew up on The Nanny, and Fran Fine was a style icon to me, so this was full circle. Milan dresses better than anywhere I’ve been, and it taught me that life is a runway, so dress and strut like it.
Athens felt ancient and sacred. Walking the same roads as Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle gave me chills. I sat at the sanctuary of Zeus, was followed by what I’m fairly sure were twenty cats, and made early-morning bougatsa a ritual. Lyra, on the Plaka steps with the Acropolis and the Parthenon right above us, was so good I went back the next night.
I love nerding out on the history of the places I visit, so I booked a guided tour of the Acropolis. My guide was sweet, brilliant, and fluent in every detail, and she had one habit I could never crack: she sang the last word of every other sentence. I followed closely, looking for a reason, a highlight, a pattern. There wasn’t one. For the first twenty minutes it was hilarious. By the end I was half-daring the person next to me to ask her a question in the same tune, just to see if she’d notice.
What traveling alone taught me. When it’s just you, every decision is yours. Nobody has to agree when you linger over lunch or cancel a plan on a whim, and that freedom made me notice more. I didn’t want the American dream. I wanted the Anthony Bourdain dream, the one built on good meals and open roads, not a picket fence. This is our one short borrowed life.
Next stop: Las Vegas, November 19 to 21, for the F1 Las Vegas Grand Prix.
I’m always open to another adventure together, or to you flying me to you. Reach me at booking@veronicawilder.com.