I did not plan to go to Portugal.
It was not on my vision board, my travel list, or even in my imagination.

As a Black woman with a clear understanding of history—and Portugal’s role at the start of the transatlantic slave trade—it was not a place I ever aspired to land.

At the time, I was a 45-year-old Realtor, still moving fast, still navigating life as a retired veteran with my laptop never far from reach. Portugal entered my life not through intention, but through delay.

The first time Portugal showed up, I was sitting on an overbooked plane after visiting my dad. We had attended homecoming at his alma mater, South Carolina State University. I sat in my seat with my laptop open, working like any other day.

The flight was full—overbooked, actually. When the airline began offering vouchers for anyone willing to give up their seat, I hesitated. My ears always perk up in moments like that because I want to see how much time I truly have. Usually, I’m open to the offer.

Then the amount increased.
I raised my hand.

I didn’t know it then, but that decision—made casually and practically—would reroute my life.

Portugal was not a destination I chose. It was a destination that chose me—through timing, chance, and a decision I made without overthinking.

I had three months to use an airline voucher I never planned on having. I already had a solo trip booked to Mexico City a couple of months later—my first. I had done extensive research for that trip because, outside of resorts, solo travel felt intimidating to me at first. When I returned home, I pulled up a world map, closed my eyes, and let my cursor land.

It landed on Portugal.

Even after serving over twenty years in the military, I had never set foot in Europe—never even smelled the air.

By the time I arrived in Mexico City in December 2024, Portugal was already booked—waiting for me on the other side of that trip. Eight days in CDMX, a brief return to San Antonio to wash clothes and update my suitcase, and then I boarded another flight—this time across the Atlantic Ocean.

I didn’t know it yet, but something had shifted.

I knew that if I was going to do this, I couldn’t rush it. This trip wasn’t about checking a country off a list. Being alone in Mexico City showed me that I could live a life like this—one filled with intentional travel and lived experiences. It was something I probably should have noticed much earlier, maybe during the height of COVID, when I first retired.

This wasn’t about escape.
It was about using time as a foundation.

Time to observe.
Time to feel.
Time to understand why I wanted to travel in the first place.

Before Portugal, I had already traveled extensively. I lived in Japan for over eight years and visited the Caribbean many times—Sint Maarten, the Bahamas, the Dominican Republic, Costa Rica, Jamaica, etc. I had also been on several cruises. I understood what it meant to get away.

But over time, I began to feel disconnected from the version of travel I kept seeing repeated.

So much of it revolved around resorts, unlimited drinking, and nonstop partying. Beaches, cocktails, and very little sleep. At some point, I realized I was over that life. I wasn’t interested in excessive drinking or packaged experiences anymore. I wanted to see the world differently—to understand places, not just consume them.

What unsettled me most was what existed beneath those resort experiences. In many deeply colonized countries, the resort often felt like a modern plantation. The structure was familiar: local people working endlessly, serving comfort and luxury, while profits flowed elsewhere. As a Black woman who understands history, I couldn’t ignore how normalized that dynamic still is.

I didn’t want to keep traveling in ways that padded the pockets of colonizers while reducing entire cultures to backdrops and service roles. That version of travel no longer aligned with who I was becoming.

I wasn’t looking for another vacation.
I was looking for a place where I could land.

That realization wasn’t rooted in judgment, nor in a belief that I was above anyone or any place. The people who work in those environments work hard—often doing what they must to support their families within the systems that exist. I don’t take that lightly.

My shift wasn’t about “giving back” or positioning myself as someone who needed to rescue a country. It was about honesty. About how I wanted to move through the world. I wanted to experience places as lived-in communities, not curated escapes. I wanted to participate in daily life—not just consume it.

So when I say I was looking for a place where I could land, I mean a place where I could exist without excess, without performance, and without feeling complicit in dynamics that no longer aligned with my values.

That was the mindset I carried with me when I left on Christmas Eve.

I landed in Portugal on Christmas Day—December 25, 2024.

I stayed at the Locke de Santa Joana hotel simply because it was centrally located. It was comfortable, practical, and grounding—exactly what I needed. Amenities like a washer and dryer were included, which allowed life to feel normal, not temporary.

I went out every single day. I walked the city. I ate at local restaurants. I observed how people lived. Lisbon felt layered and multicultural. I saw African and Afro-descendant presence. I heard multiple languages. It didn’t feel one-note or closed off—it felt lived in.

During that time, I met other solo travelers and people considering the expat life. We connected organically—sharing space, time, and conversation without pressure. It felt easy. I also took a tour that explored how the transatlantic slave trade began there. It was intense, eye-opening, and something I would take again without hesitation.

Time in Lisbon felt natural. Like community without force.

After New Year’s, I took the train north to Porto. I was only there briefly—just a couple of days—after seeing it repeatedly on social media. It was rainy and cold, and my Airbnb lacked insulation, which made the stay less comfortable. Porto didn’t immediately grab me the way Lisbon had, but the people were kind, and I could tell there was more there than I had the time—or weather—to experience.

I returned to Lisbon, and on January 13, 2024, I flew back to San Antonio.

But mentally, I never really left.

Portugal stayed with me. It showed up in my thoughts, my dreams, and quiet moments I couldn’t explain. I found myself comparing everything to how I felt there—how my body slowed down, how my mind softened, how life felt less urgent.

What stood out most wasn’t just the place itself, but how welcomed I felt moving freely through it. The rhythm of daily life. The ease of connection. The ability to exist without performance—it lingered.

As I continued researching over the following months, my curiosity deepened. Unexpectedly, Porto began to stand out. The more I learned about the city—the pace, the walkability, the culture, the way life unfolded—the more it felt like a place where I could build a base, not just pass through.

By June 2024, what had started as a feeling turned into intention. I began exploring what it would look like to live there—not immediately, but thoughtfully. After months of reflection, research, and planning, Porto emerged as the place where I could see myself landing long-term.

Portugal wasn’t just a place I visited.
It felt like a deep breath—a pause I didn’t know I needed.

Portugal wrapped its arms around me and welcomed me without demanding anything in return. I felt safe moving through it. Seen without being scrutinized. Supported without being smothered. It didn’t rush me. It felt like encouragement. Like permission.

It reminded me to thrive.

It didn’t ask me to perform.
It simply made space for me to exist.

Portugal felt like a place that could hold me—a place where I could rest and still grow.

I know there is no place in the world that erases life’s challenges or the realities of inequality. But this felt like a place where I could just be.

Me.