The hostel is located at the top of a hill in the Bairro Alto area, which I picked because it’s supposed to be a hip and edgy neighborhood, and I can see that they were right. The air is filled with cigarette smoke from twenty-somethings passing by, and loud music from cafes where people are drinking along tiny tables on the sidewalk. The buildings are done up in soft shades of yellow, interspersed with intricate tile work, but every now and then there’s a dash of graffiti, which brings a gritty edge to this pretty city.
Elena seems confident in where she’s going, so I follow, happy to just be out and about, even if things seem a little swimmy. Eventually she finds a cool café across from the tracks where the yellow trams trundle past, and we grab a seat outside.
“I take it you’ve been to Lisbon before,” I tell her as we sit down.
“A couple of times,” she says. “This is the first time I’ve been alone. I used to come with my boyfriend, but we broke up a few months ago.”
“At least when you’re single you can do things on your own time, your own way.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she muses as the waiter comes by. He’s about my age, maybe older, super cute with curly black hair and a nice smile.
We order coffee and I guess Elena catches me checking out his ass as he walks away because she goes, “I take it you don’t have a boyfriend.”
I laugh. “Was it that obvious? No. No boyfriends for me.”
“Just be careful with Portuguese men,” she says after a moment.
“Why?”
“Because my ex is a Portuguese man,” she says knowingly. “They’re a lot of fun, but they do bring the drama. And heartache.”
I give her a dismissive wave. “I’m not looking to date anyone, believe me. I’ll have my fun here, but if anything, the men are the ones who have to watch out for me. I’ll break their hearts before they even have a chance to break mine.”
She smiles. “That’s a very proactive approach.”
“I’m just here to have fun, not get attached. I have a job to do.”
The waiter brings us back our coffees, winking at me while he gives me mine.
Shit. Okay, I know what I just said about not getting attached, but I could definitely be down with some random hookups with hot Portuguese men.
“And what job is that?” she asks, taking a sip of her latte.
“I’m a sports reporter,” I tell her.
“Really?”
I nod. It feels weird to say it. In fact, this is the first time I’ve said it out loud. “I started my own blog last year and decided to come to Europe where I could really cover the games and be immersed in the sports culture. I don’t have a lot of readers yet, but I’m working on it. Then, when that happens, I can use my blog as a stepping-stone to on-camera sports reporting.”
“What games?”
“Soccer. I mean, football. You know.” I pour two packets of brown sugar into my black coffee. “It just isn’t that big back home, not like it is here, so I figured I might as well get the hell out of Dodge and further my career at the same time.”
“And is Dodge where you lived?”
I laugh. “No. Born and raised in Houston. Texas.”
“I figured. Your accent.”
“That’s going to be a dead giveaway here, isn’t it? No wonder you thought I’d get mugged. Also, my dad raised me and he’s from Boston, so I do this weird thing where my accent cycles.”
“And what did you do in Houston? Other than the blog?”
“I just graduated college,” I tell her. “Okay, technically we haven’t had our ceremony yet and I don’t have the diploma, but I’m done and that’s all that matters.”
“What did you study?”
“Journalism. But I got there on a multi-year equivalency scholarship for soccer. Had a good run too until I fucked up my leg. Doctors took one look at me and told me I’d never play again.”
I stick out my left leg and point to the massive scar that runs along my thigh. I know she noticed it earlier, everyone does, but I don’t really give a fuck, which is why when I want to wear shorts or skirts, I’ll wear them. The scar tells a story. It’s just not a particularly good one.
“What happened?” she asks quietly as she eyes the scar.
“Have you seen the Horse Whisperer?” I ask. “Well, it was like that movie, except the horse is okay and nobody died except my dreams.” I make sure to laugh, so that I don’t bum Elena out. “Anyway, I should have known better and it is what it is. Now I’m here and I’m making the best of it.”
She nods thoughtfully, though she manages to look a little melancholy despite my shrugging it off.
It’s then that the waiter comes by again.
“How are your coffees?” he asks in his accented English.
“Perfect,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair and grinning up at him, hoping I don’t have red lipstick on my teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Jorge.”
“Jorge,” I say. “I’m Ruby. I have a question for you. Which football team should I be cheering for, Sporting or Benfica?” I ask, listing the two main teams in the city.
“Sporting, of course.” He looks aghast that I even asked that question.
“Perfect. Thank you, Jorge,” I tell him. “Can I get a glass of your house white wine?”
He seems a bit confused at my jump in subject but nods. “Of course. Anything for you?” he asks Elena.
“I’ll take a cider,” she says.
He walks off and she gives me a curious look. “I figured you would know who to cheer for already.”
I shrug. “I’ve watched both teams play a lot online, but I never really had a pull to either one. It’s different in Spain, which will be my next stop after this. There
