As we’re all at home, praying hard that the global pandemic situation will improve, the only traveling we can really do now is through others’ stories and our own memories. Here’s a short story about a little misadventure back from my solo travels in the colorful city of Lisbon, Portugal. This post, “What Are You Waiting For?” was my original submission to World Nomads in 2019 for their Travel Writing Scholarship, and was shortlisted as one of the Top 100 entries of the year out of over 12,000 entries from around the world. Photos added for additional entertainment.

The twenty or so burly men turned towards me, and the lively chatter I’d heard from the outside immediately died when I stepped into the center of their den. I suddenly felt extremely conscious of how out of place I was – a small, distinctly Asian girl, innocently wandering around Lisbon alone in the off-peak season, a good seven thousand miles from home.

I felt the intensity of their gaze as if I were a lamb that had happily walked into a butcher’s shop, thinking that it had found shelter. Maybe I’d misread the sign outside. Maybe I’d accidentally trespassed into someone’s home! Either way, it was clear that it was a mistake, and that I should leave. The problem was that I would have to weave my way back through the rows of closely arranged tables and chairs again, making it a very clumsy and awkward exit. Glancing around furtively, I was still planning my escape route when I heard a gruff voice beside me.

“What are you waiting for? Sit down!” he commanded.

In those few moments of silence, the man’s voice was so loud that I was certain the entire restaurant had heard it. My face, clearly betraying how I felt, flushed red. The man had salt-and-pepper hair and stubble that reminded me of a particularly fierce schoolteacher.

I sat down, as instructed, and squinted at the menu on the wall – a handwritten list on a whiteboard, as cramped as the furniture arrangement of the restaurant. With a limited Portuguese vocabulary consisting mainly of ‘obrigada’ and ‘ginja d’Obidos’, it was a code I could not crack. The appetizers should be at the top, and the desserts should be at the bottom… right?

To think that a few moments ago, I was still standing in front of the open door, wondering where the menu was, when a waitress ushered me into the only remaining table right in the heart of the restaurant.

The same man seated barely an arm’s length away turned to me again. “What do you want? Eh… Fish? Chicken?”

“Um… fish?” I replied hesitantly.

Without another word, he called a lady over, and they started chatting animatedly in Portuguese, gesturing in my direction a few times.

“OK,” he said to me. “Now you wait.”

I didn’t know what to think. On one hand, I had finally realized that he was helping me, and I was grateful. On the other, I couldn’t help but worry that he had ordered a feast for me that would empty out my wallet. I waited.

Thankfully, just one slightly flattened, lightly charred fish arrived on a steel platter, with a side of boiled potatoes and carrots. I gingerly pried off a flaky piece of meat with my fork, still unsure of what to expect. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the man was watching me.

The fish was grilled to perfection, with just the right amount of salt; tender, with ivory meat that came right off the bones. Turning towards the man, I nodded and smiled as I proceeded to pick the fish apart.

“It’s good!” I told him. He seemed satisfied.

Then he frowned slightly and called the same lady over again.

This time, she returned with a small glass bowl filled with a golden, oily liquid. I looked at it stupidly. Was I supposed to dip the fish into it, or drink it? Was I even supposed to touch it? The man got up, reached over, and promptly doused the remains of my fish with the liquid. It was just melted butter. I wiped the plate clean in minutes, leaving behind a perfect skeleton.

As I prepared to leave, I noticed that the room was buzzing with conversation again, my intrusion long forgotten and forgiven. I thanked the man for his kindness and wished him a good day. This time, I noticed that his eyes, wrinkled with fine lines, were kind. “

Welcome to Portugal,” he said, smiling.