Lisbon tumbles down seven hills to the Tagus in a cascade of tiled facades, rattling trams and washing-strung balconies.
Viewpoints called miradouros open at the top of every climb, and the light off the river turns everything gold in the afternoon. The Alfama still echoes with mournful fado spilling from tiny tavernas, while across the water a great bridge could be San Francisco's twin.
This was the launch pad of an age of exploration, and a faint salt-and-melancholy still hangs over it.
Eat a warm custard pastel de nata and grilled sardines with a glass of green vinho verde.
Round trip from Prague, any dates in October 2026.