Far ahead, where the Tagus River cuts the land, warm sun rays, filtering through the cloudy sky, shine behind the Ponte 25 de Abril. Or is it the Golden Gate? I double-check the label of my red wine, making sure that it doesn't say Napa-made.

One by one, the lights of the buildings covered in blue tiles are turning on, and that marks the last day of my time in Portugal. A pretty Brazilian girl with a burgundy hat is playing a sweet and calming bossa-nova and my heart squeezes with happiness and melancholy. Am I inside a movie? The magic of Portugal is indescribable.

Today is Thursday, November 26 and I’ve been on the move for exactly one month. This morning I had my brain poked for a PCR test and I’m about to set foot, for the first time, in Africa.

Lisbon is the San Francisco of Europe. Or is San Francisco the Lisbon of America?

I could hear the rattle of old yellow cable cars passing by me as I walked up the steep and narrow cobblestone streets of Lisbon, seven hills. In my nonexistent itinerary, watching the sunset on the west coast of Europe was mandatory.

Sitting on top of the city, a newer version of a 2000-year-old Roman-Visigoth-Moor castle protects my back. Newer because it was rebuilt after collapsing in the Earthquake of 1755. I learned this morning with my walking tour guide with curly hair, Huguinho. The one in San Francisco happened 151 years later.