I almost didn't go.
I'd been planning to go to Lisbon for months, not for Pride specifically, just because I'd never been and everyone who's been says you'll love it and they're always right. But the closer it got, the more the trip felt like something I should do with someone. A partner. A friend. Anyone.
I didn't have anyone. So I sat on the booking page for three weeks, and then one night I just bought the flight.
The trip I almost cancelled became the trip that changed how I travel.
The whole journey there I felt sick. Not excited-sick. Scared-sick. The kind where you keep checking your phone for a reason to cancel even though there's no one to cancel on.
Day One: The Restaurant
I landed in Lisbon on a Wednesday. The parade was Saturday. I had three days alone.
The hostel was in Príncipe Real, which I'd read was the queer neighbourhood. It was also the kind of neighbourhood where every restaurant has a handwritten menu and twelve tables and no one's in a hurry. I liked it immediately. I also had no idea what to do with myself.
At about 7pm I walked into a restaurant because it had an open table by the window and I was too hungry to keep walking. I sat down, ordered in broken Portuguese, and started doing the thing I always do when I'm alone, scrolling, pretending to be busy, performing "I'm fine eating alone."
There were three people at the table next to me doing the same thing. Except they were together. Sort of. One of them, later I'd learn his name was D, was telling the other two about a bar he'd read about in Bairro Alto. The other two were nodding in the way you nod when you've only just met someone and you're still deciding if you like them.
D noticed I was listening. I know he noticed because he said, loudly enough for me to hear: "You should come."
I almost said no. I want you to know that. I almost said "thanks, I'm good" and went back to my phone. But something about the way the other two looked at me, one of them literally pulled out a chair, made me think: they're all alone too.
They were.
The Group
Four strangers. Same city, same week, none of us planned it together.
D was from São Paulo. 38, a graphic designer, on his first trip to Europe. He had opinions about everything and was right about most of them. He was the one who always ordered for the table, not because he was pushy, but because he'd already read the menu twice and knew what was good.
S was from Melbourne. 26, non-binary, working remotely from wherever they happened to be that month. They were the quietest of the four of us but laughed at everything, and their laugh was the kind that made you say funnier things just to hear it again.
A was from Chicago. 31, a teacher, on a two-week solo trip through Portugal and Spain. He was spontaneous in a way that scared me, "let's just go and see what happens", but he was always right. Every detour he suggested turned into the best part of the day.
And me. A writer from London. 33. The planner. The one who'd googled the restaurant ratings and the parade route and the best time to go to the miradouro for sunset. The one who, by the second night, had made a shared Google Doc with our itinerary, which the others mocked and then followed to the letter.
We had nothing in common except being queer and alone in the same city at the same time. On paper we made no sense. At the table, we made complete sense.
Day Two: Bairro Alto
D's bar recommendation was a place on a side street in Bairro Alto with no sign and a door that looked like it might belong to someone's flat. Inside it was tiny, dark, and full of people who clearly came here every week. The bartender knew the regulars by name.
We were not regulars. We were four strangers who'd met over dinner twelve hours ago and were already finishing each other's sentences.
S said something that night I haven't forgotten. We were on our second drink and someone asked how we all ended up in Lisbon alone, and S said: "I travel alone because every queer app is a dating app and I don't want a date. I want this." And they gestured at the four of us.
None of us said anything for a second. Then D ordered another round and we didn't talk about it again, but I think we all felt it land. The thing S named was the thing we'd all been carrying, the loneliness of being queer and traveling and not having a way to find the people who are already there.
Day Three: The Miradouro
I will tell you about the parade. But first I need to tell you about the morning of day three, because that's when the trip changed.
We'd agreed to meet at Miradouro da Graça for sunrise. A's idea. I was sceptical, I'm not a sunrise person, but I went because by now I was going wherever this group went.
Lisbon at sunrise is a different city. The terracotta roofs, the river, the light, it's the kind of light that makes you understand why painters move here. We sat on the wall with coffee from the stand that was somehow already open and didn't talk for about twenty minutes. Just watched.
And I thought: I almost cancelled this trip. I almost let the fear of being alone stop me from being here, in this light, with these people I didn't know existed four days ago.
That's the moment I started writing this piece in my head.
Day Four: The Parade
Lisbon Pride is smaller than London or Berlin or Amsterdam. The parade runs down Avenida da Liberdade, which is one of the most beautiful boulevards I've ever walked down, and finishes at Praça do Comércio on the waterfront. There were maybe twenty or thirty thousand people. It felt enormous and intimate at the same time.
We walked the whole thing together. D had a small Brazilian flag and a pride flag. S had a non-binary flag pinned to their backpack. A was wearing a shirt his students had made for him. I had a pin my sister gave me years ago that I'd never worn in public.
There's a moment in every Pride parade, you know the one, where the music is loud enough and the crowd is close enough and you stop thinking and just feel it. The four of us hit that moment at the same time. I know because when I looked over, all three of them had the same expression I was trying to hide.
We didn't talk about it afterwards. We went to the afterparty in Cais do Sodré and danced until the neighbourhood started waking up for Sunday morning.
Day Five: The Plan
On the last morning, we sat at our restaurant, the one from the first night, which had become "our" restaurant in the way that places do when you return to them with the same people, and someone said "so when are we doing this again?"
It wasn't a throwaway line. A pulled up his calendar. D started listing cities. S said "Amsterdam, WorldPride, next summer" and the rest of us immediately said yes.
We made a group chat. We're still in it. We talk most days. Not always about travel, about work, about life, about the things you talk about with friends you've known for years, except we've known each other for five days and we met because one person said "you should come."
What I Learned
I learned that the hardest part of solo travel isn't being alone. It's the twenty minutes before you talk to someone. Everything after that is easy.
I learned that queer people are exceptionally good at finding each other when given even the smallest opening. A shared table. A pulled-out chair. A "you should come." We've been doing this our whole lives, scanning rooms, reading signals, deciding who's safe. It turns out that skill works for friendship too.
I learned that Lisbon is a city that wants you to slow down, and that slowing down is what makes room for strangers to become friends.
And I learned that the trip I almost cancelled became the trip that changed how I travel.
If you're thinking about going to Pride alone, this is what's on the other side of the fear. Not always, not every trip produces a group chat that's still active six months later. But the possibility is always there, and the only thing standing between you and it is saying yes to the flight and yes to the pulled-out chair.
Where We're Going Next
Amsterdam. WorldPride. August 2026.
Four people. Same city. Same week. Different continents.
If you see us, pull up a chair. We have room.
