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someonewhowannadielol · 4 years

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inevitable love (Yandere!Taehyung x SmolBaby!Reader)

You obviously couldn’t take care of yourself, so Kim Taehyung took matters in his own hands. Literally.

Warning: Harassment, loads of capitalism (kinda ironic that I hate capitalism, considering I’m an Econ student sigh), big dog chase idrk, y/n complains a lot lmao also she’s textbook smart but lowkey dumb,,, like me, I'm literally y/n anywaYS

CHAPTER ONE (Honestly, its more of a prologue)

P.S Sorry, this one's mostly focused on Y/N, I promise Taehyung will make it in the next chap!

Word Count: 1.4k

This was ridiculous. You had graduated from one of the finest business schools in the world, yet, here you were, sitting in your shabby studio apartment, listening to another rejection after the countless job interviews while watching the paint peel off the walls. You never really thought life would lead to this, you sitting here on your mattress, eating (probably uncooked) ramen, and crossing another job opportunity. The ramen wasn’t that bad, there were no complaints about it from your side anyways, because you couldn’t cook for shit and any food other than premade food was a waste in this household. You still have nightmares about the incident when you accidentally forgot to take off the plastic packaging off the sliced cheese before making a cheese sandwich in the microwave. Only to watch the microwave - and the cheese – explode in front your eyes. The poor baby.

Glancing at your watch, you realize that you have to head downtown to your job – which was paid under minimum wage, but it did make you better off than the homeless, and the jobless. You could still afford at least one meal a day (Was cup ramen considered a meal?) and the chef at the diner would sneakily give you food, sigh, he was so nice. Sometimes, you look back, and think where things went wrong. You were basically a child genius, always a couple classes ahead of your peers, you got almost got a perfect score on the SAT at the first try (it was a 1560!), you got your bachelor’s degree at the age of 18, instead of the usual 22. You look back and see how you used to think that you could afford a luxurious penthouse apartment in Manhattan and pay off your student loans within a year, while working in one of the best companies in world.

You did have the textbook knowledge, but who was there to teach you about the practical world? The real world? The textbooks didn’t teach you how to pay your water and electricity bills, they didn’t teach you how to hold your tears back when the landlord puts a suggestive hand on your waist, they didn’t teach you how to accept countless rejections, or how to use coupons while grocery shopping, or how to ignore the everyday catcalls, or how to walk through the streets at night. They didn’t teach you how to cope with the fact that your father died but you didn’t have enough money for a flight back to your hometown, they didn’t teach you how to not shout at your mother who got a new family, they didn’t teach you the reality.

So, here you were, two years later, serving disgusting men who harassed you, while wearing a skirt that was too short for your liking and heels that made your feet ache every single day. Somehow, it was worse today. Your hair wouldn’t co-operate, your mascara had officially dried out and no amount of contact solution could revive it from its flaky texture, your manager basically manipulated you to wear red lipstick, and these goddamn heels won’t stop hurting your feet.

At this point, I’m just going to die from the chronic feet pain, you thought.

It was just an endless day of serving, picking up dirty dishes, and of course, ignoring the occasional disgusting words of “endearment” from your customers. You were just picking up the mess of ketchup left by a couple of rowdy boys who sat here 15 minutes earlier, repeatedly asking for your number. Interesting enough, despite all the catcalling, you can only recall four people asking for your number.

The first one had been a wannabe bike rider, he was tall, around 6’4 – give or take – and quite chunky with a full curly beard down to his chest. Despite knowing some people who would dig this vibe, you personally didn’t love the entire ensemble. In fact, you cringed whenever you saw these people perform their tricks on the streets (You cringed even more when you saw them fall and smash their head open. Yikes).

You remember, it was your third day at the newly acquired job, and while you weren’t all that ecstatic to start working here (You were already looking for other, more well paid jobs with more benefits), you still respected the job requirement and went up to the customer and asked, “What would you like to order, sir?” in your sweetest voice possible.

“Well, what’s on the special menu?”

Special menu? You weren’t informed about any special menu, maybe your manager forgot to tell you?

“I’m sorry, I’m quite new here, I’ll go confirm this special menu with my manager,” and just as you tried to go to your manager – who by the way had been keeping an eye on you since you got here, you could say she wasn’t exactly fond of you – scary biker dude grabbed your wrist, a little too tight to be called comfortable, and you couldn’t help but wince.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re the first and only item on the special menu. And I’d like to order that, with a side of Vanilla milkshake,”

Okay, crinnngggeee.

And then, as impossible as it seemed, you were forced to smile and laugh it off, even if it disgusted you to the core. And then, you were manipulated to hand over your phone number.

Just go with the flow, Y/N, just go with the flow. Block it later, no worries.

He was known to be a usual customer, but surprisingly, he didn’t actually ever come to the diner after that, nor did he call you. Now that you notice, no one you gave your number to, actually did call you. Whether it was the biker, or the druggie, or the 50-year-old man who promised to buy you a yacht. Eh, he was so old, he probably died on his way home. So, you never knew whether to take it as an insult, or a blessing.

Well, this day was almost over until 5 minutes before closing down, a bunch of people, who were probably high, because of the unmistakable scent of weed coming from them – came and demanded to be served. Of course, the manager could score any penny she could, so of course, you were forced to work overtime again. Without getting paid.

Finally, a little after 1am, you could take off these horrid heels and slip into the much comfier sketchers. Sure, you had glued them a couple of times, and sure, they kept on breaking because you’ve had them since high school, but it’s okay. You’ll live.

You were halfway down the route to your house, as you tried to rub your fingers together and somehow magically take away the freezing wind this cold night brought. As you walked, you attempted to feel your phone in your back pocket – annddd just when you thought your day couldn’t get any worse. You’d probably left it back in your locker or your apron’s pocket and for a second you contemplated whether it would be worth it to go all the way back at 2am to get you phone. You almost decided against it, but remembered that you would get the confirmation call from the job interview you gave on Thursday, anytime tomorrow. And so, you decided to go back. Well, this was one of the worst decisions of your life. Scratch that, it was the worst decision of your life.

You reached the diner in approximately 10 minutes, but obviously, everything was locked and there was no way you’d sneak in there because, phew, if you got caught you’d lose the only job you have. Just as you turned back, you saw the biggest fucking dog you’ve ever seen. You didn’t know much about dogs, except for the fact that you’re shitless scared of the big, scary ones – and this was definitely a big, scary one. His fur was coated with black, brown and red spots, about half your height, and had teeth that could tear a human in mere seconds.

You didn’t really know whether to run or gently walk away, making it think you weren’t a threat – you took a couple slow steps back while looking at it in the eye, but you’re a dumbass and suddenly decided to run. Somehow along the run you lost the dog. And one of your shoes. And your apartment keys. And your bag which contained this week’s paycheck.

Well, you were fucked.

A/N: Please do give feedback! Also, tell me if you want to be on the taglist for this!

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andytfish · 4 years

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FREELANCE GUiDANCE: A 10 Part Series- PART 2- SURROUNDING YOURSELF

Part Two- SURROUNDING YOURSELF WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE

This one is the hardest one because it involves making some painful choices. We all know people who are Debbie Downers; parents, siblings, friends, even spouses. They doubt you'll be able to succeed, they've likely settled in to their own place and role, they don't think they're anything special and that people who are successful must know someone, or they just got lucky.

What they don't get is this simple FACT: We make our own luck. We make our own connections. YOU can do this-- I know it. Only for the simple fact that I did it and I'm nothing special.

I did learn to stop being afraid. If I was able to travel back in time I would likely punch my seven year old self in the head, because I was afraid of everything. EVERYTHING.

Today I can honestly say I'm afraid of nothing. Well, that's not entirely true-- I AM afraid of Grizzly bears but I don't put myself in a situation where I run into a lot of Grizzly bears so it doesn't come up very often.

In fact-- I'm actually confident I can beat a Grizzly. Yeah-up-- you read that right. I think I, a man of some 190lbs can BEAT a Grizzly bear. Because like everything else that has ever scared me, I got this figured out.

All right so here's me walking in the woods.

I'm the first to admit I don't like the woods, I don't like the great outdoors. My idea of roughing it is staying in a Motel rather than a Hotel, and I don’t stay in Motels. But for the sake of the argument for some ungodly reason I find myself walking in the woods.

Note some equipment

1. a .357 Magnum- the second most powerful handgun in the world. I don't need the first, too much recoil and it's heavy, so I'll go with this one. I know what you're thinking: well, that's all you need. WRONG. A Grizzly bear can take several shots and keep on coming and all it need do is swipe you with a single paw and your intestines are now sunning themselves by the lake.

2. A heavy walking stick with a sharpened point. I once climbed MOUNT WASHINGTON in the snowiest month of the year, February, on the day the French Olympic Climbing team refused to attempt it. I made it bro and a walking stick was critical. It's going to help if a snake decides to come near me too. Very important that you choose a hefty one too.

A good solid knife that is really sharp. I have a great one.

4. Comfortable walking shoes. You can't fight a bear if your feet hurt.

So I'm minding my own business trying to find my way out of this hellish spot of nature when I hear a grumbling coming up behind me. Bear.

I secure one end of the stick firmly into the ground, drop to one knee and unholster my gun. As the bear approaches he has no idea what this stick thing is and continues on his charge impaling himself on the sharpened end of my stick (glad you chose a hefty one now eh?)- meanwhile I empty the .357 into his head and throat sending pieces of Yogi all over the scenery.

Hold your position for several minutes. Make sure you've aimed carefully every bullet is going to count.

Now all you animal rights idiots-- relax. He came after me, I don't advocate hunting-- this was clearly a him or me situation and it's not going to be me.

From there I skin the bear using the same knife I used to sharpen my stick and I walk out of the woods wearing the baddest top coat around, establishing clearly to any other animals thinking about snacking on me to look elsewhere. Except for other romantically inclined grizzly bears getting out of the woods should be a cake walk.

I really think this would work, I’m not kidding. What's my point? Be prepared. Think it through. SURROUND yourself with people who BELIEVE you can do it.

Surround yourself with people who put success in the same place that you do.

If my best friend spent his hours trying to beat the high score of PAC MAN I'd rethink the hours we spend together.

Your biggest investment in your career is time. You need people around you who appreciate what you're trying to do and UNDERSTAND.

Cold hard truth time: if you are trying to make it as a freelancer and your significant other has a regular 9-5 job and doesn't understand why you don't keep those same hours you may need to make a choice there too.

Here's the rub with Freelance VS a "real" job-- and why so many spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends have a hard time understanding: you don't have a boss telling you it's OK to punch out-- you work for yourself, and because you do you realize the whole thing is up to you. Success or failure hinges on YOU. You get paid ONLY for the hours you work. Not the hours you clock in and then shop eBay sales.

Creatives are different from ordinary folks. Sometimes you're on a roll and you don't want to stop, sometimes the entire day has been a frustrating array of non-starting and now it's 6pm and things are suddenly jelling. Sometimes you lay in bed unable to sleep and opt to get up at 2am to work a bit more on that project-- non-creatives don't understand this.

Because in the real working world of office spaces and cublicles people work from 9-5 and even then they probably only ACTUALLY work three hours of that whole day. That doesn't work in freelance.

This means choosing wisely when it comes to a mate. The partner you're considering isn't going to change once there is a ring on their finger. If they are impatient with you now that you're trying to establish yourself they are not suddenly going to be calm and understanding later on down the road when you're a working professional.

Am I advocating you break up with the non-understander? Am I advocating you DIVORCE a spouse who is unsupportive of your career choice?

Yes I am.

Before you go to that extreme I suggest you sit down and have a conversation, preferably when you're still in the courting stage so it's not an expensive split if they refuse to understand what you're trying to accomplish. Explain the following to them:

The deadline is the thing. Your reputation and your career are reliant on your ability to meet deadlines. When you're on deadline it has to come first.

Creativity happens at it's own accord. It doesn't always happen from 9-5 so there will be nights and weekends when you're working.

Promise to make time for them and then stick to that promise. Maybe it's date night on Thursdays. Maybe its a movie every Friday. Maybe it's weekend breakfasts. No matter what it is-- be there as you promised.

Like projects in your career, don't overpromise. Don't agree to three date nights a week if you notice that you tend to work best at night. Be realistic in what you promise.

Because if you want to beat this game, if you want to take down a Grizzly in the woods, you need to be clear and focused, and most importantly you have to COMPLETELY believe you can do it.

Be wary of who you take advice from. I've got a friend, a very close friend, who is almost always wrong. He once told me that Foxwoods Casino had a special where for $20 you got a free bus ride, $50 in chips to play with and a free buffet. He told me once that the city picks up old appliances at no charge to taxpayers. He's loaded with "great" advice. When we were in college and I said I wanted to be a comic book artist he said "Well, that's great, but isn't it like being an actor? It's really hard to make a living at it." Cue the Ee-Ore whine from Winnie the Pooh.

He's still my friend, but I long ago stopped listening to his advice. If I mention something I'm planning to do and he starts to rattle off the fifty reasons why it won't work I tune him out and then I don't return his calls for a while.

Surround yourself with good people. People who are on the same path you're on. Get out there and meet like minded individuals and use them for support when you need it.

And if someone doubts you, don't listen to them. Cut them out.

NEXT WEEK: Part Three: Setting up Work Parameters

Andy Fish is a freelance artist and writer who has been living the lifestyle longer than there has been an iPhone on this planet. The advice given has worked for him, it might work for you, he hopes it does. But like all advice, take it with your own situation in mind. If you want to contact him shoot him an email [email protected]

#ADVICE #FREELANCE #FREELANCE LIFESTYLE

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londonlanded · 6 years

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Week 54

Monday, my job got a little more fun, and a lot more sweet. As part of our latest marketing campaign designed to advertise our beautiful property in Budapest, I arranged to work with my friends in the pastry kitchen at my old haunt, Four Seasons Park Lane, to make a Hungarian treat to send to some of our top clients. The issue with Hungary (of which there are very few, in my opinion, if any really), is that it doesn’t really export much even though it totally should! Aside from the occasional small specialty shop, and the bottles of Tokaji you can find in the wine section of most stores, there aren’t many things that make it out of the country for our liberal consumption. I remember falling in love with a couple of Hungarian sweets while I was there, and I haven’t been able to find them since. That’s not particularly unusual of course, it makes sense that something that’s from a country might mostly stay there, but I get murmurs of agreement from my two Hungarian flatmates when I moan about how annoying it’s been to get Hungarian fineries worthy of being sent in the mail to our clients - they have just as much trouble finding products from home as I was seeming to. The solution? Make it yourself!

I headed over to the hotel and was met by David Oliver, our quirky pastry chef who had spent the weekend trying to sort out how to make our campaign happen. He also happens to be dating a Hungarian girl, which boded quite well for the fact-checking aspect of my project. He brought me to the pastry kitchen, which I had never been in, in spite of the fact that I had been on property for 7 months, and he presented me with his version of something called a Gerbeaud cake. This cake was created by a French chef living in Hungary (named after himself, of course), and it’s become one of the most famous desserts in the country. It was also created in a cafe that’s just down the road from our hotel, so it was an easy choice in terms of how to best represent what the city is capable of providing its visitors.

Tasting it (poor tummy) was more than worth it, it’s apricot preserves, walnuts, butter biscuit and chocolate ganache all in one. And of course, it wouldn’t be Four Seasons without a little flair - I watched, mesmerized, as my new friend placed delicate flakes of gold leaf under the newly cut-out chocolate logos he had placed on each bite.

It looked almost as good as it tasted.

The only catch of the day was the fact that, well, London doesn’t quite know how to handle the heat, in any sense. I left work and walked out into London’s version of a sweltering day, and beyond being deeply concerned about my little treat packages making it to their recipients without turning to mush in the muggy mail, the rest of the city was breaking down in slightly more concerning ways. My local Tesco’s fridges couldn’t handle it, and neither could the rest of England. Never ceases to amuse me how a little weather just shuts this place down. When the sign below was posted, it was a balmy 25 degrees...

Wednesday, a real highlight, Paris’ mum made me traditional Cantonese food and I think I definitely ate enough of it to show the appreciation I couldn’t exactly articulate in words. Paris translated for me, we were having mung bean noodles with traditional mushrooms, scrambled eggs, and dried scallops that were rehydrated and used as a stock base before being added into the main dish itself. They’re apparently a delicacy, and I can see why - they’re salty, briney and taste like stronger versions of the larger versions I’m more accustomed to (if one can be accustomed to scallops?). She also served potatoes and chicken wings in Gojuchang sauce, equally good, though I’m always more of a fan of noodles than anything else.

We finished the meal with a vegetable broth that’s usually served on its own, either before a meal as an appetizer, or afterwards if you still have room. It was strange but delicious, you could taste the whole cobs of corn she had used, bought from the Chinatown farmers market earlier that week. As much as I’m sure Paris has had enough mother-son time for a while (like, two months, bless him), he’s definitely not tired of this little aspect of it. Dessert was a very non-traditional one, at least for mum. Paris popped open his bottle of 20 year old balsamic vinegar, and sought his pint of vanilla ice cream from the fridge, I grabbed the blueberries. Sounds weird, but give it a go and get back to me. Mum was excited to the point that she sent a photo of it to all her friends so they could see how strange her son’s palate had become, but she tried it like the chef she is. Everything once, eh.

Thursday, early start at work since I was going to be heading out an hour early for my next adventure. Thankfully, I made it out in time to catch an earlier train to London City airport, since I found myself on a massively delayed Jubilee line that would have otherwise completely screwed me over had I not taken off an hour early. I always do wonder what’s a massive enough deal that could result in shutting down an entire tube station, but part of me doesn’t want to know why Waterloo was bypassed that afternoon. I got the airport with my version of just enough time (aka two hours), and stopped at Pret to grab some dinner before boarding my first ever TAP Portugal flight, to go to Lisbon to meet Brooke!

Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that apparently TAP stands for ‘Take Another Plane,’ which wound up being more funny than it was inconvenient, I am grateful in hindsight for the anecdote it left me with though I was little grumpy at the time. I know this is classic anglicized entitlement, but the pilot hardly spoke English, so when I realized that the code he had spoken to us in was actually an announcement that we’d have to stop for gas halfway to our destination, we were landing in Nantes, France. My first thought was, ‘well hey, I guess pilots can forget to get gas, too,’ and my second was, ‘well thank you sweet lord he was able to voluntarily fall out of the sky before gravity forced it upon us!’ After an hour or so on the ground, extended by the fact that Nantes wasn’t expecting us and didn’t have the proper paperwork ready, we took off a second time, and landed in Lisbon a bit after midnight. But hey, at least the customs line for non-EU citizens was manageable...

I hopped in an Uber, and while doing so managed to rip a hole the size of a graperfruit in my favourite pair of pants, quickly changed into something less shredded in the back seat of the car without the driver noticing (I’m an artist, thank you), and within about 15 minutes, pulled up to the Four Seasons Hotel Ritz Lisbon.

I wasn’t with it enough to really appreciate it when I arrived, but I did take a good look around the next morning - it’s really a stunning place, it’s much bigger than many of our other hotels, and it’s as grand as the name states it might be. Hard to be underwhelming when you’ve got both Ritz and Four Seasons in your title.

Swaths of pink flowers and vines hang from the main floral display in front of the Concierge and reception desks, I checked in and was told that not only were we on the 9th floor, we’d been upgraded to a Premier room for no reason that I could discern beyond proper kindness. It made getting to the hotel around 2AM sting quite a bit less. Brooke was asleep of course, but she’d picked up some snacks for me to arrive back to, and after downing a few of them while opening the letters the staff and sales team had left me, I climbed into bed, too.

The morning meant really seeing the mess I had gotten myself into. I woke up to the largest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in (not that I’ve stayed in many, but regardless), and I noticed we had a terrace all to ourselves, too, with a view overlooking most of Lisbon. What a life.

I had arranged to meet one of my long-distance colleagues for a tour around the hotel, Patricia was born and raised in Lisbon and had no shortage of recommendations for Brooke and me once we finished my tour. She showed me all their ballrooms and meetings and event spaces (as per my job’s main focus points), and I was struck over and over again by just how beautiful the place is - it’s honestly art, every corner is glowing or decorated somehow, there’s no shortage of places to stop and admire, whether you’re looking at the ceiling or the ground.

After my hotel tour, Brooke and I met up in the room to find our way to the city centre to go on our free walking tour of the city, which wound up being just the two of us thanks to everyone else’s cancellations. We began in the Luís de Camões square, which is dedicated to the famous poet of the same name who began Lisbon’s reputation of artistry. He was responsible for writing one of Portugal’s most famous pieces, The Lusiads, which earned him the reputation of being Portugal’s Shakespeare. One of his less gallant contemporaries, António Ribeiro, has a statue a few metres away, outside the tavern he used to spend his earnings in, which he collected by writing poems for those who requested them.

As we continued, we noticed some musicians playing in the street we were walking on, Juliana went on to explain that the bands we see, wearing what looked like uniforms, were actually groups of students who were doing this voluntarily. Most of them are paid in f & b, and whatever money they earn by playing is usually donated to a cause that the group chooses. Every university faculty has a band you can join, this one happened to be a group of medical students, but we were told that nurses, engineers, and beyond all put on the same kind of show.

Just beyond where they were standing, we walked to the Elevator de Santa Justa. This Gothic-style elevator was built by Raoul Mesnier de Ponsard, who was rumoured to have been one of Eiffel's contemporaries. However, our guide Juliana did not hesitate to point out that, unlike the Eiffel Tower, this actually had a purpose.

The Santa Justa lift was responsible for bringing people up to the upper levels of the city, since Lisbon’s basically a collection of hills, this makes a ton of sense. If you’re a child or if you’re elderly, I can’t imagine anything worse than going for a circuitous stair climb in 40 degree heat, when you could instead wait a few minutes to be lifted to your destination.

We walked on see what was easily the most evocative part of the city tour, the Carmo Convent, which was destroyed in the 1755 earthquake and fire that effectively leveled the city. The earth shook beneath the feet of Lisbon’s residents for about a minute, which doesn’t seem like long but only to those whose worlds aren’t collapsing. Thing is, the world shaking is bad enough on it’s own, but it gets a bit worse when you’re standing in a room full of candles, that might as well be made of kindling framed with stone.

You can still see char marks on the inside of the Gothic arches that line the outside of the convent, scars from a fire that burned over 200 years ago but that hasn’t been forgotten. Similarly to St. Dunstan’s in the East, they haven’t replaced some of the roof, though this time I think it was more out of an effort to illustrate devastation than it was for the sake of making a centrally located garden.

As if matters could get worse, those who fled the earthquake and the fire, of course, headed towards the sea where they would not get burned. Unfortunately, as is often the case with seismological activity, a tsunami followed the quake, and destroyed most of the city and killed many of its citizens who had escaped the first round of disaster.

That earthquake made way for a new government since, well, their leader at the time fled the city instead of cleaning up the mess, and the person that took over was responsible for saving Lisbon. His mantra of bury the dead, heal the living, and rebuild the city, cam true over the next years, and Sebastião de Melo, the prime minister at the time, became one of the city’s heroes. He redesigned what was broken, and you can plainly see the results of his efforts today. The new streets are wider and more spacious, they’d give anyone the chance to find open air if the earth were to ever shake again.

Still, Lisbon’s reformation continued even into the last century, Brooke and I were both astounded to learn that so much change had occured so recently. Up until the 1900s, Portugal was living under a fascist regime that had begun to harm the citizens it ruled over. In 1974, the Portuguese had had enough, and at around 10:55 PM on the 24th of April, a song played on the radio that included a code to the members of the military that knew what was coming. At 12:20 AM, a second song played, this time with a lyric in it that included the sentiment of ‘the power returns to the people,’ and at that signal, the military took over ‘strategic points of power’ in the city, thereby beginning the revolution. Our guide continued, telling us that announcements were made over television and radio that everyone should stay inside, safely out of harms way, in case things turned violent. Much to the military’s surprise, Portuguese citizens emerged from their homes to join the military, as they felt it was their country to fight for alongside their forces. The revolution was successful, and since then, April 25th has been called ‘Freedom Day,’ and is now a public holiday.

There’s also another powerful side to the revolution’s story. While it’s always been known as a relatively ‘peaceful’ one, as in it had very few fatalities, there’s another tale for how it got its name of ‘the Carnation Revolution.’ Carnations are in full bloom around the time that the revolution occurred, and apparently, one of Lisbon’s residents who didn’t have access to either television or radio had gotten up at dawn to go to work. She got there, realized that no one else was, but figured she’d made the trek so she might as well stay. A soldier walked past, and saw her shop was open, so he walked in and asked, ‘please, tell me you sell cigarettes?’ The woman replied, ‘no, but have a flower,’ and she proceeded to place one into the end of the soldier’s rifle. From then, it became a symbol of their peaceful revolt, and soldiers began to place flowers in their weapons to show that there was no real intent or desire to use them. Brooke and I both got genuine chills at this point, our tour guide’s delivery was only a bonus to an already powerful tale (albeit likely a bit embellished, but anyway).

As Juliana led us through Lisbon’s winding roads, we walked through a tunnel depicting a cartoon version of Lisbon’s entire history, from the fire to the revolution to the present, another testament to the city’s artistry that I did not know it possessed. That tunnel gave way to a beautiful plaza, decorated in the same bright pink flowers we’d seen in the hotel lobby. I realized then that these are the same carnations that were talked about a few minutes prior, they were in full bloom. Not quite the red colour that we were told about, but a bit of googling tells me carnations can take on a range of shades, so I’m sure these bushes cousins were those in the story.

From there, through the area that Juliana described as the Jewish Ghetto, which was actually one of the only areas of the city that survived both the fires and the tsunami of 1755. The streets are narrow, pedestrian only, and buildings are built high and narrow, closely packed to each other. Juliana told us that if we wanted to listen to traditional Portuguese Fado singing, we should come here, since it’s one of the only places in the city you can see the ancient art form practiced. She also pointed out the reason that the Portuguese haven’t invested much stock or money in CCTV surveillance systems. We were puzzled by this, but she pointed upwards at the windows behind us. Sure enough, out of every single one of them, there was an elderly Portuguese woman looking down at us. ‘The second something happens, everyone knows,’ said Juliana with a laugh. Apparently no language barrier exists in the context of suspicion?

Finally, we headed towards the last stop on the tour, which was actually the most surprising part of the adventure for me. We walked to the front of a large building that had large, diamond shaped bumps all over the front of it. Apparently, the building was used as a cod-drying warehouse before it was left to ruin. Someone came across it and decided that no building this beautiful should be left the way it was, and turned it into a museum. The House of Spikes is now home to the museum of Jose Saramago, who is perhaps Portugal’s most famous writer. His most famous piece Blindness (great, in case you wanted my opinion, sure you did), won him the Nobel Prize for literature in 1988. The moment that surprised me the most though, was the end of the tour when Juliana pointed to the tree we were standing beside. She said, ‘not to alarm you, but he is buried under this tree.’ So I got a little closer to one of my favourite writers than I counted on getting, but being able to see the olive tree that marked his grave, while standing in front of the building designed to tentatively immortalize him, was a pretty fabulous way to top off a tour that proved there was far more to Lisbon than I could have ever imagined.

We then headed towards Juliana’s recommended restaurants, and found ourselves at a cute Portuguese place for lunch. After a slight translation error, I wound up with Bacalhau à Bras, which is basically salted cod and hashbrowns fried together, served with salad, and Brooke had cod fritters and a side of rice, beans and tomato sauce. An odd mix that worked pretty perfectly, as far as I could tell.

We walked (read, rolled) to the Praça do Comércio, which is the largest square in Europe, and walked through the archway that marks the entrance to Lisbon from the sea. The top of it is marked by the King who was in power during the 1755 earthquake, but he is shown facing the ocean since he fled the city instead of staying to protect it. Our guide said she wasn’t sure why he was given a monument at all, but I suppose being immortalized as a traitor is one way to pay for being one.

Before we made our way back to the hotel for a break, Brooke and I stopped for a quick shop down the main strip of the city, and for a requisite Pastel de Nata, which is the famed Portuguese egg-custard tart that the country is famous for.

We walked into a bakery where I watched them briefly being made, and Brooke treated me to one - again, worth the pain it caused me, sometimes you’ve just got to eat some gluten and figure out the rest later.

We headed back to the hotel, and while Brooke headed down to the spa, I went upstairs to enjoy one of the most amazing things about our Lisbon hotel - the fact that it’s got gym and a sprinting track on the 11th floor, where you can look out on the entirety of the city while working off your tarts. I spent a generous amount of my workout looking at the city I had spent the day traipsing around, it’s hard to focus when the world outside is just so much better looking than the dumbbells you’re only half-convinced you want to be holding.

We had a beautiful walk down to our dinner destination, and while it was booked out that evening, we made our way to a backup place called 11 Tapas. With no real expectations, we sat down at our tiny table and took in the well-loved vibe the restaurant gave off. Before long, our heavy-handed waitress had poured us two of the largest glasses of wine either of us had ever seen, and we were sitting in front of some of the most delicious tapas I’d had in a long time. Octopus, peppers and cilantro, smoked chorizo that came to the table while still on fire, mushrooms and sauteed onions, mussels, and a grilled chunk of goat’s cheese on arugula and tomatoes, we were two happy campers.

Our heavy handed waitress the placed two glasses of equal volume on our neighbour’s table, and before long, she came over to us and replaced what we had on ours because she said something along the lines of, ‘you looked jealous!’ She went back to the counter, and returned with her glasses, pointing to them and saying, ‘I couldn’t see!’ when we laughed at the volume she’d poured for us.

We ended the night with a lava cake and ice cream for Brooke, and cottage cheese with honey and walnuts for myself. Our first full day in Portugal set the bar quite high, don’t you think? That, and the fact that it cost a grand total of 32 Euros didn’t hurt either.

Saturday morning, we started our day up on the 11th floor gym, taking in the sunshine before hopping on a 5 Euro round-trip train from the city’s central Rossio station, out to Sintra, a region known for its beautiful views and stunning architecture. We were surrounded by people wanting to do and see the same, and after a rather rough and windy bus ride to the top of the hill, we saw what it was they were trying to come and see.

Pena Palace is a UNESCO world heritage site, and stands in the heart of the Sintra Mountains. Apparently you can see it from Lisbon on a clear day, which wasn’t the case for us, but it’s high enough up that we saw clouds rolling over the grounds as blue skies remained open above the world beyond the mountain.

Though it was initially built as a monastery in 1493, it was left to ruin before King Ferdinand the II came across it and fell in love with it, commissioning its Romantic reconstruction between 1842-1857. It’s a pretty impressive place, with tiled interiors and intricately carved furnishings. The real stunner is the outside though, colourful stucco and tile and stone, engraved and painted and all-together looking like a piece of artwork standing tall and proud out of the greenery below.

Brooke and I headed back to Lisbon and stopped for some picnic supplies on the way back, and headed down to the hotel spa to unwind for a bit before heading out for dinner. Turns out, you don’t need to buy out the hotel to have exclusive use, if you’re lucky! Not sure how we managed to take over during peak season, but hey, sometimes it’s best not to ask questions.

We headed out to our dinner reservation at a place called Minibar, which was an adventure all on its own. It’s a tasting menu designed to be more of an experience than a meal, and we wound up getting quite (sometimes too) daring with our orders to the point we didn’t always know what we were eating! After accidentally downing a chunk of foie gras covered in cocoa and hazlenuts disguised to look like a Ferrero Rocher, we chose to choose a little more conventionally for the rest of our meal.

I wasn’t feeling totally myself, so I went easy, but still managed to try some of the most amazing food we had found all trip. The walk home wasn’t too shabby either, I sometimes forget that life goes on after bedtime, and that in some places, leaving the restaurant after dark doesn’t mean you’ll be too cold to make it home.

Came back to the hotel and finally had a second to walk around and attempt to capture it, turns out, I can’t.

Sunday started off, you guessed it, at the top floor gym, where Brooke and I worked out and took one last look at the Lisbon skyline before dropping our bags at reception and checking out. We also had a little photoshoot in case our future selves need some motivation at the gym, since our workout views were no doubt going to pale in comparison from here on out.

The grand total cost of my stay at Four Seasons Hotel Ritz Lisbon? 6 Euros, 1/person/night, city tax. Otherwise, we’d been allowed to stay at the cost of having a contract with the company for almost a year and a half. Fair enough.

We hopped in an uber to one of the places we’d been recommended - Cascais is a city on the west coast of Portugal, and we had been told to go there for the beach, to compliment the city-exploration we’d been doing for the past two days.You can definitely take a train, but we chose the 30-minute car ride option since we had our flights to catch later in the day. We hopped in and soon realized our driver was from Cascais, and he decided he’d take us right to the sight we were in his car on his way to go see! We weren’t counting on a full blown tour, but turns out kindness and national pride are as abundant as the other here in Portugal.

Boca del Inferno is named that way because of the noise the waves make when crashing into it during a storm - it’s a large rocky outcropping that you can climb all over.

Much to Brooke’s chagrin I was one of the wannabe monkeys that was turning it into my playground.

There’s not much to see beyond the chasm itself, but the walk on the way back meant we could see a bit of Cascais without even meaning to. before long, we were in the centre of the city, or at least along the coast at a point where we decided to stop.

The difference in design between both Lisbon and Cascais is palatable, one is densely packed and bustling, while Cascais bears a bit more of a resemblance to Los Angeles along the coast, but not the Venice beach part, more like LA on a Sunday morning. It’s actually earned the reputation of being the California of Portugal, Lisbon’s main bridge looks a ton like the golden gate, and the vibe of Cascais resembles its equally laid-back counterpart. Walking around, we could feel why they were being compared to one another.

We found ourselves a spot on the beach and settled in, I saw some clouds take shapes I’d never seen before, and we watched the day go by as the sun told us we had made the right choice in how we were spending our day.

Our Uber driver home was playing jazz on his car radio, and we made it back to the hotel slightly more sandy and much better off than we had been when we left. We also wound up far less broke than we expected to be, sure Cascais is 24 km away, but Uber is notoriously inexpensive in Portugal, and we found ourselves pleasantly surprised with the fact that we’d managed to conveniently and relatively inexpensively hit another city on a day we thought we’d be too tight for time to do so. We decided on the way back to the hotel that we’d make the most of our stay, and we chose to use my employee benefits to try out the hotel’s acclaimed Sunday brunch. We were seated, and soon, we were beyond glad we’d made that choice. I’m here to change your opinions of Four Seasons - whatever they are, they now need to include the fact that an FS brunch is probably the best meal they serve.

I’ve had three of them now (spoiled much?) and this one was by far the best, Portuguese delicacies, seafood, an entire honeycomb suspended for you to break chunks off of and use at your discretion, dozens of desserts and a handful of one-hit appetizers that left you wanting about twelve more. Aren’t all berries dusted in gold???

It didn’t hurt that our waiter was an angel with a sense of humour, whose version of punshing us for not yet having tried Port during our trip was to bring us two glasses of it on the house. No matter what you think of Four Seasons, no matter what comes to mind, I know that this experience will mean that at least for me, the first thing I’ll think about will be the people who make these experiences happen. They’re phenomenal, almost every single time.

Unfortunately, even the best things have to end, and we headed down to the spa to shower and change before heading to the airport to come back to London. One final moment of joy though, it’s usually me who says sentimental things that usually stay inside peoples heads, but that I choose to share with the planet. On our Uber ride to the airport, our driver spoke only French and Portuguese. We were chatting, and out of the blue, he came out with something along the lines of, ‘sometimes I think it’s so useless to know this language, I never really use it. But then I do, and it reminds me how important it is, it let me talk to a Canadian that I never would have been able to talk to otherwise. I think that’s special.’ And I think he’s right.

After our slightly delayed flight finally made it to London, Brooke and I made a beeline for bed. Nothing like having to land in France though, I’m hoping that only happens to me once. And to end off, a shot of my all-time favourite part about air travel - that no matter where you are, the colours just seem brighter above the clouds, whether there are any or not.

Next week, some down time? Maybe?

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