Seven Hours in Lisbon

My flight home was delayed by seven hours. The airline offered vouchers for the airport café. I took them, then decided to take the train into the city instead. Lisbon in October is warm in a way that feels like a memory of summer rather than summer itself. I walked without a map, which meant I got lost immediately, which meant I found the small bakery near the river where an old woman sold pastéis de nata from a tray balanced on her arm. I ate two standing on the street. A cat watched me from a windowsill. Somewhere a tram made its slow complaint up a cobbled hill. I almost missed my flight. Standing at the gate, breathless, I realized I had not thought about home once in seven hours. That seemed, at the time, like an enormous gift.