Lisbon lovers shot by Rui Gomes for LUSO Magazine

Lisbon lovers

WORDS: SANDY BRAZ
PHOTOS: RUI GOMES

 

Lovers are like mirrors and in them we see bits of ourselves—who we are, who we can be and who we want to be. Dating has played a large role in my time in Lisbon—at times exciting, sometimes disappointing, always revealing. I’ve dated men from various cultures; Italian, German, Russian, Moroccan and of course Portuguese, to name a few.

The ongoing joke with my friends being that I date locals to practice my Portuguese… which isn’t entirely untrue. I’ve had my fair share of crushes and heartaches, all of which have woven themselves into the story of my time here. The anecdotes I share in these stories are a small and intimate glimpse at the ones who helped me understand.

 

 

Lisbon lovers shot by Rui Gomes for LUSO Magazine

“B” who always comes back

I’ll be going about my day and a text will come through: “Guess who’s back?” I always smile when I read it. B is a smart man. He comes to Lisbon every few months. Work. He’s a photographer. Successful and handsome. Speaks four languages. Well- travelled. Always looks me dead in the eyes when he sees me for the first time and says I look stunning and smell nice. 

I wait to respond when I see his text because I’m busy or tired or both and our nights together are always long. Am I up for this? He’s fun, tells good stories, touches the small of my back just right, and our nights have the kind of chemistry I’m always missing by the time he reaches out. B has some of the luckiest timing every time.

His text reads, “I’m here when you’re ready, leaving tomorrow, would love to see you.” 

I respond with my usual, “Welcome back. Good to hear from you. Busy doing… [insert whatever the fuck I’m doing that night here.]” Within the hour he drops me a pin and tells me a glass of sparkling is waiting. We go dancing. Two adults with lives that have no intersection, other than the fact that he also used to be a journalist and we like each other. A night together is a night off; a 15-hour vacation from life, including a night of sleep that I don’t often get. It’s restful and warm because he holds me all night, intertwining his legs with mine the way I like… I don’t even have to ask, he just does it. We sleep like that until the next day. 

In the morning, we wake up early and go for coffee. He calls his taxi to the airport, we say goodbye, kiss lightly and hug deeply before he goes back to life in Germany. By that time I can’t wait to be alone again. Our time together is special because we know it’s temporary. We do not message in between visits. We know what we are to one another.

I wave until his taxi is out of sight, then back to reality, until I get that text in a few months; “guess who’s back.”

 

 

Lisbon lovers shot by Rui Gomes for LUSO Magazine

The Surgeon

One night at dinner, a friend was lamenting about dating in Lisbon. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and turn up my headphones to drown out how hard it is to meet quality people to fall for. Whatever. Finding love is a universal problem because wherever you go, there you are. Love doesn’t discriminate based on geography, and I can say with confidence after that dinner that Lisbon is not the problem. People are. 

I was walking fast to the pace of the music in my head, trying to dull the outside noise of drunk people and loud music coming from the DJ booth at the miradouro. Celebrations for Dia de Santo António were in full swing, and I remember thinking clearly that I’d like to meet someone to enjoy all that noise with. Something brief, nothing serious, because it’s nice to feel crazy about someone sometimes when you’ve been feeling normal for too long.

To my left, a car slid into the last parking spot on the busy main street. I was impressed—finding parking near the viewpoint like that is next to impossible in the depths of tourist season.

A tall, dark haired man stepped out and turned to look around at where he’d ended up, visibly impressed with his park job too. We hit eyes and smiled at the same time. Timing always makes things feel like medicine: a hit of dopamine and remedy after that dinner and the normalcy of my days.

I kept moving ahead to the crosswalk, waited for the light to change and looked back to see where the handsome guy had gone; where does a man like that go next? A bar? A restaurant? The arms of someone beautiful like him? But he was right behind me. 

I smiled again because I couldn’t help it and felt a little nervous.

“Hello,” he said.

I said it back. 

“Are you following me?” I asked.

“Maybe, I don’t know.” 

We crossed the street side-by-side… not touching or speaking, both still a bit in shock. Were we really about to do this? We stopped in the crowd, he tilted his head and asked my name. He wondered if I was going to the festas (the celebrations), and pointed towards the drunk people and blaring music. I said that it depended if I had someone to go with, to which he replied,  “Now you do.” 

Vamos beber uma cerveja fresquinha—let’s go drink a cold beer, he told me, not asked. And what a great idea that was on a night when the air was sticking to our skin.

For an hour we talked and drank cold beer, staring out at Lisbon from the famous viewpoint. We spoke in a mix of Portuguese and English about where we were from, where we were going and what our days were looking like. He said that I looked Portuguese but didn’t act it—that the pace of my walk gave me away as a foreigner. I hadn’t heard this before but didn’t make much of it.

He was a surgeon in Lisbon and said he knew he wanted to be a doctor by the time he was ten. He was single, never married, no kids, dates infrequently, but that doesn’t mean he’s a monk, he told me. Fantastic. It was all cliché but I liked the absurdity of it. “Oh did you hear about Sandy? It was love at first sight with a man she met walking by… a doctor! They lived happily ever after and saved lives.”

It was getting late so the festas started to shut down because of the noise. I asked him what we should do and he said that although he could chat and wander all night, he was going to walk me home. I agreed it was a good idea but deep down I could’ve been persuaded to stay out all night. He felt like quality worth falling for.

We arrived on my street a while later. The foreigner in me didn’t want a stranger to know exactly where I lived, so we kept walking and talking a bit. We finally stopped on the stairs near my apartment to say goodbye.

“This doesn’t really happen to me,” he said, “meeting people like this randomly. I’m not sure what to think. Can I see you again?”

He was easy, smooth, direct, calm, smart and so attractive. Maybe it was the beer or the humidity or both, but he looked ideal and in that moment I knew that we’d either see each other obsessively or never again. 

I said that I’d like to see him too, and gave him my number. Rare. I never quite know how to play these scenarios to my favour, if I should be elusive or direct. I can be both. I look forward to a day when I don’t have to think about these things.

We hugged deeply and said goodnight. 

The next two days I waited for a message. I finally broke on the third day and messaged him an invite to have coffee—vamous tomar um cafezinho? He replied immediately and said he’d love nothing more, but was away until the following Monday, and he’d message when he got back to Lisbon. I wanted to believe him, but I knew better. 

We never spoke again, and I never see him around—it was just one magic hour that disappeared into a summer. I’ve since forgotten his name, but not the way it felt to ask for what I want and get it like that: someone to share the noise with. 

You have to be open to get the things you ask for, and I was. I am. 

He crosses my mind now and then, but only when I see a lucky person pull into that parking spot near the miradouro and look around, impressed that they were so lucky to find something so rare.

 

 

Lisbon lovers shot by Rui Gomes for LUSO Magazine

The serial non-monogamist

He would send the location and tell me to meet him there. Thursday night. 7:30. 

Sometimes Thursday was almost a week away and the anticipation would begin. Something to look forward to. I’d smile when I got his text because I knew a good time was ahead. 

When I arrived he’d stand up to greet me: the warmest hug. Instant chemistry. It felt nice to think about someone during the day from time to time.

He was fun to look nice for because he noticed every detail. The kind of guy who leans in to smell your neck and lingers for a few seconds, then strokes your hand while complimenting you. Being around someone who knows how to do that is an experience, it transforms the male gaze into an empowering narrative.

He was about my age and the founder of a successful tech startup. This is the new Lisbon—you can’t throw a stone without hitting a tech guy. He was well-travelled, Ivy League, handsome, incredibly direct and loves women. Originally from central US, he grew up in the midwest and moved his company to Portugal last year. Never married, never will, doesn’t want kids and doesn’t know why. He’d shared that he’s avoidant in relationships: likes to be close but not get too attached. He also didn’t know why. I thanked him for his candour—it takes courage to tell someone why they shouldn’t invest their feelings. Everyone should come with a warning label like that, it’s useful. I’ve learned that when someone tells you they’re not open to falling in love, it’s wise to believe them.

One evening while he was discussing his work, I realized I’d sent him an email months before we even met. I’d applied for a role at his company while I was still living in Toronto. I’d been fascinated by what his startup did with AI. What were the chances the man I’d pitched to months earlier was now sitting across from me in Portugal, telling me about the company I had wanted to work for? 

I thought about telling him what I’d figured out so we could share one of those “what a small world” moments that makes you feel human and connected, but I kept it to myself… maybe I’m a bit avoidant too. I’d say rare, but these strange coincidences happen to me often and I’ve become discerning about sharing when they do. For weeks I played with the idea of leaning over and whispering in his ear: “So, what didn’t you like about my writing portfolio?” 

He had a girlfriend. But we were not having an affair. This might be controversial, but relationships have changed since the last time you were in a new one. Believe me. Open relationships aren’t new, but labelling them is; like everything else today, things get named and grouped. It’s sort of bullshit and reductive when the intention is to be expansive but here we all are trying to make sense of old things in new ways.

These flexible unions are referred to as ENM relationships or ‘ethical non-monogamy’, which is exactly what it sounds like: couples dating outside of their main relationship and over-communicating about everything. Sometimes to a fault. It’s been interesting to watch it spread and be misinterpreted by those in them and those not.

I was curious what a single straight woman might get out of ethically borrowing someone’s boyfriend for a bit. 

He was fine with all of my questions, which I warned him there’d be many, like my first question, what was in it for his girlfriend? Did she go out with other men and was he fine with that? He said yes, she did and he was. It felt feminist knowing her needs were also being met. 

Our time together was insightful, and that’s what kept me going back to each date. I crave lasting insights more than a lasting boyfriend, because insights I can share, and boyfriends I cannot.

He talked about his lady with admiration. He’d mention her in subtle ways like, “She and I went away on the weekend” or “She loves to surf” or “She’s really smart”. I’d nod and say things back like, “Awesome” and “That’s so nice you talk about her like that” or “Yeah, I haven’t tried surfing yet”. I was curious about her, but also fine with not remembering that she existed at all. He was on borrowed time with me. 

One night he said that going on dates with other women made him miss his girlfriend more; the chemistry he felt with her was absent compared to others and dating outside their relationship strengthened their mutual desire for one another. It tested his jealousy, which was something he wanted to work on for personal growth. It’s human to want more than you have and then wonder why it’s never enough. I found it fascinating how the presence of one person intensified the absence of another for him. So maybe I was helping him miss his girlfriend and ethically cheat.

He reached for my hand without hesitation when we walked through the streets; he didn’t check his phone when we were together, at least not until the morning when the fantasy was over; he helped me with my coat when we left restaurants and always paid the cheque without making a fuss; he would say “mmmmmm” before we kissed; he made me coffee in the morning while we talked. It was enough of not enough, and then it wasn’t enough at all. 

I wanted to decide that I didn’t want him, not have that decision made for me because someone else already had. This wasn’t jealousy, it was a new standard: I’d rather have full-time nothing than part-time something with anyone. Other than a few wonderful dinners and dopamine, there wasn’t much in it for me—no calls on Sundays, no plans for weekends, not even the potential to fall in love and eventually break up. The good stuff.

We ended it beautifully over a text one day for reasons we didn’t talk about but both understood. A few weeks later, I messaged him to see how he was recovering after a surgery—a note I’d put in my calendar to do while we were dating. This is my version of ethics in an increasingly shitty world. He said he was grateful for my thoughtfulness, and glad to hear I was doing well too. I haven’t seen him around Lisbon since our dates, which is odd because Lisbon is so small. I don’t think about him anymore, but sometimes still wonder what he didn’t like about my portfolio.

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