The fishing nets were still dripping when I arrived at the harbor, just as dawn cracked the horizon into shades of amber and violet. In this village along Portugal's western coast—too small for guidebooks, too real for Instagram—the men were already mending their nets with practiced hands, fingers moving in rhythms passed down through generations.
I'd taken the wrong bus the day before. A simple mistake with profound consequences. Instead of the tourist-packed beaches of the Algarve, I ended up here, where the only tourists were the gulls circling overhead.
The owner of the small pensão where I stayed, a woman named Catarina with silver-streaked hair and knowing eyes, had invited me to join her morning ritual. We walked to the harbor together, our footsteps echoing on cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet.