The ferry smells of diesel and salt, and the old man beside me is asleep before we clear the harbor. His fishing boots leave a trail of dried mud across the deck. I pull my jacket tighter and watch Lisbon shrink into the haze — terracotta rooftops dissolving into a smudge of amber and rust.
I'd heard about Setúbal from a woman at a tile shop in Alfama. Not Sintra. Not Évora, she told me, pressing a scrap of paper into my hand. Setúbal. Go on a Tuesday. I didn't ask why Tuesday. Some things you just trust.
The market is already half-packed away when I arrive, but the fish stalls are still alive with shouting and silver scales catching the morning light. An older woman in a blue apron is wrapping sea bass in newspaper. She looks up, takes in my backpack, and tilts her head toward the last of the sardinhas frescas. I buy four. I have nowhere to cook them.