Woman with Wanderlust The travels of an American writer and photographer just trying to learn and share and contribute something to the world.

Fado, meaning ‘destiny’ or ‘fate,’ is a genre whose origins have been traced to Lisbon around 1820. The lyrics are meant to express ‘saudade,’ which translates roughly to a longing, or a feeling of loss and melancholia.

Our guide mentioned Fado in passing a few times on our walking tour and when a few of us showed interest he offered to take us out to his favorite Fado club. The one rule: don’t be obnoxious. He was a regular and didn’t want a bunch of drunken tourists ruining his reputation.

The bar was small and dark and we were the youngest people there by about 30 years. I squeezed into a small booth against the wall and ordered red wine from a large man who spoke to me at length in Portuguese. I just smiled and nodded, he laughed.

The lights dimmed and the doors and windows where shut. Fado was banned by the dictator Antonio de Oliveira Salazar so, for over 40 years, it was performed behind closed doors, literally, and now it’s tradition.

A man stood up and joined the two guitarists sitting in front of the bar. The room quieted and the man began to sing. I couldn’t even look at him. I don’t speak Portuguese but the pain on his face was so real that all I could do was stare into my wine glass and hold back tears.

Eventually the lights came up. People began to move towards the bar to refill their glasses, many wiping their eyes.

Moments later the lights dimmed again and another singer took his spot at the bar. This continued for hours. Someone sang, you cried, the lights came up, you refilled your glass and began again.

The last performer was a woman, the only one performing that night.

I’m not an emotional person, and I had been drinking quite a bit of wine, but a minute in to her first song and tears were pouring silently down my face. Unlike the men I couldn’t tear my eyes away so, I just sat there, staring and crying.

The lights came up and the bartender very delicately herded a sobbing, and slightly intoxicated, mass of people out the door and on to the street.

It seems counterintuitive to suggest that, in one of the best party cities in Europe, the best thing you can do is sit in a dark room with people who could be your grandparents, listening to songs so powerful they’ll make your cry into that Portuguese red you’re drinking, but it’s true.

And don’t worry, if the wine doesn’t get you through it you can always go find the late night bakery in Barrio Alto and drown your sorrows in a pastry wrapped chorizo.