At the back of the tram carriage heading from central Lisbon to Belém, a little old man hovers, clad in stone-coloured trousers, sensible shoes and a thick green coat, despite the stifling July heat. I offer him my seat, but he refuses, insisting he’s happy to stand.
“Where are you from?” He asks, as we follow a sweeping curve in the tram tracks. England, I say. Near London. He’s never visited but knows all the highlights.
A proud Lisboeta, he admits there isn’t a lot to see en route until we reach Belém itself. “However,” he says, pointing at a blur of buildings behind a pastel wall, “that was the colonial hospital, where they treated tropical diseases.”