The last tram up the hill

By day the 28 is a queue with a tram at the end of it. After nine at night it becomes a neighbourhood bus again: a grandmother with shopping, two cooks going home, a dog that seems to know the stops better than the driver.

The yellow car groans up from Martim Moniz, brushes past doorways close enough to touch, and leans into the curves of Graça as if it has done this for a hundred years. It has.

Where to get off

Anywhere the windows are lit and the street is loud. Our best dinner of the trip came from a counter with six stools, a handwritten menu and a cook who asked where we were from and then decided what we would eat.

Every city has a last tram. Take it at least once.