A conversation with a Lisbon midwife about moving with kids

On SNS appointments, school choices, and the things parents only ask when nobody else is listening.

The first viewing was a one-bedroom above a tasca in Graça. The landlord arrived nineteen minutes late, with a small dog and a bigger contract. The window faced a courtyard where someone, every morning, hung sheets out to dry in the same patient order — large ones first, then the pillowcases, then a single dish towel.

I did not take that apartment. I almost did. Looking back, I almost took six apartments, which is a separate kind of mistake. What saved me was a list — actually two lists — that I started keeping after the third viewing.

The first list was practical: light, water pressure, neighbors, heat. The second list was harder: how I felt walking the last two hundred meters to the door. Whether I slowed down or sped up. That list, in the end, picked the apartment for me.

If you're about to start: bring patience and a translator app, and tell yourself that the fourth landlord will be the honest one. They usually are.