Spending a Perfect Rainy Weekend in Lisbon, Portugal
- Emily Fata
- 8 hours ago
- 18 min read
A rainy weekend in Lisbon, Portugal, filled with fado music, pastries, sea storms, and golden cloisters. A personal itinerary that proves rain makes magic.
There is a particular kind of romance that only reveals itself when the sky opens up over a city of tiled façades and terracotta rooftops.
My rainy weekend in Lisbon arrived with thunder, sideways rain, and the sort of dramatic Atlantic winds that make you question your footwear choices. It also delivered fado music, Moorish ruins, golden cloisters, and pastries so transcendent I nearly wept in public (so, I mean, you win some and you lose some, eh?).
If you have ever wondered about things to do in Lisbon when it rains, allow me to walk you through my own Lisbon weekend itinerary, soaked sneakers and all.
Friday: Introduction to a Rainy Weekend in Lisbon
Rain has a way of slowing you down, which in Lisbon feels like an invitation rather than an inconvenience. Cobblestone streets glisten, viewpoints grow moodier, and the city seems to lean closer, asking you to look at it properly.
Metro Arrival and a Backpacker’s Gamble
We arrived at Lisbon Airport mid-afternoon and made our way directly to Santa Maria Maior (Saint Mary Major) by metro. It was quick and surprisingly easy to navigate, with the stop being directly outside the doors to the airport.
That said, if you are travelling with anything larger than a backpack, a taxi or rideshare is incredibly affordable and likely worth the comfort. We only had one backpack each, so we embraced the public transit experience and congratulated ourselves on being “low-maintenance travellers.”
After checking into our hotel, hunger struck at that awkward in-between hour. In a moment of shameless practicality, we ducked into McDonald’s for a tourist trip “aperitivo” to tide us over, consisting of the hottest and tastiest McDonald’s fries ever and a sandwich.
Lisbon may be known for seafood and custard tarts, but sometimes fries are a necessary bridge between flights and dinner.
A Market Find in Praça da Figueira
We wandered into Praça da Figueira (Fig Tree Square), one of Lisbon’s historic squares in the heart of the Baixa district. Once home to the Royal Hospital of All Saints in the fifteenth century, the square evolved into a marketplace after the devastating 1755 earthquake reshaped the city. Today, it remains a lively meeting point, framed by elegant Pombaline architecture that’s beautiful even in the rain.
There, we stumbled upon a small outdoor market. We wandered through the stalls and browsed the wares of the vendors, which ranged from soap to jewellery to food. One shopkeeper told us it opens eleven days a month, year-round, like a secret that keeps reappearing.
We found a vendor called Cahico Porcelenas selling jewellery inspired by Lisbon’s iconic blue-tile motifs, and spent a while chatting with her in a mix of Italian and English, oohing and aahing over her gorgeous handmade pieces. I ended up leaving with a ring, necklace, and earrings, each echoing the azulejo patterns I would soon see across the city’s walls.
Iron Towers and Earthquake Echoes
From Praça da Figueira, we drifted up Rua Augusta (Augusta Street), climbing gradually toward Bairro Alto. Along the way, the wrought iron silhouette of the Elevador de Santa Justa (Santa Justa Lift) appeared before us.
Built in 1902 by Raoul Mesnier du Ponsard, a student of Gustave Eiffel (y’know, the guy who built that structure you may have heard of…the Eiffel Tower in Paris), this Neo-Gothic lift connects Baixa to the higher Carmo Square. It feels like a relic from a steampunk novel, rising above the city with theatrical flair.
Nearby the top point of the elevator stands the hauntingly beautiful Convento do Carmo (Carmo Convent). Founded in 1389, it was partially destroyed in the 1755 earthquake and left roofless as a memorial to that tragedy.
We walked around the exterior, admiring the skeletal arches open to the sky. Behind the ruins, we reached the upper viewing area near the top of the elevator, unfortunately closed that day, though the vantage point alone was worth the climb to see the city below.
The View from São Pedro de Alcântara
We continued uphill to Jardim António Nobre (António Nobre Garden) and the Miradouro de São Pedro de Alcântara (São Pedro de Alcântara Viewpoint). From this lookout, Lisbon unfolded before us in layers of pastel buildings and red roofs, with the sea glinting to the far right. It was absolutely breathtaking.
We took photos, laughed at our windblown hair that just would not stay put, and stood there longer than planned, unable to look away—including at the distant sea!
Sangria and Sleep in Rossio
Shops and boutiques lured us in and out as we wandered up the hill, including an Indian textiles store where I bought these magnificent hand-printed napkins and a matching tablecloth in a deep green with tropical cream-coloured birds on them. After this shopping, we worked up an appetite.
We headed back, downhill toward Praça do Rossio (Rossio Square, and officially called “Praça Dom Pedro IV”). There, in the square’s black and white wave-patterned pavement, we settled in for dinner paired with an incredible red wine sangria.
Tile art in Bairro Alto. Photos by Emily Fata.
By 10 p.m., travel fatigue caught up with us, and we returned to our hotel in the rain, content and ready for whatever the storm had planned next as it rolled through the city that night.
Saturday: Lisbon Weekend Itinerary Singing Through the Storm
Saturday arrived with torrential rain…the kind that soaks umbrellas and tests optimism. It turned into a masterclass in flexibility and in some of the most memorable Lisbon rainy-day activities I could have imagined.
Breakfast in the Downpour
We tried to outwait the rain with breakfast at a café in Praça da Figueira, but it never eased. Eventually, we hailed a taxi to the Museu Nacional do Azulejo (National Tile Museum), eager to immerse ourselves in Portugal’s tile tradition.
We arrived to discover it was closed for renovations—a strong reminder to check opening hours during storm season (or, frankly, at any time of the year). In fact, several other museums on our list were also closed.
Instead of frustration, I felt a strange sense of gratitude. A rainy weekend in Lisbon is not about ticking boxes; it’s about surrendering to the city’s rhythm, and it was actually so much fun just letting things unfold exactly as they were meant to, completely stress-free.
(Side note: It really helps to have a travel buddy who has the same mentality!)
Finding Fado in Alfama
We ended up at Museu do Fado (Fado Museum), and it transformed the day. For €5 each, we entered a world of saudade, that uniquely Portuguese feeling of longing woven into music.
Fado originated in nineteenth century Lisbon’s working class neighbourhoods and is often performed with a Portuguese guitar and expressive vocals that carry stories of love, loss, and the sea.
I had never even heard about the genre of fado before that morning, let alone listened to it. By the time we left the museum nearly two hours later, I understood why it is considered a cultural treasure and recognized by UNESCO as Intangible Cultural Heritage. Fado is pure magic, and the museum is immersive, emotional, and deeply human.
Alfama Wanders, Tiles, and Currency Lessons
When the rain finally softened to a mist, we wandered deeper into Alfama, the oldest district in Lisbon and arguably its most atmospheric. The streets here refuse to follow a grid, curling and narrowing in ways that feel almost secretive, as though the neighbourhood is testing whether you are willing to slow down and pay attention.
Tiled façades shimmer even under grey skies, their blues and yellows glowing against damp stone, laundry swaying gently overhead as if the storm had been nothing more than background music. Alfama carries the weight of centuries with ease, and everywhere you turn, you feel it breathing.
The district is also synonymous with Fado, that soulful Portuguese music born from longing and the sea. Restaurants and bars here host live performances in the evenings, and even during the day, there is a quiet anticipation in the air, as though the guitars are waiting patiently for nightfall.
If you want to understand Lisbon beyond its monuments, Alfama after dark is where you begin. However, even during the day, it’s so lovely.
We drifted in and out of souvenir shops, shaking umbrellas at the door and admiring everything from hand-painted ceramics to embroidered linens.
It was here that we learned an important financial lesson that I now consider part of my travel education: when paying by card, always select the local currency option rather than converting to your home currency. While I knew this beforehand, a few shops automatically selected the conversion option without clearly asking, and the exchange rate was far from generous.
It is an easy detail to miss when you are distracted by beautiful tiles and damp sleeves, so stay alert and advocate for your own bank account.
One of the true highlights of Alfama was Cerâmica São Miguel, a tile workshop brimming with hand-painted pieces stacked in joyful, colourful layers. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each tile telling a story in cobalt blues and sun washed whites.
I chose two for my art wall at home, carefully wrapping them as though they were fragile heirlooms.
Carrying them through the rain felt symbolic, as if I were taking a small piece of Lisbon’s architectural poetry with me, something solid and tangible from a neighbourhood that otherwise feels ethereally labyrinthine and fleeting.
Paella and a Life Changing Pastel
Hunger, that most persuasive of travel companions, guided us straight into Olà Sardinha, where the scent of grilled seafood hit us before we even reached the table. My friend, fully committed to the Lisbon experience, ordered an impressive spread of seafood that she described with reverence as “so fresh,” pausing between bites as though composing poetry in her head.
I, meanwhile, opted for the vegetarian paella, which arrived steaming and fragrant, layered with saffron, roasted vegetables, and rice so perfectly cooked that I briefly considered asking for the recipe and a long-term visa.
We lingered over lunch in the way you only do when rain taps against the windows and nowhere else demands your attention.
To finish, we ordered a small glass of Beirão as a digestive, its herbal sweetness warming in the most comforting way, and then came the moment that would alter my pastry standards forever. My first pastel de nata arrived golden and blistered on top, its custard trembling slightly in the centre as though aware of its own importance.
I took one bite and had to pause. It was silky, rich, perfectly balanced between sweetness and caramelized depth. There may have been actual tears—held back as I tried to compose myself in public. Still, there were too many emotions, ones far stronger than any baked good should reasonably provoke.
Without a shred of dignity, I ordered a second. Growth is important in life, though so is knowing when you have found something extraordinary and leaning into it immediately.
Cathedrals and Churches in the Rain
Umbrellas lifted once more against the steady drizzle, we made our way uphill toward the Catedral de Lisboa, or the Cathedral of Lisbon (though often referred to simply as Sé de Lisboa).
Constructed in 1147 following the Christian reconquest of the city from Moorish rule, the cathedral stands as one of Lisbon’s oldest and most enduring monuments. Its architecture reflects the centuries it has witnessed, with sturdy Romanesque towers anchoring the façade, Gothic chapels unfolding within, and later Baroque touches layered gently over time.
The building feels less like a single stylistic statement and more like a living archive of faith and resilience.
We asked quietly whether we might step inside without purchasing a full ticket, and were allowed to sit toward the back for a few moments.
The interior carries a hushed gravity, with thick stone columns rising steadily beneath dim, filtered light. Outside, rain continued to tap against the city’s rooftops, though inside, everything felt calm and grounded. There is something about ancient stone that steadies you, as though it absorbs the noise of the world and returns only silence.
Directly across the street stands Igreja de Santo António de Lisboa, the Church of Saint Anthony of Lisbon, marking the birthplace of the saint known internationally as Saint Anthony of Padua.
Born here in 1195, Anthony later joined the Franciscan order and became one of the Church’s most celebrated preachers and theologians. Though many associate him with Italy, his roots are unmistakably Portuguese, and standing in the place where his life began carries a quiet significance.
Also within the church rests the body of Saint Justina, an early Christian martyr whose relics are venerated here, adding another layer of devotion to the space.
A small side passage leads to a modest shrine built over the exact site of Saint Anthony’s birth. It is not grand or ornate; instead, it feels intimate and contemplative, almost tender in its simplicity. The scale of the room invites stillness, and in that stillness, history feels less distant and far more personal.
Roman Ruins at Casa dos Bicos
A short walk brought us to Museu de Lisboa Casa dos Bicos, known in English as the Lisbon Museum Casa dos Bicos, with “Casa dos Bicos” translating to “House of the Spikes” (a reference to its extraordinary diamond shaped façade built in 1523).
The building itself feels like a conversation between eras, its pointed stone exterior inspired by Italian Renaissance architecture, standing boldly along the waterfront as though it has always known it would outlast centuries.
Inside, the first floor reveals something that made us exhale in quiet disbelief: Beneath this sixteenth-century façade lie Roman ruins from the ancient city of Olisipo, the name Lisbon bore under Roman rule.
Even on a trip away from our home in Rome, we somehow found ourselves face to face with Roman history again. It felt inevitable, as though the Empire has a way of following you around Europe, casually reminding you of its former reach.
Wandering among those remnants felt like stepping through layers of time stacked neatly atop one another. Roman foundations anchor Renaissance walls, which in turn frame a modern museum space, all coexisting within a single structure.
Standing there, looking down at stones laid nearly 2,000 years ago, I felt that familiar shiver that only ancient ruins seem to provoke. Cities evolve, façades change, styles shift…yet somewhere beneath it all, the original bones remain.
Storm Watching at Praça do Comércio
We returned to Augusta Street to admire the Arco da Rua Augusta (Augusta Street Arch) up close. Built to commemorate the city’s reconstruction after the 1755 earthquake, it frames the entrance to Praça do Comércio (Commerce Square). This vast square once housed the royal palace, which was destroyed by the earthquake, and now it opens dramatically onto the Tagus River.
We walked toward the water, keeping a safe distance from the churning waves. Even from several metres back, there is something mesmerizing about the sea during a storm.
From here, we briefly returned to the hotel to drop off our purchases and change our socks—a reality of rainy travel—then went out to explore nearby streets and find dinner.
Sunday: Belém in Wind, Stone, and Sea Spray
Sunday was originally meant for Sintra, but storm damage closed the train lines. Instead, we redirected to Belém, a district synonymous with Portugal’s Age of Discoveries.
This pivot became one of the highlights of our weekend in Lisbon, Portugal.
Belém Tower Under a Bruised Sky
We ate breakfast outdoors across from our hotel, a rare window of dry weather, then caught the 15E streetcar near Praça da Figueira to Belém.
Our first stop was Jardim da Torre de Belém (Belém Tower Garden). The sixteenth-century Belém Tower, built as a fortress to guard the harbour, was closed due to stormy weather, so we admired its Manueline stonework from the outside while buskers played the violin.
We then wandered down to the small sandy beach directly in front of the tower. We found the shells we'd collected, then Googled whether we could bring them back to Italy with us, and learned they’re actually illegal to remove. So, we left them, obviously, placed back amongst the tiny crabs that lay washed ashore from the storm.
Basket Weaving at Museu de Arte Popular
Walking along the waterfront promenade, we came across Museu de Arte Popular (Museum of Popular Art), a museum that hadn’t even come up in our planning.
A look inside the exhibition at the Museu de Arte Popular. Photos by Emily Fata.
Originally built for the 1940 Portuguese World Exhibition, the museum showcases traditional crafts. We walked in on a whim, and spent over an hour exploring an exhibition on basketry, detailing the plants native to Portugal used in weaving and the tools passed down through generations. The staff here were so welcoming and very generous with sharing their knowledge about everything.
Monument of Discoveries Along the Seafront
Next, we approached the Padrão dos Descobrimentos (Monument of Discoveries), a monumental tribute to figures of the Portuguese Age of Exploration. Sculpted in the shape of a ship’s prow, it features Henry the Navigator alongside explorers, cartographers, and missionaries who shaped maritime history (read: colonization).
At this point, rain began again, sending us into a nearby restaurant for lunch and gelato. From there, we crossed Jardim da Praça do Império (Empire Square Garden), a landscaped garden created for the aforementioned 1940 exhibition, and entered Mosteiro dos Jerónimos (Monastery of Saint Geronimo).
Jerónimos and Ceilings of Stone Lace
The adjoining Igreja de Santa Maria de Belém (Church of Saint Mary of Belém) stunned me the moment I stepped inside, and not even the scaffolding from ongoing restoration could soften its impact. If anything, the signs of preservation felt like proof that this space still matters, that centuries later it continues to command care and reverence.
The vaulted ceilings sweep overhead in intricate ribs of pale stone, fanning outward in patterns so delicate they resemble lace suspended impossibly high above the nave. Light filters in gently, catching along the carved edges and settling into the creamy limestone, so that the entire church seems to glow from within, rather than rely on the sun outside.
History here does not feel distant or academic. It rests at eye level, carved into monumental tombs that anchor the space with quiet gravity.
Luís de Camões lies honoured beneath an ornate monument, the poet whose Os Lusíadas transformed Portugal’s seafaring feats into epic verse and national mythology. Nearby rests Vasco da Gama, the navigator whose 1498 voyage to India altered the course of global trade and secured Portugal’s place in maritime history.
In the main chapel, closed to the public for renovations during my visit, the royal tombs of King Manuel I and Maria of Aragon, alongside those of King João III and Queen Catherine of Austria, stand in sculpted stillness, their elevated sarcophagi supported by intricately carved elephants.
The symbolism, the scale, the artistry, all of it feels deliberate and deeply theatrical, as though the architecture itself is aware of the power it holds.
Entry into the church is free, which feels almost astonishing given the magnitude of what unfolds inside. The cloister, however, requires a ticket, and stepping through its threshold feels like entering another realm entirely.
Cloistered From the World in Sheer Beauty
Designed in the ornate Manueline style, this space is a celebration of Portugal’s Age of Discoveries, with maritime symbols woven seamlessly into late Gothic architecture.
Stone ropes coil around columns, botanical motifs climb the arches, and armillary spheres appear like celestial signatures carved into the fabric of the building. Every surface invites you to look closer, to trace its details with your eyes, to slow your breathing in response to its symmetry.
You begin on the upper level, moving beneath arcades so intricately carved they seem almost fragile despite their weight. From this vantage point, the courtyard below reveals itself gradually, framed in perfect proportion by layered arches and delicate tracery. A narrow corridor guides you downward, and as you descend into the main level, the cloister opens wide and luminous, even beneath a rain-heavy sky.
In the Chapter House rests Alexandre Herculano, the nineteenth century historian and novelist who shaped modern Portuguese historical thought, his presence quietly woven into the national narrative preserved here. Beautifully painted tiles on the walls also depict the biblical story of Joseph of Egypt across this massive room.
In the courtyard stands a monument to Fernando Pessoa, one of Portugal’s most celebrated poets, whose layered literary personas feel entirely at home within walls that speak in symbols and shadows.
Rain drifted into the open courtyard as we wandered, the stone darkening and glistening beneath our feet, the air cool and hushed. The rhythm of falling drops echoed softly against centuries old carvings, and the entire space felt suspended between earth and sky. Even under grey clouds, the cloister shimmered with warmth and intimacy.
It was grand without being distant, romantic without being sentimental, and so profoundly beautiful that for a moment, I could imagine time dissolving altogether, leaving only the hush of rain and the poetry of stone.
Pastéis of Belém and a Lisbon Travel Guide Sweet Debate
After the cloister, we joined the queue at the nearby Pastéis de Belém (Belém pastries) to try the famous pastel de Belém, fully aware that we were lining up for pastry history as much as dessert.
Unlike a pastel de nata, which can be made in bakeries across Portugal and beyond, the pastel de Belém follows a closely guarded recipe that traces back to the monks of the Jerónimos Monastery in the nineteenth century.
When liberal reforms in the 1820s led to the closure of many monasteries, the monks began selling their custard tarts to survive, eventually passing the recipe to a nearby sugar refinery. That recipe is still protected today, known by only a handful of master pastry chefs who work in a separate room behind closed doors, sworn to secrecy like members of a very delicious secret society.
You can almost taste the lineage in each bite; the custard is silkier, the pastry impossibly crisp, shattering into golden flakes the moment your teeth break through. I like to imagine generations of flour-dusted monks perfecting the balance of sugar and egg yolk, debating texture with the seriousness of theologians.
If this is what centuries of culinary devotion produce, then I support it 110%.
They were undeniably delicious, warm and fragrant with cinnamon, though my heart remained loyal to the pastel de nata I had eaten in Alfama the day before, the one that made me emotional in a way no pastry reasonably should. Loyalty, it turns out, can extend to custard…and loyal I remain!
With sugar coursing happily through our veins and rain threatening again, we accepted that many of Belém’s museums were closed due to the storm. We boarded the 15E back to Praça da Figueira, slightly windswept, thoroughly satisfied, and carrying with us the kind of food memory that lingers long after the trip ends.
The Slow Roll of the 28 Streetcar
From there, we made our way to the first stop of the iconic 28 streetcar route, joining a line of fellow travellers who all seemed quietly thrilled at the prospect of riding something so unmistakably Lisbon.
The wait stretched to about 20 minutes before we squeezed aboard, claiming our small victory in the form of a wooden seat and a view out the window. The ride itself lasted roughly 45 minutes, rattling and swaying through narrow streets, brushing past tiled façades and balconies hung with laundry. It felt nostalgic in the way old transit often does, charming and photogenic, like stepping into a moving postcard.
That said, if your schedule is tight, you would not be missing a transformative experience by skipping it. It’s really cute, yes, but Lisbon’s magic does not depend on a tram ticket, I promise.
By the time we returned to the area near our hotel for one final dinner, the rain had once again softened the edges of the city. Streetlights reflected off wet cobblestones, conversations drifted out of restaurant doorways, and everything felt gently cinematic.
As we ate, we found ourselves reflecting on how much the storm had shaped our experience, redirecting plans, slowing our pace, guiding us into museums and churches we might otherwise have rushed past.
The rain had not interrupted our weekend—it had defined it.
Monday: A Soft Goodbye to a Weekend in Lisbon, Portugal
Even departures carry stories. The final morning always feels softer, as if the city knows you are about to leave.
There is a quiet awareness in those last steps through familiar streets, a mental packing of memories alongside your belongings. In Lisbon, even goodbye felt layered with history and meaning.
The Fire-Scarred Beauty of São Domingos
Before heading to the airport on Monday, we stepped into Igreja de São Domingos (Church of Saint Dominic) near our hotel after check-out, and the timing felt almost poetic. Originally founded in the thirteenth century, the church has survived earthquakes, structural collapses, and a catastrophic fire in 1959 that nearly destroyed it entirely.
Rather than fully restoring it to pristine condition, much of the interior was left bearing the scars of that blaze. The stone walls are darkened and streaked, the columns marked by smoke, the ceiling and columns patched, yet still visibly wounded. There is something profoundly moving about that choice.
Instead of hiding its history, the church carries it openly.
The atmosphere inside is heavy in the most reverent way, quiet and contemplative, as though the building itself understands survival. Light filters in through tall windows and catches against the charred surfaces, softening them without erasing their story. It feels raw, honest, and deeply human, less ornate than many Lisbon churches, yet far more affecting.
Of all the religious spaces we visited that weekend, this one lingered with me the longest.
From there, we stepped back out into the city one final time and booked a rideshare to the airport. Our shoes were still faintly damp from days of wandering through rain-slicked streets, and our bags held far more than tiles and trinkets. They carried music, stone lace ceilings, sea spray, custard tarts, and the quiet resilience of a city that shines even beneath storm clouds.
All in All
If you are planning a Lisbon travel guide of your own, do not fear the forecast.
A rainy weekend in Lisbon reveals layers of history, music, and architecture that shimmer under grey skies. It invites you into museums, into cafés, into conversations with shopkeepers and buskers. It encourages you to slow down and truly see.
Believe me, you’ll fall in love with this city regardless of the weather.
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