Until last year, Dubliner Leanne Brady (29) was among thousands of so-called ‘digital nomads’ living in Lisbon. But as housing protests by priced-out locals gained pace, remote-working foreigners and rising holiday lets came into focus. These are Brady’s reflections while surfing in Lisbon on her decision to move home to Ireland after three years.
I’ve wanted to leave Lisbon for a while now but it wasn’t always that way. Arriving into the city, the sunshine bounces off the colourful buildings and tiles with cobalt patterns and balconies with vibrant pink paper thin bougainvillea tumble off the edges.
Parakeets in the sky squawk over the fruit trees. Lisbon a reinvented city. A place of freedom, but at what cost?
The term digital nomad was popularised in a 1997 book by Tsugio Makimoto and David Manners, who argued that new technology would allow people to return to a nomadic state and work from anywhere. Waves of tourists and people seeking a slower pace of life hit Lisbon’s shores each year.
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An estimated 16,000 digital nomads currently live in the city. This is on top of the rising numbers of tourists (6.5 million in 2024, up 9 per cent in 5 years), many staying in short-term lets. A city changing rapidly but with whom in mind?
Standing with my toes in the sand stretching my arms above my head in an effort to loosen my limbs, my heart quickens within my black rubber wetsuit. My eyes scan the horizon looking for the best way to enter amongst the rolling clouds of water. Picking up my board I take my first steps in.
We spend the next two-and-a-half-years in a bright apartment where the sunlight spills into the sittingroom and highlights the dark mahogany wooden floors. The high ceilings are covered in vines and floral moulding.
I sit on the balcony, the sun warming my face as I sip on my coffee and lose myself in a book. I could never afford my own apartment in Ireland and moved house four times over the course of a year before I left for Lisbon.
We found friends quickly, a couple we knew introduced us to some Irish people. We spend most weekends together. Saturdays, drinking €2.50 Imperial beers at kiosks overlooking the city, the flea market bustling just outside the park, selling everything from lighters, rugs, shoes to books, antiques and food.
Sundays spent in the park, draped across a blanket, acoustic guitar playing in the background, a group of friends slacklining between trees.
“Tourists not welcome” scrawled in black graffiti on the walls surrounding all of us, trying not to pay attention to the increasing messages as another third wave coffee shop opens, everyone employed speaking English with little to no Portuguese.
I jump on the board belly-first as I notice a break. Gliding now, chest up as I head straight towards the unbroken wave, deep green and blue curling over my head. I take a deep breath but I make it over the tip. I hear the crashing gush behind me. Scanning the fluffy horizon for the next set, I spot a more advanced surfer nearby and take note not to get in their way. Knowing when to sit back and when to take your turn. There’s politics even in the sea.
We met our neighbour Maria on the balcony we share. A woman in her 50s with bright blue eyes, tanned skin and a gorgeous smile. Her side, full of luscious green plants and bright florals, paper lanterns swinging gently in the wind. We know enough words to say hello and ask her how she is but the conversation ends there.
The next day we find a Portuguese lessons leaflet under our door. Two-and-half-years later, we moved on to the weather. A relationship stunted by our lack of words, an acute awareness of our ignorance. We try bridge the gap with small offerings, tomatoes we grew, sunflowers in a vase. A silent exchange of goodwill.
There were months of denying the rising tension, each rude interaction, rationalised and cast aside. Neighbours ignoring the “bom dias”, taxi men asking why we’re here and protests from locals demanding change.
Shy attempts at speaking their tongue followed by painfully awkward interactions where they reply in English. Knowing we’re part of a larger problem.
Questioning what we’re doing here, as people come and go, a transient city where you are used to saying goodbye. Finally deciding to follow suit.
Noticing a wave coming towards me, I turn on my stomach, arms beginning to paddle. The wall of water begins to curl. I panic and try to back off but feel my board pulled backwards until I’m submerged. I emerge spluttering as the next wave crashes down.
My arms throb with exhaustion as I scan the horizon, weighing whether I’ve got the strength for one more ride. Another set rolls in, tempting me, but I know my body’s had enough. Reluctantly, I turn toward the shore, letting the next barrelling wave carry me back to solid ground. It’s a quiet surrender, knowing when to keep going and when to call it a day.
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