It is Saturday morning and we make a slow start. We wander up the hill toward Sao Vicente da Fora and immediately notice an increase in pedestrian traffic. Every seems to converging in the alley that flanks the monastery. Trying hard not to be flattened by the endless parade of tuk tuks, we follow the people through the alley and under the arch.

I am not prepared. I have visited flea markets my whole life. Countless Saturday’s following my grandparents through aisles of junk should have made me ready. Multiple encounters in European markets should have me in shape. But nothing can prepare you for the Fiera da Ladra. The thieves market is massive. It stretches over many blocks and parks. It takes over streets and sidewalks. People use buildings, tents, and blankets on the ground to hawk their wares.

I am immediately drawn to the myriad of stalls selling tourist goods. Cork purses, tea towels with sardines, brightly painted roosters, and endless painted tiles. Locals push past to the heart of the market where used clothing and household goods are up for grabs. They jostle, push and dig through boxes hoping for the best bargain. Less rushed are the antiques stalls, where leisurely negotiations sound like a conversation between friends. Underwear and socks are available from bulk wholesalers. Handmade shoes beckon. Bread and cheese straight from the farm is ours for the taking.

We wander in circles, unsure how to plot a course to cover as much ground as possible. Just when we think we have a plan, we find entire buildings of more stalls. I buy wool hiking socks, three pairs for five euro. I ogle the tourist goods, but we have just arrived and I have a month to decide what I most want. I control my urges to spend, spend, spend. So many beautiful things that will never fit in our suitcase. I find designer jeans for 50 cents. My day is getting better and better.

Fatigue sets in as we wander through the crafts section. Artisans beckon with jewelry and clothing and paintings. I make a bee line to the bread. Older woman at their booths who seemingly only speak Portuguese apparently have a sacred agreement that “ten euro” is the correct answer to every inquiry about cost that is spoken in English. Farmers are funny and friendly as they showcase their cheese. They offer free samples of sausage and bedazzle me with homemade pastries.

As we leave the market with fresh bread, cheese, and half of a new wardrobe, I find I am smiling. We met some interesting people today and saw a side of local life that reminded me of my own childhood. Best of all, I am the proud owner of a Malasadas or horse hoof. It is pastry stuffed with nuts and jam. According to my farmer friends, I have selected an authentic Portuguese dessert. I can’t wait to get back to the apartment for lunch. Now, if I can only manage to not get run over by a tram or a tuk tuk on the way home; a feast awaits.