The Soft Violence of Discovery

I arrived in Lisbon ten years ago. Not for the pastel de nata, not even for the light—though both are unforgettable—but to help build something. I had been invited to contribute to Startup Portugal, the government’s bold attempt to reposition the country as Europe’s next innovation hub. As a senior creative director, my task was to shape a new national narrative: Portugal as a place of potential, of fresh ideas, of smart risk-taking. A softer Silicon Valley, bathed in Atlantic light.

And for a time, it felt as though we were onto something. The country was emerging from the long shadow of the eurozone crisis. Young talent was bubbling to the surface. Small, determined teams were building serious things with limited resources and limitless charm. The goal was to export not just codfish and cork, but code and courage. I helped tell that story.

I did what I knew best: crafted campaigns, built brands, invited the world to “discover” a Portugal it hadn’t noticed before.

And the world came.

Now, a decade later, I walk those same streets—past kiosks and tiled façades—and I wonder: Was I part of the problem?

The cost of being “discovered”

The cobblestones are still there. So are the sardine tins and the tram bells. But the city feels thinner. The soul has receded. Rents have tripled. Restaurants once filled with conversations in Portuguese now echo in English and French. Friends of mine—Portuguese artists, designers, writers—have been priced out of the neighborhoods they grew up in. Some have left the city altogether.

I did too—though not far. Just recently, I moved across the Tejo to Almada. Not because I stopped loving Lisbon, but because I could no longer stand what it had become. The hordes of tourists, the line outside every café, the sense that the city was no longer lived in but consumed—it all wore me down. I left in search of quiet, of space, of a version of Portugal that still felt Portuguese.

And it wasn’t just the crowds. It was the behavior. Tourists peeing in alleys and puking on sidewalks, walking ten-abreast down the bike lanes like they’re on a walking tour through Disneyland. I bike commute daily—what used to be a fluid, beautiful ride through the city now feels like navigating an obstacle course of obliviousness and entitlement.

Worse still are the cruise ships—those floating hotels whose emissions are off the charts. A single vessel can emit as much sulfur dioxide as millions of cars. And yet, they dock daily, belching out CO₂ while their passengers spill into neighborhoods that have been rebranded for their consumption.

This is not sustainable—not for the planet, not for the people who actually live here.

What makes it more painful is that I’ve seen this before. Before Lisbon, I spent a decade living and working in Berlin. I watched it transform from an affordable, anarchic urban jungle—messy but magnetic—into a polished, internationalized capital stripped of the very texture that made it special. As artists gave way to asset managers and squats became concept stores, I witnessed the slow flattening of something once radical. Lisbon, I fear, is on the same path—just warmer and faster.

We, the so-called creative class, helped rebrand Portugal. But in doing so, we failed to ask a basic question: what happens when a country is seen only through the lens of its appeal to others?

This story isn’t new. The script is always the same. A place is “discovered,” its aesthetic is monetized, its housing commodified, its streets Instagrammed to death. And slowly—almost politely—its people are pushed aside.

Portugal, with its humility, its contradictions, and its generational resilience, was never meant to become a lifestyle brand. But somehow, that’s what it became. And I, like many others, played a part.

Not just a diagnosis—but a duty

This essay isn’t a confession. It’s a reckoning. A call not for guilt, but for responsibility. If we claim to love this country, then we have to fight for it. Not as a postcard or as a tax shelter—but as a place, with people, with needs.

If Portugal is to remain livable—not just visitable—then the systems fueling its dispossession must be confronted. We need regulation with responsibility. And we need it now.

Regulation with responsibility

Portugal’s allure—its beauty, affordability, and relative stability—has drawn foreign capital in droves. But it has done so without the protections necessary to preserve the communities already here.

It’s time to reform the Non-Habitual Residency tax regime and the Golden Visa program. These schemes were meant to stimulate investment. What they often stimulated instead was speculation. Any future incentives must be tied to tangible contributions: affordable housing, local employment, public infrastructure. Passive income should no longer be rewarded with active privilege.

Housing itself needs to be recentered as a right. That means establishing residency-first protections in urban markets, capping rent increases relative to neighborhood wages, and converting long-abandoned properties into cooperative housing or cultural spaces. Cities must be built for citizens, not for yield.

We also need to regulate the digital nomad influx. Remote work cannot come with remote accountability. A licensing system—requiring sustainability fees, reinvestment obligations, and capped stays unless community ties are demonstrably formed—would be a start. The six-month, tax-free stay in Lisbon, divorced from cultural engagement or civic duty, can no longer be the norm.

Tourism beyond the postcard

Tourism itself is not the enemy. But tourism without redistribution is.

Lisbon’s most iconic neighborhoods—Alfama, Bairro Alto, Cais do Sodré—have become unaffordable for those who made them iconic in the first place. We need a model that gives back more than it takes.

A dynamic, location-specific tourism tax—higher in saturated districts, lower elsewhere—could fund public services, rent relief, and neighborhood upkeep. But only if the money is ringfenced for local use, not lost in general budgets.

Short-term rentals must be drastically curtailed. Full-apartment listings in central Lisbon, Porto, and the Algarve should be banned outright. Housing must return to its core purpose: shelter, not turnover. Landlords who transition their properties back to long-term leases should be incentivized and protected from market pressure.

This is not a radical idea. In Madrid, city officials recently took 60,000 Airbnb listings offline—an unprecedented but necessary move to tackle the housing crisis. The message was clear: speculative tourism cannot come at the expense of livability. Lisbon should take note. Cities that want to remain cities must stop behaving like resorts.

Portugal can still welcome the world. But it must do so on its own terms. Ethical mobility programs could redirect remote workers to regions like the Alentejo or the interior Norte—areas rich in culture, but less overwhelmed by outside demand. There, integration should be a requirement, not an option: language learning, civic participation, and community contribution as part of the welcome package.

Community-first development

The most enduring solutions won’t come from masterplans or investment decks. They’ll come from the neighborhoods. From the kitchens, studios, and cafés where life still pulses beyond the brochure.

Public funding should prioritize cooperatives, neighborhood businesses, and worker-owned initiatives—especially in the so-called soft sectors: food, care, crafts, and culture. These aren’t luxuries. They are the bedrock of a livable city.

Culture itself must be recognized as infrastructure. In a country increasingly shaped by global flows, it’s all the more important to protect what is local without rejecting what is diverse.

Development decisions must be returned to those affected by them. Local councils should have veto power over speculative projects. Municipalities should be empowered to protect—not just promote—their communities. Cities are not brands. They are bodies, and they bruise.

Rethinking privilege, reclaiming place

For me, part of that reckoning meant creating 1A+, a space I opened with my partner in Almada. It’s not a store, not a startup, not a concept café. It’s something slower. A space for work-in-progress. For visibility over commerce. For local artists, migrant voices, young thinkers, and neighbors from the next street over. It’s a place to gather and show, not to sell.

It’s not a solution. But it’s a gesture. A signal that not everything has to scale. A reminder that we can add something to a place without overwriting it.

I’m not leaving. But I want to stay differently. More consciously. More politically.Because Portugal is not a backdrop. It is not a lifestyle. It is not a discount dream. It is a home—real, complex, wounded, and beloved.

And homes are not meant to be discovered. They are meant to be defended.