Admit it: how many times have you looked at the pile of clothes waiting to be ironed and felt it staring back at you with disdain? You're not alone. In Lisbon, between climbing steep hills, missing the 28 tram, and trying to hang sheets in a two-bedroom apartment with a half-meter balcony, ironing is the cherry on top of the domestic chore cake. Literally no one wakes up thinking, "Today I'm going to have a transcendent experience with my ironing board."
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