Porto Sketches, ii.

in the morning i showered and realized tasos would sleep late again and took off on my own. more walking, but this time in busy center streets further in from the river - famous fin de siglo pedestrian boulevards with shops, covered markets and art nouveau cafes. i bought fruit from hawkers in an old station/market and pastries from old women in sidewalk booths. café after café as they were 50cents a pop. i couldn’t get enough. 8 zinc bar, small spoon, 1.5oz black espressos for 4 euros if you felt so inclined. i was like a provincial peasant in paris. but way more fun.

after the morning i headed back to tasos' place and we chilled for a bit before heading down to his local sports bar to watch portugal play brazil, one of the biggest matches for the city. bleachers were set up, and all chairs turned to face the screen, situated within a small football goal, with scarves and strips hanging everywhere from the ceiling and walls. men, boys, girls, old women. all sitting with beers and wide eyes, yelling here and there, suffering often, satisfied in the end with the draw. ah, the one good thing about leaving the group stage behind. no one playing for a draw.

then down to the river to meet his friends and their guests. on the way we passed his local square and café, which he roundly praised for being open. met a softspoken film buff friend named luis and had a drink on the terrace where could tell they used to spend the majority of off hours during morning, afternoon or evening or all three and long after. ‘twas their ground, you see. anyway, then down by the river, this time on quieter streets that were so curved round and hill that those paving blocks spread apart like ice trays bent upwards. upstairs in a flat with the friends we drank some kind of berry liqueur while two lithuanian girls sat silently and the boys switched between english and portugese and all of us occasionally looked out the window with a view pouring over the red roofs and river and bridges. 

later we were in a car zooming at the riverside below the giant cliffs and hills that hold the duoro in, watching bridge after bridge fly by hundreds of feet above while the light became like golddust in the air. at the one lad’s house his mother walked in from the back and saw us three boys sitting in her kitchen. she kissed us all and turned to the stove, opening pots and pouring in stuffs and lighting flames and mixing. few words were spoke with her while she tasked and we ate foie and cheese with wine. then platters were placed covered in potatoes and peppers and tripe. i knew it would be tripe - the people of porto are known as tripieros because during the era of conquest they donated all edible things to the boats and kept only the tripe for subsistance. its their iconic staple. and the one thing i don’t eat. but she had seen me and known my purpose and asked not for my name nor my country but simply put herself to work for me so i ate. i ate well. actually amazing - hot texture and spiced flavor contained within crispy intestinal membranes. fantastic with roast potatoes and toast. washed with wine and greased up with delicious steaming fat. after the plates were left bare, a thanks in itself, we said our "muit obrigado" and drove on to grab a terrace coffee while i stood inside the café screaming as spain slashed through chile like a sword and some old porto drunk wavered between indignant frustration at my not knowing portugese and gregarious fraternity due to my appreciating his idea of drinking shots. in the end he tried to tell me that i’d agreed to pay for all of them but the boys i’d come with stepped in and told him there would be none of that. we got back in the car, turned on some loud reggae and smoked joints as the sun went down ahead of us at the rivermouth to which we were returning.