Porto Sketches, vi.

a woman with an indistinguishable european accent wearing a black cape and zorro hat welcomed us in the ante room. babs and i chatted with some other spanish and english speaking tourists until cape and hat took us into the cellar. once inside, the white brick vaulted ceiling reflected the only bit of light coming from sparse electric bulbs, and the hundreds of oak barrels big and small and the wood brick/dirt floor absorbed all sound. we were struck at once with the gravity and tranquility of the scene. it was like your first cathedral, stepping in from the street and losing your voice. but instead of stained glass and towering ceiling, it was dark and dank and low, and smelled something like an ancient forest cabin. a mix of dirt and wood and old. the air was cool. we strolled slowly down a massive aisle flanked on both sides by thousands of liters of young and old port wine. there was no echo. whispers here and there stood out but most kept quiet and observant.

periodically the woman stopped us and spoke about some basic things - a wine of exceptional grapes (incredible!), stopped during fermentation with a neutral spirit like tasteless brandy – always 77%; something i asked about but forgot the answer – that’s added to preserve sugar and at the same time increase alcohol. aged in big barrels for ruby ports = less wood, less oxygen more fruit + wine flavor; and the opposite for tawny = small oak barrels, usually french, deemed suitable for use for about 60 years. then they get sent up to scotland for whiskey aging. then some other very special vintages when ports aren’t blended, but taken out of the barrel unfiltered to age in the bottle, aged for up to 100 years, and on and on as we walked through rooms and hallways in the cool damp air, "perfect for barrel aging port wines." it made me incredibly thirsty. 

finally in the end we were sat at a group of tables with 2 glasses each - one red one white. dark, sweet and syrupy. jammy red, woody white. it made me even more thirsty. so we went to repeat the process in 3 more cellars, all more or less the same. by the end of it we were predicting the words and getting silly when no one was looking, and a few times when they were. but no one asked us to leave or even act like sober adults, and each time we were treated to the same pair of strong wine twins.

after it all we were feeling fine, educated, and sophisticatedly drunk. we took to the streets but instinctively avoided the main tourist boulevard for fear of offending well-meaning individuals before sunset. craved food badly after the hours of aperitifs. at about 5 or so we found an empty restaurant back on some tiny street away from the river. two old women in stained aprons stood smoking outside a wide half open door. it looked like a delivery entrance. we crept up and peered in timidly and the women smiled and waved us in. inside there was nobody. but we appreciated the late hour and neither of us cared to continue our search. we sat down to be waited on exclusively by the old women, who unbidden placed a carafe of wine, a basket of warm bread, and two gorgeous cheese rounds on the table. one smiled warmly when she tried to explain the menu to us but in all of portugese the hardest part is food, so we just pointed and nodded questioningly. she returned affirmation and we set in on the cheese, the amazing, sharp, semi-soft wonderous cheese. in the end i think i got some kind of kid goat and babak got a sausage/potato fry-up that made us both groan with delight. in total, with the aperitifs of more ever-necessary wine, bread and cheese, massive plates and coffees, it came out to about 10€ each. 

on the river, with a happy body and a beautiful view my thoughts returned to the girl who'd stayed in the back of my mind the whole time - paula and her soft beauty. talking to the air i said

<you know, i should go meet her as she gets off the boat. forget the phone, what will i say anyway? i  should be there.>

i felt a push on my back. babak. <yes, lad, you're right. go. go now.>

i iterated my disinclination to leave him alone for this strange nymphette, but he wouldn’t hear it.

<i've got tasos man, and anyway i kind of want to go back and rest. we've had a long afternoon. seriously mate, if you have any human emotion at all you'll go. go running!>

and so i shook his hand and took off, back across the iron mega erector set bridge and down past the terrace-lined ribeira, sprinting by dark, trinket-laden gypsies and pale, sunglassed people-watchers until i reached the dock, just at 18:40, to find the place empty. i looked all around for anyone tying the last rope or folding up the signs and chairs but it was all gone. so i turned and started the walk up to the recesses of the center where the greek's flat hid among whorehouses and old-man bars.