Porto Sketches, ix.

on sunday i woke as normal - with bright sun sluicing through slats onto my face and no one in the room but tasos across from me, lying dead to the world as he was to remain for the next several hours. i got up and ready and headed back into the city for some kind of morning ritual. i skipped the poveiros praça and went straight into the center, to find comfort in the 50 cent coffees that were one of the few constants of the days.



saw old pastry shops and went for another batch of unfamiliar sweets. the results were decent though nothing to write home about. i went on to try and find the places that babak and i had missed - tourist spots and the like. i failed. instead i found myself back in the plaza of the night before, looking much less animated and even less interested. like seeing a person you think youve fallen in love with the night before, maybe at a party, after a shower and seen in plain light. less than impressed. i shrank from the place and threw myself into a small cafe for my 4th coffee. on a terrace i tried to visualize the rest of my days left to me in europe and the things id have to and want to do. i made a list. then it was the wandering business again, more hills and curving alleys, sideways looks from old women hanging their wash and people sitting in the shade of their doorways. it was like the first day; nearly no one in the streets. the place seemed to be participating in some coordinated hibernation, of which i was of course no part. i came upon a plaza market and felt safe among the living, until i realized it was a strange animal market full of cages and screetches, manned by seasoned animal traders and photographers of the bizarre. in a nearby plaza i gazed up at great church facades of dark stone and blue and white tiles. wandered in and out, passing mildly interested tourists and sleeping drunks. i wanted aim and direction; i was missing connection.

then i found myself back by the ribeira, passing one of the first bars babak and i had hit the day before. i stepped in and saw the same spectacled man behind the small wooden bar, unsmiling but friendly nonetheless. instead of the vinho verde i recalled reading of port tonics and asked if he had them. then i was sitting at a streetside table thoroughly impressed with my drink. the sweetness and viscosity of white port pairs perfectly with tonic. i couldnt believe id never heard of nor tried it before. i was very much content with the new discovery as i felt myself becoming more familiar with the portugese city, food drink and custom. 

down at the river i found the boat upon which id met paula and though she wasnt there her workmate was. i asked after the girl and was told that she'd been there earlier. she liked me, but she couldnt speak a lick of english. i said no problem, we could work it out. i left saying id be back the next day. then, across the river, i walked past a bar and turned when i realized id read the words "free tasting". inside i got a tiny glass of ruby and talked with the bartender and her locals about the germans, the argentines, the spanish and portugese (football teams, that is). on my way out i got a bacalhau - the fish id been craving since before arriving - recommendation and went on to find destiny.

three port cellar tours later i was well on my way to being able to give my own, stinking appropriately of musty cellar and sweet wine, able to regurgitate at any moment the details of production, the aspects of the cellars, and the characteristics and qualities of each style. i bagged the recommendation i'd been given, knowing it was on the tourist riverside drag and therefore overpriced. instead i ducked into a sidestreet restaurant that mentioned the fish on its menu and put myself at a table covered in breads olives apertivo snacks and a carafe of straw-colored wine. in a while the steaming terracotta dish of bacalhau com natas was placed and i dove into the creamy mix like one of hugo's vagabonds. i finished all and washed it down with a coffee just in time to spend the next hour standing in front of the place to jump and scream and slap my thighs as the germans thoroughly routed the poor english. it was a feast and a half. the rest of the afternoon was a slow, lazy trek across the city, bouncing along into bars and cafes all along the way, and getting to tasos' where he was waiting with a friend, a joint, and a bottle of wine. we supped on market fresh pizza and listened to reggae while watching argentina pump mexico to knock them out like the english. we shouted excitedly at the performance, carrying the score through the quiet streets with our screams and making sure no one forgot that the world cup was on and we were drinking wine. i never reached slur or stumble, but i was long in the state of blissful acceptance and half-participation, jumping and shouting with joy one minute then falling back to lay still another. a smile smeared across my face.

at night we went to meet his friends, eating dinner at some famed chicken roaster back on the other side of town, where everything seemed to go down. i waited at the bar with a wine while tasos talked shop with his pals. then we were outside among a group of quiet terraces, each with their own tv brought out permanently while the championship lasted. tasos took us to a particular hole, where not an inch of wall wasn't written on like a bathroom stall and the proprietor had to leave his drink behind at his seat on the terrace to serve us. shortly after we were sitting outside with 2€ half-liters of wine, reciting black american standups and laughing into the night. tasos apologized for the quietude. i cut him off, revealing that something during my day had developed into a rather large and uncomfortable ball of acidic pain in my belly, and i welcomed the relative rest.

<< did you drink a lot today malaka? >>

<< well i did have a good amount of vinho verde, and some other stuff, but i dont think- >>

<< it's the wine, my friend. you have too much of the wine today. >>

<< no, definitely not. maybe it was the fish. >>

<< malaka if it was the fish you would be throwing right now. im telling you too much white wine has bad for you. acid, you know malaka. >>

<< i'm not convinced. we'll have to see about this tomorrow. >>

then it was his phone and very soon two german girls and their portugese flatmate were round us and we stood to find some action.