Porto Sketches, viii.

later on, we’re descending from the circus that is tasos and his 'hood and babak is venting.

<< are these guys actually enrolled in university? did we just experience the product of greek and portugese education? the credit ratings are all starting to make sense... >>

up from aliados - the central avenue thus far used as the point of origin - on the other side we come into a series of squares and terraces where the night clearly begins, and after careful selection, actually find a bright aluminum table open and sit outside a grand, fin de siglo bar with mirrors, columns, where wide trays covered in bottles and glasses are carried hurriedly by waistcoated waiters leaning and breezing across the floor. thinking it standard practice, i signal one with my upraised hand, and receive a knowing wink that tells me he'll be right over.

and he wasnt quite lying either. he comes by quickly and we give the simple bottle of wine order, and sat back satisfied. look around at the place, terraces along every wall of the square and streets spreading out, all lit, all full and overfull, with people standing and milling and spilling out. but not long after i catch on to the unease of the table to our left and when i ask about the problem they say they’ve been trying to get their bill for longer than we've been there. about 5 minutes after that we decide that the waistcoat has forgotten us and, taking a cue from the boys to our left, i go in and ask for both the bottle and the bill. it’s still about another 10 before we’re drinking.

in the process i run into one of the wild men from the first night, some guy with untold years kept in his head, wrapped in a biker’s skull-print skull cap and spreading smiles like germs. a great guy, but i feel too much to handle for the two of us at the moment. instead we drain our drink and left the place, following the bodies away from the lit square into the dark streets below. something seems to draw them as we watch people come from all directions and pass us in their motions toward whatever it was. eagerly we lock step.

then we’re facing a great gaping doorway like some grand gilt-framed mirror. a thin red carpet spilling out onto the sidewalk. it was this that has attracted us to the portal along the left-hand wall of the street where we've followed the festive flow of young and generally bouncy folk. like the night before, different hues of electric light painted surfaces all around in a space feeling both indoors and out (though definitely more out) because of people, temperature, and the general effect of narrow city streets. then we’re at the door without a plan of attack but the big man in black just steps aside for us to enter the fittingly matching theatrical anteroom. a young woman in there hands us cards of thick paper. i ask what the cover is and she says “nothing”. for me that’s enough, but she goes on. any drink we get, make sure the card gets stamped. at the end we show the card to leave. if we lose the card, we give 50euros to leave. i almost choke.

<< yes, >> she says. << dont lose the card. >>

<< do we have to drink? >>

<< no. just keep the card. >>

but the mention of 50 euros has pricked my ears and i’m not feeling very trusting.

<< so, i can go down there, sit around, and come back up and show an empty card, and that's ok? i won't have to pay any fee for teetotaling? >>

<< no, just hang on to the card. >> she’s surprisingly patient.

<< ok. im going to go in now. and ill make sure to keep hold of this card. >>

she nods with and over-emphasized squint and turns away.

downstairs, dark carpeted wooden stairs, the bar is spacious. there are banquettes in the middle of the floor around pillars and along the walls. the shelves scaling the tall wall behind the bar are backlit dark blues greens and reds like a nighttime neon jungle scene and everything seems weird. a giant leopard glowers from its canvas above the bar. we avoid it. different rooms with different colors and even the temperatures seemed to vary. and some are quiet and sparse, some are crowded. every few steps i check my pocket for the card that seems to threaten evaporation. in one we enter there’s a live band. i almost lose babak as i go up to the stage to get a closer look at the band, some name like "lion lounge". but the atmosphere is  heavy, and the music rhythmic, and bottle of wine from before effective. i slide back to where babak stands and we both move into a more tranquilized atmosphere. a room with classical statues and  dry ice smoke hovering over the ground. we take a banquette and reflect on the alice in wonderland sublevel we’ve entered, making quips and laughing lightly.

then i find that my head’s on my shoulder. the room has filled up. my limbs tell me i’ve been sleeping. babak starts to stir as well. we both look at each other and it’s clear we've both been unconscious. it’s supremely weird and so we both help each other to our feet, check again for the cards which were intact and still empty, and we go up the stairs and out the door, barely stopping to give the cards back to the  ringmaster and her wolfman guard on the way.

the rest of the night is a succession of strange wanderings in and out of gatherings, in bars and on streets and meeting with our local friends and making temporary ones elsewhere. in the end, babak and i split one of those beastly sandwiches called francesinhas and i see the lad drunkenly slip into his airport-bound taxi before going up to tasos' flat and sprawling out in darkness. the sandwich had put a stop to the madness, but i want to prevent it from creeping back in, riding into my senses on the backs of colors, sounds, textures, and general sensations of the environment as it brushes your flesh. porto on a saturday night is a mad, mad environment. i’ll have to fortify myself for the next one, whenever it will be.