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.

Porto Sketches, v.

as we scaled the sloping city up from the riverside we found shelter from the bright midday sun in the alleyways where old women sat in their doorways wearing aprons and sighing. one of them watched us as we came up and when we paused outside a door she spoke to us in strange words that we both nonetheless understood to mean "go ahead boys, they wont bite in there." inside we found the narrowest bar imaginable, where people had to stand up off their stool to let you pass behind them, either for porto's dirtiest toilet or to climb the little ladder at the back for the dining "room" mezzanine above the bar. everything was stone like the inside of a fireplace except the wooden bartop, along which sat one old man and several old women. the woman behind the counter came up and through the gaps in her teeth asked us what we'd have. i went for green wine while babs took a café com leite. then i watched her pour a shot of something strange and yellow into a glass for one of the matrons sitting beside us and i asked for one too. babak made 3. then we drank and tried to keep from twisting our faces at the toxic burn. i inhaled some of the fumes and felt the sacks in my lungs shrivel. it was excellent.

Porto Sketches, iv.

in the morning babs and i both woke while sun shot through the shutter cracks as beams along the walls and floors. early yet, 9:30 perhaps and tasos still asleep. on the street babak looked bad - weeping and gnashing of teeth. well not teeth but his eyes were not well. the solution tasos had provided was nasal spray. i feared the lad wouldnt be able to see, and though i stressed as his pale eyeballs and red sockets poured streams of liquid agony, he assured me it would all turn out.

Porto Sketches, iii.

then it was night and we were back in the berry liqueur flat and back at the sauce. then i got the call and my best london lad babak was in town. i sprang down to the street and walked, walking as i did all 5 days with legs flexed and foot muscles tense, grabbing at the stones beneath my shoes and propelling my body forward with determined purpose. every hill was a new joy as i shot through air like gravity was a toy. when i say this was a walker's city i bloody well mean it. so i get babs and take him to a bar for immediate post-flight relief. large, cheap, shitty portugese beer. perfect. then were back with the boys and girls and we hit a restaurant where we sat on the back patio and ate killer burgers. the best ive had outside the states. wine, meat, table, cigarettes and hash. hash is in porto like tobacco in spain. everywhere found and everywhere permitted (except inside restaurant dining rooms).

then we were in the center and tasos and his boys led us to a street, nay an aisle of bars.

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.

Porto Sketches, i.

i arrived at a bombsite.

i landed in first daylight, thursday morning. the metro is 8 years old, its amazing. grand futuristic cars gliding along silently, wide glass doors and clean, airy platforms and stations. wardens periodically checking to make sure you validated your pass, which you did not do, and telling you the fine you’ve incurred is a cool 95 euros. but they know you’re a young american idiot so they walk you off the train at your station and hold your hand at the validation kiosk, and say <be careful next time.>