Oh Porto, Porto, my city of love.

I know Porto is not well-known as The City of Love, but it is in my book. Or maybe The City of Boys would be more accurate. Bahahaha.

When I landed arose from the subway in Porto for the first time, I was met with hustle and bustle galore. A singing girls’ group was performing a beautiful song with a cajon, tambourines, and trilling bird calls. Such a magical introduction to the city.

I checked into my hostel and was informed that a walking tour was about to start, so I gladly volunteered to join. If I remember correctly, I believe the guide’s name was Nuni. After waiting for a bit, he offered me a rose (“For you!”) and we were off. Off to a good start, if you catch my drift. Hahaha.

It was just the two of us, which I was perfectly fine with, but he told me we were actually making our way to meet up with more people. On the way, out of nowhere, a speeding little hatchback zoomed onto the sidewalk while rounding a corner, and we had to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed!

“Did he just drive into the sidewalk?!” I asked incredulously.

Nuni replied, “In Porto, there are no sidewalks!” I was stunned to silence.

We met up with dozens of other waiting visitors and were split into groups. I was given to a different guide (booo), but he was fun, too. Everybody kept complimenting my rose and asking where I had gotten it, but I kept dodging the question. It wasn’t until halfway through the tour that my guide looked over suddenly and said, “Did Nuni give you that flower?” I sheepishly nodded, and he shook his head as if to say, “That Nuni is up to his old tricks again!”

Our tour brought us up through the center of the city and down around the sides to several viewpoints. Once, our guide impressed us by saying the word “lice” in every language our group spoke, for this was the nickname for one of the most popular cafes in the city. It is said that after class, students flock to this cafe like lice onto a scalp. Yuck.

I was amazed yet again by the views offered by Portugal, and I also made a friend in my photographer – a devilishly handsome young man from New York. (That’s boy number two, if you’re keeping track.)

As the tour wrapped up, it began to sprinkle. I did a bit more wandering, popped into one of the most lavish McDonald’s restaurants on the planet for some treats and a macaron (why don’t they serve macarons in the US?!), and then I made my way back to the hostel for dinner.

This hostel didn’t provide mama-cooked meals, but they did serve a multi-course Portuguese dinner with endless wine and port at the end!

We had a stewed rice dish that was drool-making. I sat with a German girl and a young Portuguese lady who worked at the hostel. This came in handy because the Portuguese girl could explain all the dishes and traditions to us. For example, before our main dish was delivered, each table received a little ceramic boat filled with oil and a sausage. She showed us that the host or guest of honor is supposed to dip a spoon into the oil, light the spoon on fire, and use this makeshift torch to light the oil in the boat. This way, the sausage can cook right before our eyes! So tasty. It was a sort of chorizo sausage and was so, so yummy.

Most of the dining room was taken up by a group of 20+ Dutch high school students who were visiting for a school trip. Partway into the meal, they began singing and chanting in raucous merriment while the rest of us looked on and got in conversation during the odd bits of quiet.

The German girl at my table was on her first day of a weeks-long trip where she would walk the Camino Pilgrimage, by herself, through Portugal, Spain, and France before returning to Germany. So impressive.

After dinner, I met a few people staying in my dorm room and tucked in to prepare for a full day ahead.

In the morning, I tried to sit next to some friends at breakfast, but they weren’t having it, so breakfast was a solitary affair.

That is, until the very end, when I noticed Bart, a red-headed, lanky Dutchman from my dorm room sitting down to eat alone a few tables away. I stopped to chat a bit and mentioned I was planning to make my way to Clérigos Tower to try to beat the crowds, and he asked if he could join.

Little did I know that it those moments, I was forming a friendship that would span many countries, many years, and many emailed pen-pal exchanges!

You see, the problem was that 1) I volunteered to lead the way and 2) I ended up getting us horribly lost. When I finally relinquished my map duties to Bart, he informed me that we had been traversing the city in the exact opposite direction from the tower. Oops. We got there nearly two hours after opening instead of right at 9 o’clock as I had planned.

The tower sights were lovely, as were the brilliant decorations of the interior, and it’s always nice to get a view from above.

Seeing as we had spent the full of the morning together at this point, rather than breaking off, Bart simply asked, “What should we do now?”

I ended up repeating bits and pieces of my tour from the day before as we passed familiar spots and landmarks, and we managed to glimpse many more views of the city’s wondrous red roofs.

As the afternoon set on, we made our way down to the shores of the Duomo and across the magnificent Dom Luís I bridge.

Not long after our traverse, we tucked into a hole-in-the-wall restaurant and ordered up one of the famous Francesinha sandwiches to share. These sandwiches are a heart attack waiting to happen – stuffed with ham, sausage, and at least one other kind of meat, then wrapped in thick sandwich bread, covered in melted cheese, and soaked in sauce, this is not a sandwich to eat with your fingers.

Bart paired this masterpiece with a beer, and I opted for a glass of Port, kindly ignoring the owner’s advice that it would be too sweet with the meal. Muahahahaha.

Stuffed and satisfied, we continued along the banks of the Duomo, peeking into the many Port cellars lining the shores and debating whether we should do a tour.

^This photo has been my desktop background on my laptop for the past three years. I honestly can’t imagine ever changing it!

^Bart and I thought this sad cobblestone-repair attempt was hilarious.

When we reached one of the last cellars on the end, Ferreira, which boasted its status as the oldest Portuguese-owned cellar in all of Porto, we took it one step further and inched inside. When we saw that a cellar tour (complete with two samples) cost only six euros, we looked at each other wide-eyed and signed up for the next time slot available!

I was pretty close to heaven, let me tell you. Just look at this enormous barrel of Port!!!!!

As we walked (and I slightly stumbled) out of the cellar, we were greeted with more tempered sunshine and untempered beauty.

We made our way, slow and smiling, back up the shore and over the bridge once more.

The steep, steep slopes of the land on either side of the Duomo were treacherously steep and made for some very unique architecture.

There was a very funny quirk of the walking map I had, which was that it labeled many of the churches as tiny, bright blue little icons. When we approached the churches themselves, we found it was because they were covered in beautiful blue-and-white tiles.

Still, the map certainly exaggerated their electric blueness by quite a bit, thank goodness.

On the menu this night was a seafood rice. Bart had made the (genius) request for something non-seafood and was delivered a duck rice instead. How I wish I had done the same, because his dish was oh-so mouthwateringly tasty!!!!! But mine was yummy, too, haha.

The Dutch students were not with us anymore, so all of us were able to fit at one long table. There were two shy Brazilian girls who told us about being laughed at when they asked for directions to a toilet (probably like asking for the restroom vs. asking for “the loo”). There were two very rowdy French guys who got so drunk they started whistling at the (adorable) waiter when they wanted more wine to replace our empty bottle – I admonished them for that. There was a spunky Australian girl who educated me on some Australian lingo, and there was yet another drunk French guy who had a knack for flirtation.

In fact, this last man, whose name was either Émilien or Etienne, had been making eyes at me on my first day while I worked on my blog at one of the public computers. Every time he walked past me, he’d make intense, smiling eye-contact in a way that made me giggle uncontrollably. Finally, he gave up the charade and approached me. Here’s an excerpt from some writings I put down immediately after this occurred:

“I write to you from Porto, Portugal, and I must admit I am in a state of shock, so don’t be alarmed if my grammar is off a bit. I was just sitting at the computer in my hostel, minding my own business, when a rather swarthy Frenchman walked up out of the blue and started chatting me up. It started with the usual: where are you from, how long are you here, etc. etc., though the conversation was noticeably more intense than normal. Then he asked if I wanted to get a European passport. I was super confused. I thought he was maybe trying to do a black market trade deal or something! Of course I would love one though, so I said, “Aren´t they hard to get?” His response: “Yes, you have to get married.” To this, I laughed nervously, but he continued, “That’s why I came over here to talk to you.”

This continued on for a bit with my bafflement and his well-practiced attempts for my hand. Jeeze Louise. I don’t even know what just happened. (Don’t worry. I told him I was taken. He left shortly after, and he just walked by me batting his eyes at another girl. *sigh*)

Tehehe. Boy number 3, indeed.

I stayed up playing cards with Bart and the Brazilian girls until the wee hours before finally exchanging contact info, packing my things, and rolling into bed for a brief nap before my early morning flight.

Porto, you beautiful place, you, I’ll be back. Until then,

Obrigada e muitas felicidades/ thank you and best wishes!

-Lizzy-wa