The taxi cab zoomed up Rue da Belmonte, our curvy strada
just north of the Rio Douro. A two lane, two way
street with parked cars on one side, going either way on the other, we knew we
loved Porto. This was just a city cars where
going to have to deal with, not catered to. This
curvilinear gem was going to make few concessions.
We ate the best sardines I’ve ever had and started drinking
port wine. Each were delicious.
It would be two days in the former capital of this country I
knew nothing about.
We’d walk around exploring these labyrinthine streets. Everyone recovering from the Camino, Porto
was an ideal tonic. Delightful food, sea
air, and sea gulls crowing through the days and nights. Laundry hung from the
windows where the elders looked down.
And the city seems unfazed by modernity but of it.
So we wandered up and down the waterfront, looking at the
kids play in the water, the boats zip by, the teenagers jump off the docks,
looking in awe.
The Portuguese language sounded so familiar from the old
bossa nova records, everywhere.
The public spaces thrive.
I write surrounded by pigeons and beer bottles looking down at
the river where we sat the night before as teenagers and adults hung out, ate
sandwiches, drank beer, smoked and looked at the sun sparkling on the
water.
All day, we’d wandered, stepping into old bookstores,
meandering around the bus station, touring, trolling through the old
cathedrals, the art deco buildings, and neighborhoods. The city meets the
water, where the water crosses into the sea.
And it all feels like poetry here.
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