Porto —first impressions
It’s fair to say that I had high hopes for Porto. Liam lived there for six months on his year abroad, so he knew the city. Over the course of the preceding weeks, we had both come to talk about Porto as a sort of future place with endless potential. Porto had the cheapest bars, the prettiest shopping streets, the friendliest people. In my mind, Porto was a budding Florence, a fledging Barcelona. But, more than that, it was raw, undiscovered, authentic. The music never stopped and the streets were paved with gold; you get the picture.
Of course, no place can ever be that perfect.
Porto, like any other city, is full of things to do and see. But it’s also busy, and touristy (not ‘undiscovered’ at all), and difficult to park in. After a deeply unpleasant 90 minute search for a car parking space near our Air BnB, we finally found a spot about 20 minutes walk from the apartment. We each hastily packed an overnight bag, suitcases overflowing on the pavement, and made a note to double check any ‘car parking included’ indicators on Air BnB.
Our first night in Porto, we had dinner at a place called Viva Creative Kitchen. The food was phenomenal; sharing-sized platters of colourful salads, freshly cooked tapas dishes, and Asian-inspired fish bowls. There were ingredient combinations I’d never encountered before — cheese injected with Port wine, bruschetta with salmon teriyaki, cured cheese and Chipotle aioli. It was some of the most exciting food I’d had for a while. But what I remember most was our incredibly friendly fellow diners.
Our table of two was very close to another two-person table. When we first arrived, that table was occupied by a couple of American women; late 50s, softly spoken, nodding sombrely to one another as they conversed. Before long they turned their attention to us. Where were we from; how long were we in town for; what brought us here? They were both professors from a reputable mid-western university, exploring Europe with a kind of earnest respect. We shared our story, our travelling plans, our recent exploits. They, in turn, told us that they were preparing to walk the Camino de Compostela up to Santiago. We told them about the beautifully grand Cathedral and the walkers we had seen collapsed outside it, and they both looked thrilled at the prospect of becoming one of those walkers.
A few minutes after they had paid and left, their replacements arrived: a pair of Australian women, mother and daughter, who had evidently been to the restaurant before.
“So lovely to see you both again so soon,” the waitress said to them as they sat down. The daughter, quickly catching on that we both spoke English, leaned across the narrow gap between our tables.
“This place is SO good,” she said, as though divulging some great secret. “We came here two nights ago and we just had to come back.” Then to the waitress, “What do you recommend? We had the most obvious choices last time. What’s your favourite dish here?”.
As soon as their order had been taken the woman turned back to us. “You know the place has only been open four months? The chef trained in Miami — they only have one chef here — that’s his wife, the waitress, fetching the wine… Lovely girl, so friendly. How did you find this place? You know there’s a queue outside to get in — we had to wait, but it’s worth it…”
Her enthusiastic chatter continued for the duration of our meal, although we did manage to get a few words in edgeways. When we finished our plates, the waitress came over and asked us whether we had enjoyed the meal.
“It was delicious,” said Liam. “Thank you, yes, delicious,” I said.
“So how much more time do you guys have? Have you been to Lisbon yet? Oh no, you guys are going south, right? So you’ve not been yet…” the chatty Australian was saying.
“Would you like any desserts? Coffee?” the lovely waitress asked.
“No, we haven’t been to Lisbon yet — we’re planning to,” replied Liam.
“No dessert, thank you. Just the bill when you’re ready,” I said.
“This salad is divine,” the Aussie said to the waitress. “You were right about the pumpkin really bringing something to the flavour, but it’s so subtle… Did you guys try this one? It’s so good…”
“Yes, good, I’m glad you like it. Of course, I’ll bring the bill right away.”
“No, we didn’t have that one,” I said.
And so we continued in a three-way conversation with the Australian and the waitress, until the time came for us to pay. As the waitress asked us to put the card in — contactless hadn’t worked — the Australian woman was asking the waitress something inane and unrelated. The waitress turned to her, mock-scolding. “Please stop, I am trying to serve these people!” she cried. Then she smiled, and the Aussie woman laughed and apologised.
“I always get in trouble for talking too much,” she said, much to absolutely no-one’s surprise.
We did eventually get to pay our bill and squeezed our way out of the tiny restaurant. As we spilled out into the cool night air we passed the line of hopeful diners still waiting for their seat inside.
That first evening in Porto, we explored the centre of the city on foot. I peeked through the window of Livaria Lello, the bookshop that inspired the moving staircases of Hogwarts. I couldn’t see much; the lights were off, and people were jostling for selfies in front of it. We walked on through a small public square where a group of gaudily-costumed folk dancers were stomping and skipping in formation to a jaunty, tinny tune. The audience seemed to be taking it quite seriously, to my surprise.
From there we went to a student bar, one of Liam’s old haunts, where I bought a litre of sangria for €5. The cup was as big as my head, and I had to hold it with both hands. I managed not to spill any down myself, though in the time it took me to finish it Liam had 3 beers. There was a small park opposite the bar, with a DJ and people dancing, so we went along and pretended to be cool.
Our night was given a boost by the news that Joao, a person Liam had met for a few hours 3 years ago at a music festival, was working at a bar around the corner. Joao turned out to be friendly and chatty, and willingly plied us with Aperol Spritz’s. The bar he managed was small and stylish, the music was good, and it seemed to be requirement of working there to have at least 2 tattoos. We left briefly, because Joao was working and we didn’t want to keep distracting him, and went to a nearby club where people still smoked inside. The smell there was of cold, stale cigarettes, and we were the oldest people on the dance floor by about 8 years. We returned to Joao’s bar as they were closing, and had shots with the staff as they slowly locked up and began to clear the bar away.
I don’t remember getting home that night.
