You Want More Porto? You Got It.

Pensao Cristal, your rooms may be small but that doesn’t mean they have to be quiet.  No, sir.  Keep living out loud.  Last night, the world music jam in the downstairs bar lasted until 4:00AM, maybe 4:30AM.  Robbed of precious sleep and the chemicals it replenishes in our brains (melatonin? dopamine?) we set off in the morning for a new part of town.  The book called it “bohemian.”  In Portugal, that seems to mean concrete housing blocks, some crumbling old building stock, and lots of leftist, anti-austerity graffiti.  In Philly, where we live is also called “bohemian.”  Some people have chickens.  Some people have BWMs.  Some people do meth and fight in the street.  We definitely don’t have a swanky, ultra-modern concert hall designed by Rem Koolhaus (Seattle Public Library? anybody? anybody?) like they do in Porto.  It was all boxy and angular and lit weird.

Afterwards, we celebrated modern architecture by eating fruit cake dusted with sugar. Peep that cherry.

For lunch we had Armenian food.  When we told the guy that we’re from America he said that we must know a lot of Armenians because there is a big Armenian community in America.  We don’t know any Armenians.  There’s an Albanian coffee shop near us in Philly.  The old guys in there mostly just glare at us so I wouldn’t say we know them either.  The bulgar wheat we ate was good, though.  It’s an underappreciated wheat.

What else?  More port tasting, of course.  This time we went to the Cockburn’s tasting room.  It’s not pronounced how you want it to be.


So Kellie got all mad and lifted a whole barrel.

Later, Dave and Jon left Kellie to people watch by the river and took a funicular (mountain climbing train thing) and two regular trains to the FC Porto (soccer team) stadium and got themselves some t-shirts to prove to other people that they are interesting.  Then there was more port drinking and octopus tentacles and codfish pizza.

Hey, tomorrow, we’re gonna rent a car and drive to the Spanish border.  Shenanigans.

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