We’d left Viana do Castelo late, hugging the coast where we could. Porto didn’t welcome us like we’d expected. Lanes split without warning, signs popped up after we’d already guessed the turn, and I’m fairly sure we circled the same block more times than I’ll admit. Eventually found a spot by the river that looked fine enough not to tempt a ticket.
From there, the noise was different. Big traffic sounds faded into people talking, footsteps on stone, the odd tram bell somewhere behind us. The Dom Luís I bridge crept into view in bits — the metal first, then the double deck, then that sudden drop to the water that makes you pause. We didn’t have a plan.
Tables were already busy along the front. Waiters weaving through without eye contact. A smell of something on a grill drifting in — sardines, though I couldn’t place it at first. We kept walking. Turned into a narrow street where the shade actually felt cool.
Mary spotted a bakery. She said “just looking” but came out with two pastel de nata she couldn’t hold without swapping hands. I sat outside by a shoe repair place that looked like it’d given up a long time ago.
We wandered up without checking the map. There was a shop selling only tinned fish, the man inside pointing at the wall like we’d never seen such a thing. A tiny square with a guitarist too loud for the space. One song and we moved on.
Lunch showed up in the form of a half-shaded table. Sardines for me, bacalhau for Mary. Bread that disintegrated on touch. Vinho verde poured without comment. No hurry to leave.
The Sé was cool inside, plain enough that you lower your voice without thinking. Outside, the view rolled over rooftops to the river. A gust came up hard enough to grab hats. We stayed until the sun moved and the stone stopped being useful shade.
Back down, more people now. Families with ice cream, couples eyeing tables, someone setting up a speaker. We walked until the van came back into view. Didn’t go in.
Later we ate something small, then ended up on a low wall watching the boats shuffle in the dark water. Mary said we should see what the place feels like at night. She was right.
That’s how it turned into A Night in Porto: Dust, Fado, and a Very Small Dog.
