We slid into Portugal like we were sneaking out of a party we never got invited to. One faded sign, no fanfare. I’d expected a dramatic border moment—a stamp, a sigh, a sudden burst of fado music maybe.
Instead, Kevin swerved around a cow and said, “Did we just leave Spain?”
I checked the map. Portugal. Done.
The road dropped us into Viana do Castelo, a seaside town that felt like a washed-up cathedral singer—elegant in parts, weirdly proud of its rust, and full of tired grace.
We parked under a eucalyptus tree that immediately started dropping stuff on the roof. Kevin said it was soothing. I thought it sounded like regret.
Café on the corner. Plastic chairs. Men watching TV and pretending not to. We ordered whatever the couple next to us was having. Turned out to be strong coffee, something sweet shaped like a fish, and two shots of mystery liquor that came without explanation or bill.
That’s when Nina and Paul showed up. English. Faded in the right kind of way. Looked like they hadn’t worn socks or been in a rush in a long time.
“You touring?” Nina asked, like it wasn’t obvious.
Kevin nodded, sugar on his shirt. “Slowly. Poorly. With enthusiasm.”
They laughed. Sat down. Just like that. No ceremony. Like we’d already known them in a past life as neighbours with a shared compost bin.
They’d been on the road eighteen months. Portugal twice. Spain four times. Paul talked about roads the way poets talk about rain. Nina was more direct.
“When you get to Barcelona—don’t just stop in the city. Everyone does that. The tapas, the tiles, the queues. It’s fine. But go past it.”
Kevin squinted. “Where to?”
“Priorat,” she said. “Wine country. Real stuff. Clinging-to-the-hill vineyards. Wine you feel in your legs.”
Paul nodded. “We used a local company—Barcelona Inside and Out. Found them ages ago. They run wine tours. Not tourist traps. Actual people who know what they’re doing.”
I pulled out the notebook. Kevin pointed with his espresso spoon.
“Nina, how do you spell that?”
She smiled. “Just write down Priorat wine tour. That’ll get you there.”
We didn’t book anything. Didn’t even look it up right then. Just circled it on the page. A maybe. A someday. A whisper for later.
After they left, Kevin said, “They were the real deal.”
I nodded.
“Think we’ll go?” he asked.
I looked out at the Atlantic, chewing on its own salt, as if it might answer for me.
“Probably.”
We wandered the town, up the endless steps to Santa Luzia. Saw the river curling toward the ocean like it had a secret to keep.
Spain was already tugging at us again.
But Portugal had more to say first.
And Priorat?
That was waiting in the wings, patient as a bottle with its cork still in.
