It began with a sound. Not a romantic one. Not music or church bells or the distant clink of wine glasses.
It was the van.
Whining up a street that had absolutely no business being called a road. Cobblestones, yes. Room for vehicles? Not really. Kevin’s knuckles turned a colour I’ve never seen before.
“Jesus,” he said.
“That’s not helpful,” I said.
The incline got steeper. I think we drove through someone’s laundry line.
Then—Porto.
It didn’t open like a view. It hit like a slap. Tiles everywhere. Blues and yellows and cracked reds. Graffiti that looked like poetry and poetry that looked like warnings. Street dogs. Old men shouting over nothing. Air that smelled like fish, sugar, and diesel.
We parked by accident. Couldn’t reverse, couldn’t go forward, so Kevin just turned off the engine and said, “We live here now.”
We wandered. No plan. You can’t plan Porto. It’s a city with stairs that lie to you and buildings that lean slightly like they’re tired of standing.
We ended up near the river. The Douro isn’t showing off—it just is. Wide, still, dark like old leather. We stood there for a while, watching the bridge stretch over it like a dare.
Then Kevin sniffed the air like a bloodhound.
“Port,” he whispered.
Across the bridge—Vila Nova de Gaia. Where the wine lives.
We followed our noses into a cellar that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Napoleon was around. There was a guide. There were barrels. There was port that tasted like time had folded itself into a drink.
Kevin got emotional over a 30-year-old vintage. He said it reminded him of an ex-girlfriend’s dad.
I stopped asking questions.
By the time we left, he was convinced we needed to buy a case. I reminded him we live in a van. He offered to sleep with bottles under his pillow.
Back by the river, the city had softened. The light got honeyed. A kid kicked a ball into a tree. The moment held still.
We walked uphill again, aimlessly, and found the Jardins do Palácio de Cristal—a garden pretending to be a secret. Peacocks, hidden benches, views that knocked the wind out of you. The kind of place that makes you want to tell no one and everyone at once. Here it is if you don’t believe me.
Kevin lay on the grass and declared we were staying three extra days.
We didn’t. But I wish we had.
Back at the van, someone had scrawled a tiny “Olá” in the dust on the window.
Kevin looked at it and said, “Porto says hi.”
I looked at him.
“You’re still drunk.”
He grinned.
“I’m Portuguese now.”
That night we ate bread and olives and a tomato that didn’t make sense.
And Porto just sat around us, like a cat that didn’t need your approval but liked that you tried.
