Port – Sweet Divine Nectar

As I wait for the first train north, I lean against the cold tile wall and realize that something about this place is off. Something about the blue and white mosaics that paint fresh, pastoral scenes of vineyards, shepherds and saints on the walls of this godforsaken city train station. Maybe something to do with everything being a little bit too clean in this sprawling metropolis. Maybe it’s the Turkish restaurant on the corner and the smell of kebab meat rotating on a spit this soon after sunrise. Maybe the keening fado music radiating from the blind black guitarman playing just outside the open air archway and how his mournful crooning clashes with the rays of the new sun as they churn the cool morning mist and warm his face and hands. Perhaps the pair of silent, black-clad old women sitting at the bench next to me. It doesn’t really matter. I won’t be here long anyway.

Location:                                   

Lisbon.

                            

Destination:                
              

Oporto, Portugal's second largest city and home of Port wine production.

                                                                                                                                            

               As I step on the train, I push my way through to find a quiet corner seat, insulated from the rabble, somewhere to doze off for the three hour trip.  I settled in and opened the napkin that cradled my breakfast – a random pastry thing I picked up at a shop en route between the hotel and the station, pastel de nata, I think the placard said. I leaned my chair back, closed my eyes behind my sunglasses and took my first indifferent bite. My indifference soon melted into creamy, flaky yumminess. <epiphany> It was incredible. As good as anything you’d find in the little mom and pop pastry shops of Paris. Why doesn’t anybody know… (more to come soon)