I wish I was back there—In a little studio above Sao Joao, We learned to pronounce it by our last day in town. I think.
Porto is lovely. Absolutely lovely. Sunshine and salty wind, the smell of the sea or of bread baking downstairs. Custard covered croissants and fresh pan. Which Pan? Otro otro pan.
Walking up hills passing tile-covered masterpieces. Patterns or scenes in blue and white, our faces in awe. Everywhere, color—houses on hills and layers of pattern. Streets where we learned our favorite spots, streets where we walked into good meal after good meal, grating eggs on salmon and cooling boiled octopus on our forks. Rosemary potatoes and wild boar.
Vino verde at 4:00, pastel de nata in the mornings.
Porto filled me with life. Filled me with sunshine. Filled me with a small cheesecake disguised as a flower pot.
Filled my lungs with smoke through sardines, filled my hands with squeaky hammers, my ears with music until 5 AM.
Filled my feet with movement, filled my heart with kindness, filled my eyes with wonder at golden churches little known.
Filled my days with laughter, filled my nights with banter, filled my mornings with you.
We played foodies and wine conosours. We played locals and explorers. We played, we worked, and we were filled with joy.

Porto, Portugal—June, 2016