Food
We did not set out to write about cafés. We set out to walk the length of the city, from the river up through the miradouros, and keep going until we could no longer feel our knees.
But Porto makes walking difficult, because every fifty metres there is somewhere that smells of bread and cinnamon and quietly insists you sit down. We sat down a lot.
By the end of the week we had a loose map in our heads — a pastel de nata here, a galão there, a particular table by a particular window where the light hits the tiles at just the right hour. None of it was efficient. All of it was the trip.
Occasional dispatches — new journal entries, quiet places we've just come back from, and the odd reading list. No schedule. No noise.
