Portugal, Week 3: The Honeymoon is Alive

A bromance blooms.

On Friday morning, I was in tough spirits. I hung out with a new friend the previous night and then spent the entire next morning agonizing over whether I should have made a move or not. 

These situations call for one thing: Healthy male bonding. 

I first met Mason that previous Monday at his yoga studio (he owns it with his wife). It was quite the serendipity: When I walked in, I saw a copy of a poetry book, “Pulver Maar” sitting next to his mat. It was written by a personal friend, Zachary Schomburg — and while it’s a fantastic book, I have never, ever seen this book in the wild, let alone in Porto, Portugal. Mason led the class by reading one of Zach’s poems, and so afterward, I introduced myself. 

Turns out, Mason first saw Zach speak back in college, and has been in love with his writing ever since. So for these circumstances to coincide — that book, at that time, in that class, in freaking Portugal — was too on point. I shared I was new in town, here to work remotely and write on my blog, and so we exchanged numbers.

Mason’s invite came shortly thereafter. Friday night, he and a friend would go to an aldeira 30 minutes outside of Porto for dinner. I had no idea what an aldeira was, but I was intrigued by the offer. “Your belly will be filled, as will your writing coffers,” the text said.

That weekend, I was supposed to go to Lisbon. I had the AirBnB booked as well as a few plans. Yet my intuition was strongly telling me to remain here — and I’ve been doing my best to trust it. So I flaked. I cancelled Lisbon.

And what a glorious decision that was.  

I met Mason at his friend Nuno’s apartment. It was a gorgeous, high-ceiling place with tons of natural light and a balcony that faced the garden. Nuno was playing guitar outside when I arrived. Fate struck immediately as Nuno was almost this bizarro Portuguese version of me: He was a copywriter, for one; wears similar glasses, and we were wearing almost an identical outfit. Nuno was born in Portugal, and lives here with his Finnish partner and daughter. He sparked an interest to travel there — the nature, the saunas, the purity of the drinking water. We polished a few beers and we were off.

We got into the car and you could feel it. The vibes were right. There’s perhaps no greater feeling than knowing with full and immutable conviction that you are in the right place at the right time. 

We got out of the city and soon into the countryside. Nuno was driving, no phone or GPS. The highway was jammed, so we pulled off and grabbed a few beers for the road. “We’ll take the backroads instead,” Nuno said. My five favorite words.

And here is where things peaked. 

As I said, I was in low spirits all morning. It was agony, frankly. So as we hit these backroads, beers in hand, Nuno playing Jose Afonso on the radio and the music of the Portuguese revolution blasting as we sliced through the tiny villages amidst the height of golden hour…yeah, I was peaking. Nuno shed a solitary tear as Mason pounded his hand against the roof of the car. “Fuck, man. This is it,” he said. “This is Duende. As soon as you enter this country, you can feel it.”

We had beers. We had a car. We had the voice of Jose Afonso crooning and the countryside all to ourselves, bathed in golden light.

When you think, “I could die right here, right now” — that’s when you’re truly happy.

We parked. I have no idea where here is. We’re at a gorgeous yet oddly desolate square of Roman architecture: Houses, churches, belltowers, all perfectly maintained, without a person within. I was resisting the urge to look up where we were and why it was so empty, not even my carmates knew. Sometimes, an unnamed thing is even more raw, more beautiful.

We walk through the square, then enter a backdoor and go through an empty pool hall. Soon we’re in a familiar-looking cafe. About eight tables with Portuguese soccer playing on the TV. Three goblets of ice cold beer hit our table, along with a Francesinha poveira as an appetizer. “I’m sorry in advance,” Mason said. “This is gonna be the best Francesinha you ever eat. None of the rest will ever compare.”

And goddamnit, he was right.

The Francesinha is one of northern Portugal’s essential eats. A three-layered sandwich that looks like lasagna yet hits like a Cuban. It goes: Bread, steak, bread, ham, bread, cheese, fried egg, then doused in gravy (just writing about it makes my stomach yearn). It’s served with perfectly crisp fries. Depending on how you eat it, it could almost be a Portuguese poutine — layers of gravy, cheese, fries. Right after it’s served, a young woman comes and pours even more gravy on top. Hello, heaven.

We all clear our plates. Another round of goblets arrive. I haven’t had a sip of water in over two hours, and already I’ve drank more beer tonight than I have in the last month. “Nuno,” I ask, “could we please get some water?”

Nuno yells across the cafe and the owner flicks his head almost imperceptibly, indicating the request has been heard. He comes back with a five-gallon tub, plus three glasses. We start laughing, as if he was trolling us. But as he unscrews the cap, we get the first whiff. It covers the table like a seaside fog. This is not water, my friends. This is Grappa.

Moonshine.

We down our glasses. My body is on fire, the alcohol breaking down the six pounds of bread, pork, and cheese lodged in my stomach.

“You got anywhere to be tonight?” Mason asked. 

No, I said. 

“Good. Then let’s go for a swim.”

We got into the car. I resolved I would not ask questions. We could’ve been going to jump in an ocean, a lake, of off a cliff, and I did not care. I had no desire to know. I was in the supreme delight of being in a car in the countryside with two kindred spirits and having absolutely no idea where we were going.

We pull into a driveway, it’s a covered poolhouse, the glass walls shrouded in fog. It’s Nuno’s parents’ cabin, and it’s ours for the night.

We swim. We drink. We listen to music and we talk. We drink some more. And then it was time for the casino.

It turns out, a casino is a casino. It has the same carpet, same lighting, same games. It has a similar air of despondency and desperation. I sat down at a Blackjack table with the same cluelessness when gambling in the States. Only difference, it’s a little more mellower here. Hardly anyone was drinking. No smoke. Many seemed to be here on business.

We played. I won two hands. I watched Mason lose a little then win a lot.

Wa walked away in the poisitive, an affirming endcap on the night. I got a bag of churros, and it was time we returned home. Mason had an online tutoring appointment he had to attend at 1:30 am. Some people are built different.

In the car home, I heard about his life. For all his upbeat energy and positivity, he was coming off a pretty rough stretch.

“Not long ago, I was in a really bad space,” he told me. “So I changed everything. I started going against my instincts, and just saying yes to absolutely everything. Everything. Those things that I always said, ‘Nah, that’s not me,’ I said yes to. And it completely turned things around.”

Soon he dropped me off. That Sunday I’d join him and his wife Lauren for a traditional seafood meal (he was offended when I said I hadn’t had seafood in Portugal yet, and rightfully so). I got home and crashed hard. 

The coffer was full.