Coming from the south, we entered Porto, the second-largest Portuguese city, via Ponte de Dom Luis I. The bridge spans the Duoro River where it winds between Vila Nova de Gaia on its southern shore and Porto sprawling on the sloping hillside rising from the opposite river bank. We were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling across the lower deck of the metal arch bridge but were amply entertained by the sight of the city, which seemed oddly familiar. Maybe because the colourful houses with red terracotta roofs piled on top of each other in an authentic jumble of semi-derelict and beautifully renovated homes in the central neighbourhood of Ribeira bear a striking resemblance to Valparaiso in Chile, though Porto is of course much smaller.

We checked into our Airbnb apartment and when we crossed the bridge to Vila Nova de Gaia, famous for its port wine cellars, on foot again later that night, on its upper deck that is shared by a light rail line and pedestrians, the Duoro River sparkled with the lights on the docks reflecting in the purple-black water surface in blurred golden bubbles. The southern riverbank was almost deserted by night. We sat on the docks and listened to the Duoro sloshing against the quay and the happy sounds of nightlife wafting across from Porto.

Walking back across the bridge, a building looking much like a honeycomb ablaze with light set on an elevation in Gaia caught our attention. It’s a monastery of the 16th century, the Mosteiro de Serra de Pilar, we found out and standing on its terrace the next day we discovered the best panoramic views of Porto nestled into the river loop yet. A 5-minute ride on a small teleférico (cable car) that runs from the monastery to the Gaia riverfront, while being indisputably touristy also offered a new perspective as we skimmed over the rooftops of elongated warehouses and port lodges into the inner sanctuary of the port wine. Not far from the lower cable car station, food stalls lined the waterfront and sold bulging ham and black pudding sandwiches that are popular in Porto, freshly baked olive bread, ham, and the best goat cheese we’d eaten yet. A half-wheel of the latter was the smallest quantity sold but lasted us barely two days.

In Lisbon, we had thought that August was an unfavourable time to visit Portugal because of the heat rather than the tourist crowds. In Porto however, almost every word spoken in public was French, not Portuguese, and that was almost as irritating I imagined as visiting Majorca’s German-infested Ballermann beaches where Heino and Helene Fischer blare from loudspeakers. To escape this overwhelming stream of selfie-stick waving French, we went for a run along the Duoro River every morning, to the mouth of its estuary, which opens into the Atlantic Ocean at Foz do Douro (‚Mouth of the Duoro’), an elegant, wealthy seaside suburb, westwards of the city centre.

We were surprised to see fishermen return to the river bank with their first catch of the day this close to the city but then again fishing may well be the livelihood of quite some townspeople because where the salt water and fresh water flow into each other a quay stretches boldly into the estuary and all along it more fishermen stood shoulder to shoulder behind fishing rods, waiting for the fish to bite. Unlike me, they seemed completely unfazed by the fishy stench of the algae clinging to the quay wall that was exposed by the tide and the irritating screeches of seagulls circling above.

After the runs, we started from our accommodation opposite Jardim das Oliveiras, a few steps from the Torre de Clérigos and dove into the labyrinth crammed with cobbled alleyways sloping towards the river to grab some pastéis de nata. Pastries in hand we then walked to Sé, an imposing Catholic church dating back to the 12th century to savour the wonderful views of the city and the river from its terrace for breakfast.

Initially, we were surprised that much fewer house facades than in Lisbon were decorated with azulejos (shiny, colourful tiles), but when we stepped inside the Beaux-Arts São Bento station hall I thought I understood why. It appeared all effort had gone into lining the station walls with beautiful azulejos friezes and panels depicting historic scenes in fascinating detail. What was less surprising was the overabundance of wine shops selling port.

All friends visiting us, after some time sitting in our kitchen, remark on the sizeable collection of booze in our glassed kitchen cabinet with curiosity. ‘For someone who doesn’t drink you’ve got a fair selection hidden in there,’ they’ll say. Then I’ll dart the ‘You see, it’s stupid’-look at Tobi who will retort, ‘Every household needs a bar’. I don’t mind the bar but Chilean pisco, rum from Réunion, schnapps in various flavours, and other carefully selected spirits are slowly taking over the limited space we have for crockery. 

Then we came to Porto and Tobi disappeared into Garrafeira do Carmo, which after countless hours of online research was his choice of port wine shop – a tiny one-room business that I left after 5 minutes to make room for paying customers and waited outside for 70 minutes, at the time thinking that Tobi would come out any minute, disillusioned. Instead, he added three bottles of port to our collection that will go untouched until some kind soul visiting us takes pity on them.

On our last night in Porto, we drove 45 minutes eastwards to Amarante for dinner, which admittedly is a long journey for a meal to make if it were any ordinary meal in an ordinary restaurant, which the Largo do Paco in Amarante, a mustard yellow Baroque building with neoclassical elements dating back to the 16th century, towering above a loop of the Rio Tâmega, is not. The former palace was turned into a 5-star hotel and one Michelin star restaurant that also offers vegetarian options, which sadly among Michelin star restaurants still seems to be highly unusual. At least hours of online research had only produced the Largo de Paco as a vegetarian-friendly place.

We started with cocktails on the terrace just as the sunset painted the opposite Baroque monastery São Gonçalo (its cloistered courtyard is open to the public) and a famous 18th century stone bridge spanning the Tâmega River a warm honey colour and other dinner guests arrived, all dressed in rather formal attire. I thus expected the restaurant interior to also be formal and painted in subdued colours but instead, it was like a set taken straight from Alice in Wonderland with colourful chair covers, wine glasses, and walls, and fancy chandeliers. I wondered whether an offspring of an architect from Sintra had gone into interior decorating or this peculiar fascination with Alice’s wonderland existed everywhere in Portugal.

This was our first visit to a Michelin star restaurant and we loved every minute of our visit. The food fitted the decorating style perfectly, for every single dish was a fanciful composition of blobs, spots, and form arranged on pebbles with tweezers, layered, or spread across an entire plate in streaks and swirls. Every course was creative yet delightfully uncomplicated in taste. The service was impeccable but the ambience a little strained. That wasn’t owed to the waiting staff however but the other guests, who were exclusively French. They seemed far more experienced and thus critical in their assessment of Michelin star restaurants and tonight their expectations were not met as their pained expressions and palpable discontent suggested.

Completely unable to relate to their disappointment, Tobi whispered, ‘It seems like they had an accident in the kitchen and the cook mistook citric acid for salt.’ I almost burst out laughing and trying to stifle a highly inappropriate laughing fit with a tissue emitted rather loud snorts, which a couple with a teenage daughter took rather personally, I’m embarrassed to admit. They left within minutes, before dessert and audibly complaining to the head waiter (I hope about the food not the table on the far right at the back). It’s a real shame they missed out on dessert because that was, as always, the best part of the meal and followed by the sixth or seventh amuse-bouche – a plate full of chocolates and tiny pastries that easily matched up to Zurich’s best chocolateries and patisseries.