I have no idea how this happened, only that I made my provisional picks on Tuesday or so, and never managed to do some checking around and revise them based on actual facts and figures. This has happened before, although never to such spectacular effect. I would be tempted to make this my personal pick-em strategy, just go for who I like without even reading last weeks game recaps, except I know that it's just the sort of plan that's likely to backfire horribly. Plus, I don't know how Elvis did this week yet. Possibly better. He's got some sort of statistical thing going on, with formulae and actual math and stuff. Certainly not something I would do, although I do like to be well informed.

So, we went to Porto this weekend. I like Porto, I've decided. It has a huge, steep medieval quarter of narrow alleyways and tall thin houses that we wandered on Sunday, when it finally stopped raining. It has a lively waterfront quarter, that has been, and continues to be, restored and filled with bars and cafes and restaurants. It has around one hundred port houses on the other side of the river, although the one we visited (Croft), was a bit stingy with the free samples at the end of the tour.

It is steep, however, like Lisbon. However, unlike Lisbon, it's not paved so much with the mosaic-like calçada, which was good because that stuff gets wicked slippery when wet, and it was very wet indeed.

It started raining Friday night. We wandered from bar to bar on the riverfront, or Ribeira, district. Finally, we ended up at an Irish bar called O'Ryans.

Note to our waiter at O'Neill's: Minimum Charge is in no way the same thing as Cover Charge. Look it up. "It's not my problem" he kept saying. And at that point, it wasn't, because Pooka Boy had gone and given him our money before checking out the charges on the bill. In other words: Fuck Us.

Note to all travellers to Porto: Do not go to O'Ryans. Ever.

After we left there, we went to some little hole in the wall at about a quarter to two, where we got locked in soon after, and shushed constantly. There were no windows, just green sheet metal, but Elvis and Pooka Boy have deep voices that carry, especially when drunk.

Saturday, we went to Braga, saw the cathedral, wandered about a bit, and generally got rained upon. The cathedral was neat, one of those places that they kept adding to over the centuries until it became a real hodgepodge of styles. What I remember best was the "splendid breasts" of the carytids in the choir stalls (no pair exactly alike!), and the platform shoes of one unfortunate 16th century archbishop. At 1.2 meters tall (about 4 feet), he couldn't have reached the altar to say Mass without them. He was a famous archbishop, too, who embarked on an ambitious program of building and restoration. Over-compensation, clearly a case of Napolean syndrome. "Look!" said our tour guide (he said "Look" a lot), "here is the grave of the archbishop with the platform shoes. It is two meters long. Rather large for a man who stood merely 1.2 meters tall, do you not think?"

We had lunch in a local little place, mainly because it was open. The wine was a lot like an Italian Bonarda. Cheap red wine, designed to be served cold. Pooka Boy did not like it, although I've had worse. Actually, I think it was vinho verde. They do make red vinho verdes, you know, although they are best avoided. I've had worse. Pooka Boy didn't think so. In fact, he thought it was possibly the worst wine he had ever had. "Worse than Boone's Farm? Worse than Thunderbird?" He said yes, absolutely.

Then we went back to Porto, leaving some time to dry off, shower, nap or whatever before going out for the evening. We met up in a churrascaria before heading back to Ribeira. Miss Kitty wanted a glass of red wine, but only if it was "good." The owner asked her if she wanted it room temperature or cold (note the foreshadowing), then hauled out a big moonshine sized jug covered in white plastic netting. No chianti-like raffia for him! No, sirree. Miss Kitty tried to say no, but it was too late for that.

She took a sip. Not good. Then she gave it to Pooka Boy to try. I turned around just in time to see his scrawny body convulse toward a fetal position, just like what happens to a centipede when you spray 409 on it. I couldn't see his face from that angle. I didn't have to.

"Hey, Dilettante. Remember what I said about that wine at lunch? How I said it was the worst I'd ever had? Let me revise that."

Miss Kitty ended up with a gin and tonic. The owner ended up with his feelings hurt. I ended up giving him a larger tip than normal. Constant exposure to that kind of wine must erode the palate somewhat, and to look at his clientele, they probably couldn't tell the difference, either. It was one of those places with a TV high on the wall in the back, right next to the shelf containing a statue of Our Lady of Fatima and an electric candle. All the patrons sat on the near side of the table, facing the TV. It looked like a bingo hall. The food, by the way, smelled fantastic. We didn't risk it.

As the night progressed, we got rained upon in earnest. Eventually, long after I stopped looking at my watch (for my own protection, of course, and that of my brain, which tends to sleepyness at that hour), we sloshed around looking for a late night bar that Miss Kitty had read about in her guide book. Eventually we found it, at the top of a particularly steep hill, on a particularly dark, narrow and unpromising street.

It was a great place. It had nifty modern art on the walls (probably for sale), a pool table in the basement surrounded by kids that certainly should have been in bed (you know you're getting old when...), and a funky, younger clientele. They played good music, sometimes live, apparently, and they hosted poetry readings. Although not, luckily, at three in the morning. They also did a nifty line in bar puzzles, which kept us occupied far past our bedtime.

I now know what to get Miss Kitty for Christmas.

Enough. I'll spare you the description of Sunday's trip to the mall (the food court is filled with facades from medieval porto, complete with azulejos, or colorful tiles, which was rather neat. Niftiest KFC I've ever seen, at least from the outside.), extended ramble through the medieval quarter of Porto (all downhill, we took a taxi back to the mall where we'd parked the car), appallingly bad lunch (but the Sangria was pretty good), and traffic filled drive home (the major drawback of going away on a holiday weekend: everyone else does, too.).

Elvis and I only brought back three bottles of port, which required a herculean effort on our part.