In Praise of Damp Socks
Porto, in the Company of Rain
It’s the kind of rain that ruins umbrellas but not afternoons. The kind that makes you duck into a tiled mercearia fina with salted cod dangling overhead, or loiter too long under an awning that you just have to order another pastel de nata. In Porto, the weather doesn’t wait for anyone. Neither does the city. Storm clouds blow through with irreverence, scattering light like litter and leaving the street to dry without ceremony.
I came here to wander. No plan, no checklist, just curiosity and a good pair of shoes, though by day three, even they had given up the fight. The city is built on hills and layered in contradictions: ornate tiles beside street graffiti, siesta rhythms jolted by bursts of spectacle. I passed a guitarist playing for no one outside an abandoned building covered in graffiti, just beyond a handmade tile that asked, “Did you already daydream today?”
That became my refrain as I walked, until the squish of my socks pulled me back to earth.
Porto reveals itself in fragments: a cascade of salted cod under halogen light, tins of fish designed like tiny works of art, and an astronaut stenciled onto a peeling wall. Even the city’s melancholia wears color.
And then there’s the food. The real kind. Beyond the café toast and port tastings the guidebooks promise. At Mercado do Bolhão, a vendor stacked wheels of cheese beneath a canopy of handwritten signs. The market moved at its own unhurried pace. I lingered for a while, watching the quiet choreography of regulars —how they greeted each other, shared mid-day glasses of wine, and slipped easily into conversation. There was intimacy in it. Maybe even reverence.
Later, I sat down at a hole-in-the-wall that served an amazing francesinha —layers of bread, cheese, and a fried egg on top. No one rushed us. A man near the back read the paper from start to finish. Soon, a tourist family joined our table, and their child asked their dad, “Why does our sandwich look all covered in stuff?”
It was the kind of lunch that makes you forget what you were doing before. Or care.
It rained through most of it. Not always dramatically—just persistently. Porto wears water well. It slicks the tiles, darkens the stone, and makes the laundry accidentally left out pop against the grey.
At one point, when the rain stopped, I saw a woman in a burnt orange coat pinning illustrated postcards to a string outside a shuttered shop—a makeshift gallery. Her hands moved fast and practiced, maybe trying to get in what business she could before the next shower.
By the river, the sky finally opened. Not with light, but with weight. The clouds dropped, and the whole scene blurred. Tourists ran for the nearest port cellar, and when the clouds passed, the city was quieter again for my walk.
Some cities ask to be seen. Porto asks to be felt. It’s not trying to impress you, though it’s perfectly capable. The view from the bridge is glorious when the clouds cooperate, and the food is indeed excellent. But its real rhythm is elsewhere—in the backstreets, in shops with dusty floor tiles, in conversations with the artsy locals.
Looking back, I never did dry off properly that week. I learned to lean into it. To wander without a goal. To welcome a bit of drizzle with my pastel de nata, and to step into churches for prayer and for quiet.
On my last morning, the rain had finally stopped, letting the streets shine. The guitarist was gone. But the tiny ceramic square on the wall remained.
“Did you already daydream today?”
I had. And I would again—soggy shoes, wrinkled notebook, and all.
Like what you read? Subscribe for more photo essays and dispatches from around the world. Already subscribed? Thank you—consider sharing it with a friend.
I had a similar experience roaming in Lisbon a few years back. Those people in the rain shelter had it figured out! Cool shots and great story.