The Kids are Alright
A weekend in Porto, with Pete & Anastasia, September 2026.
Pete & Anastasia enjoying outdoor dining in Porto
'We must find a way to be productive during these all-too-common spells of languid inertia," I tell Anastasia. I'm referring to the inevitable queues Brits now face at any European Border control. A consequence of an ill-thought out Brexit. Much like an actual hangover, it all feels like such a waste and utterly unavoidable. Unlike most hangovers however, someone else is to blame for this. Brits just used to fly on through and simply waft their passports in the general direction, to quote the old Jack Dee gag, 'this should be good enough for you Johnny Foreigner.' Now, like aging models that are desperate to hold onto the benefits their looks once gifted them, we're excommunicated. We're at the back of the queue, simply lumbered with 'the rest of them', as Anastasia puts it.
However, no sooner had I said that, than we were shown to a vacant line by a young but strict and efficacious lady in uniform whose pin-up girl arm tattoos somehow belied her profession. It was a bodiless line, and with a quick zap of our passports two translucent saloon doors parted with a tiny electrical fssst, that sounded like a tube tele having its power yanked from the back. We were through, and in no time at all. It felt so good, and frictionless I even felt guilty about having to poo in the toilets before leaving to catch the uber. 'Welcome to Porto my little bald Engländer. Thanks. I'll just crap up one of your toilets to show my deep appreciation for your swift and efficient infrastructure at customs. Bloody good job.'
Effortless shaving and travel-ready convenience
Pete's own Wilde & Harte Osterley stainless steel safety razor
A billboard on the side of the highway advertised the Crazy Banana, a well-known gentlemen's club in central Porto located at Rua do Conde de Vizela 117. It displayed a young blonde girl with distracting boobs instructing me to download a QR code with the text underneath, 'I’m waiting for you downtown'.
The Descobertas Boutique Hotel is situated at the foot of a slope and sits on the Porto side of the Rio Douro. The city of Gaia is where the majority of the natives live. Called the Sleeping City because the locals party in Porto and come home to sleep. It cowers over from the other side and is known for its wineries. The young girl at reception doesn’t think to offer Anastasia and I a welcome drink despite how thirsty I made my eyes look. I looked forelonely at the half empty bottle and two glasses sat idly on the reception separating us.
Pete & Anastasia embark upon a guided tour of the largest wooden port cellar in Vila Nova de Gaia, Porto
The next morning, still slighted from my tepid welcome the night before, I would ask a different girl at reception if the bottle, now only a third full, was in fact intended as a welcome drink for guests. She replied keenly, 'yes.'
'Well I hate to inform you that we were deprived of your gracious offerings upon check in last night.'
"I'm deeply sorry sir,' she put her phone to one side and quickly fussed over something on her computer. As if the computer could resolve the situation swiftly as I'm sure it does most things. 'I've made a note on your profile, senor. You will be welcome anytime to have a glass on us."
'Well there's no time like the present,' I said firmly. The girl glanced at her watch, then looked at Anastasia as if to say, 'is he serious about wanting a glass of Port at 8.15 in the morning?' She duly poured me a glass, I drained it. Anastasia refused hers. 'Best make mine a double then,' I prompted. The young girl bemused, poured me another. I sipped and savoured the uncomfortable silence, studying the large rustic red and sand-coloured stone wall that reminded me of some crazy paving pattern Brits would adopt for their patio paths back in the 90s. This must have been a church of some kind many centuries ago. It somehow harnessed the character of the ancient...
"Just bloody drink the drink and let's go." Anastasia barked behind me. I did what I was told, thanked the young girl who said nothing and we headed out on our first adventure.
The walk towards the Dom Luís I Bridge, a double-deck metal arch bridge that spans the river Douro between the cities of Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia in Portugal is peppered with market stalls, restaurants and buskers singing Oasis songs, rather blandly I'm afraid. Huge schools of sea bass huddled by an inlet as if wanting to jump upstream like salmon do in those National Parks in Alaska. I’d be later told they feed on the river's sewage, so no one eats them as they literally taste like shit.
"Meninos da Ribeira" - local youths in Porto diving and jumping from the lower deck of the Ponte Dom Luís I into the Douro River
On the Dom Luís, young boys known colloquially as the Meninos da Ribeira, jump off the lower level and ask tourists to pay the princely sum of two Euros to fund the stunt. When I was propositioned to pay for filming said stunt, I said I had no cash, which was true. The boy jumped anyway, shortly followed by his friend who let out an almighty yelp as if he was auditioning for Tarzan. I managed to fortuitously snap the fall with my Nikon camera, and was quite pleased back at the hotel to see I'd captured the moment quite perfectly. A before shot of the boy in a tuck position, the second with his right arm outstretched as if dunking a basketball. His friend below, hands on hips, knee deep in the Rio Douro looked on admiringly.
Although I'm sure, he's seen it all before. The boy hit the water with an inelegant thunk, a roar of water splashed with a mushroom below and then subsided. A second or two later the boy emerged, front crawled to the Porto side to join his friends. He swept back his hair and together they clambered to the nearest stairwell and presumably the cycle would start again. There would be no tragedy here today.
Nothing for the River Man, Gastão to fish out. Gastão only collects bodies from the surface, his predecessor however, Deoclediano Monteiro, known as the Duque da Ribeira, was a longshoreman, who fished bodies from the river depths. His knowledge about the river currents was so wide that when told the exact point where a person had hit the water, he would be able to determine where the body would most likely be.
We crossed the upper deck of the Dom Luís I Bridge. Unbelievably, the trains on the Metro Line surge past the pedestrian walkway just inches from the elbows of tourists. On the Gaia side we embarked on a wine tour inside one of the many warehouses. Our guide had an unsettling way about him. The way one becomes when trapped in a dark room processing photos for most of their lives. The warehouse was indeed a dark space, occasionally splintered by shards of light from the projectionist when he came to address a presentation on one of the walls.
Pete & Anastasia (centre, sat opposite Pete) wine tasting with new friends in Porto, Portugal
The unflattering light only propelled his sinister gaze like, his oiled hair with a slight crimp flopped from one side to the other depending on which way chose to hunch. I couldn't get the uncanny reference to Charles Manson out of my mind. Other guests on the tour laughed uncomfortably to keep the mood on an even keel. At the end of the tour the guide accommodated me with a special Port that I had requested off the menu; the Poças Colheita 2010, and I felt guilty for my assumptions of him. It can't be easy being a guide. I myself have mused over the idea of being one in London for many years and have never pulled the trigger. The not knowing enough. Not being able to fill the holes in the gaps of the knowledge of others. Or worse still, having someone else on the tour being the authority and filling my holes instead.
On another tour we went to see supposedly the most beautiful bookshop in the world; the Livraria Lello renowned for its neo-Gothic architecture, and iconic curving red staircase. Sadly this is just now one of those places as Fleming would write, 'gone to the tourists'. We made a beeline for the fire exit and chose better to mingle with the wasps over a couple of coffees in a cafe terrace next door. Later that evening we dined at a Michelin starred restaurant called InDiferente and drank wine that the sommelier said had a tang of gunpowder about it.
We dined at the offensively expensive Restaurante Antiqvvm the night before. When the waiter bought me the bill I baulked so hard the wife rushed the table to perform a Heimlich maneuver.
The taxi back to the airport was memorable, only for the driver who took some deep macabre joy seeing an uber driver backend another car on the AV. Gustavo Eiffel. He played Supertramp the entire way to the airport and we rewarded him at the drop off with some left over cans of beer that would have ultimately been confiscated at customs.
About the author
Peter Brooker is the co-author of From Tailors With Love an Evolution of Menswear Through the Bond Films and is also Editor-in-Chief of From Tailors With Love, a blog, vlog and podcast dedicated to men’s costumes and cinematic style.
Follow Pete on Instagram: @peteonauto
Follow Wilde & Harte on Instagram: @wildeandharte
Above: Pete with his Osterley Safety Razor.
