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About Porto

So, I’m out in the ends, right, lookin’ for this lass. Ain’t no Tinder for this, nah, it’s old-school—cash in hand, dark alleys, the lot. I’m thinkin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?” ‘cos these streets be judgin’ me harder than a Fincher close-up. Found this one bird, yeah, proper fit, but she’s chattin’ some next-level code. “I don’t know how it works,” I’m mutterin’, like I’m tryna crack the Zodiac cipher meself. She’s all, “50 quid, quick job,” and I’m like, “Bruv, I ain’t no amateur!”

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But then, I’m walking back, and I see this guy on Rua do Comércio. He’s selling these weird snacks. I’m curious, so I buy one. It’s some kind of fried dough thing. I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion! I’m like, “What is this magic?” Turns out, it’s called “bolas de berlim.” I’m hooked. I buy three more. Who needs dinner, right?

Portugal: Around 13 council areas are at maximum risk of fire