I'm sitting in a wine bar in Cedofeita waiting for a woman I matched with three days ago. She's twelve minutes late. In Portugal, this means she's early.
The place is small. Stone walls, candles, a bartender who looks like he judges people for a living. I order a glass of Douro red and wait.
She walks in at 9:12.
Dark hair. White blouse. The kind of confidence that comes from knowing you look good and not needing anyone to confirm it. She spots me, smiles, kisses both cheeks. Standard Portuguese greeting. Means nothing. Means everything.
"You found it okay?" I ask.
"I live two streets away."
Of course she does.
We sit. She picks up the wine menu and goes straight to the back page. The expensive page. I watch her eyes scan the list like she's done this a hundred times. She probably has.
"The Barca Velha," she says to the bartender.
I don't flinch. The Barca Velha is eighty euros a glass. She knows this. She's watching me to see if I know this.
"Make it two," I say.
She smiles. Not a polite smile. A real one. Like she just learned something about me.
Here's the thing about dating Portuguese women. They're not testing your wallet. They're testing your composure. She doesn't care about the eighty euros. She cares about whether I'll hesitate, whether I'll suggest something cheaper, whether I'll make it weird. The wine is a question. My answer is the date.
We talk. She's a lawyer. Works insane hours. Grew up in Braga, moved to Porto for university, never left. Her English is better than my Portuguese, which isn't hard because my Portuguese is terrible.
"You're Czech," she says. Not a question.
"How'd you know?"
"Your accent. And Czech men always sit like that."
I don't ask what she means. I just adjust my posture slightly. She laughs.
The wine is incredible. I'll give her that. Worth every euro. Or at least worth the story.
She tells me about a case she's working on. Something about property law and a British couple who bought a house without reading the contract. I tell her about the time I accidentally signed a lease in Portuguese and ended up renting an apartment with no kitchen.
"No kitchen?"
"The listing said 'kitchenette.' In Portuguese, apparently, that means a microwave on top of a mini fridge."
She laughs again. Harder this time. She touches my arm when she laughs. Portuguese women do this. It's not an invitation. It's just how they are. Warm. Physical. Confusing as hell if you're from Central Europe where touching someone's arm means you're basically engaged.
We finish the wine. She doesn't suggest another glass. Smart. Leave them wanting more. I pay. She doesn't reach for her wallet, doesn't do the fake protest. She just says "obrigada" and means it.
Outside, Porto is doing its thing. Wet cobblestones, yellow streetlights, someone playing fado from an open window three stories up. It's almost too perfect. Like the city is trying too hard.
"I had a nice time," she says.
"You had expensive wine," I say.
She laughs. Kisses both cheeks again. But slower this time. Closer.
"Next time, I'll let you pick the wine."
She walks away down the cobblestones. I stand there for a second, listening to the fado, thinking about Barca Velha and property law and the way she said "next time" like it was already decided.
I walk home through Cedofeita. The bartender gave me a nod when I left. I think he approved.
There will be a next time.