| | | 10:30am, Porto, Portugal: a Sunday. The sunlight fought through the wavy wall of plastic surrounding my bedroom in the boutique guesthouse where I was staying for the weekend. I had to check out soo | | If you have trouble reading this email, go to the online version |  | |  | | | | | |  | | | | October 03, 2016 | | A Portuguese Sandwich to Wake the Dead
One Man's Brush with the Epic, Hangover-Curing Francesinha | |  | | | | | | | 10:30am, Porto, Portugal: a Sunday.
The sunlight fought through the wavy wall of plastic surrounding my bedroom in the boutique guesthouse where I was staying for the weekend. I had to check out soon, I knew, to face the day and all its day-like splendor—a verdant city park, some pleasant vistas, a gusty stretch of coastline—before heading back to Lisbon. But I could hardly move, and my eyes sagged from an unquantifiable weight. I was terribly, terrifically hungover.
The night before, a friend and I had taken to the streets of Porto, and I had overdone it. There was the one bar with the totemic knickknacks of '50s/'60s Americana, and the other one shrouded in smoke where we were surely unwelcome, and the last one, after 5am, that had bloodred walls and too many mirrors but, magically, played several songs off the Strokes' Is This It.
It was a good time, but the sort of good time you know you'll have to pay for later. And karma had come to collect. Because my mom was visiting, and my presence was required for lunch.
Thankfully, I knew just what to do...
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