A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I stepped into the city of Porto and inhaled the sea-salt air; a scent deeply woven with my sense of home. The ocean is less than ten miles from Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport, about five miles from Old Town. Only I was on the opposite side of the Atlantic from where I was born.
New meets old. It wasn’t like coming home, not quite. Everything was foreign. But the city was warm and welcoming. Every door was open. Rather than searching for something, like other trips, I felt like I was a beloved guest, escorted by a familiar guide, a trusted companion whom I couldn’t place.
“Look at this!” they seemed to say. “You must go there! If you follow this path…”
And I went. Starting by the Douro River that flows westward towards the sea, I meandered along the banks, heading towards the Dom Luis I Bridge. No research, no real plan, and yet this city knew exactly what I wanted to see: art, old chapels, catacombs, dark wine cellars, winding alleys, and the incorruptible body of a nun.
Dawn B~
Dawn Berkoski 
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