No one expects my drink of choice, as a woman in her 20’s, to be port. My friends call me a 60-year-old man. Bartenders take my order with surprise. But if they knew the story of my first taste of port, they’d probably understand.

My first meal in Porto, Portugal was decided by proximity. B. had been nauseas since we had boarded the plane in Tangier a number of hours before, so we didn’t stray far from the hostel.

The restaurant had a suave, boho vibe: modern and sleek with poems in Portuguese lining the walls. I would not have been surprised to find business men sharing a table with hippies. The waiter’s English wasn’t great, so he brought the owner along who was fluent. She explained that the restaurant served traditional Portuguese recipes with a modern twist and brought us menus that provided English translations.

She left us to peruse the menu. B. and I giggled at our attempts to pronounce the Portuguese as we scanned for recognizable Latin roots and other similarities to French. After we ordered, I asked to keep my menu at the table so that I could keep studying the Portuguese. The manager seemed to think this was strange, but left it just the same. I gazed at it in wonder and poured over the poetry on the wall, trying to make sense out of this country’s unintelligible code.

Then the food: artistically presented, but not as artful as the accompanying combination of flavors. Each bite was the most incredible mouthful. Constantly convinced no other bite could taste that good again, we were delightfully surprised to find we were wrong with every following bite.

It didn’t take long for B.’s stomach to unfortunately resist the food. She couldn’t wait for me and headed back to the hostel in a hurry. The owner came back to just me, worried about my friend. I explained that it had nothing to do with the food (which was incredible) and assured her that we had a lovely time. I asked about the poetry on the walls and learned that all the poems were written by her friend, who had also done all the artwork around the restaurant. She translated one of the poems for me and I admit I was more intrigued by the language than the literature.

I thanked her for a wonderful evening and went back to find B., stationed in the bathroom where she had gotten a second taste of the dinner that was much worse than the first.

Over the course of the night, B. proceeded to throw up uncontrollably. At first I felt bad, but then I started to worry. She was getting increasingly dehydrated, unable to keep even a few sips of water down. The next day I went out in search of a pharmacy. I approached the first one nearby to find a sign on the door explaining that the pharmacy was closed in observation of the Portuguese Independence Day – but to try the pharmacy down the road.

And so went my day: traveling by foot and train, up and down the streets of Porto, all around its various neighborhoods, around Independence Day parades, led from pharmacy to pharmacy, each one closed in celebration, suggesting one that might be open, which inevitably was also closed. It was the wild goose chase of the flickering, neon green plus signs.

Eventually finding an open pharmacy, I brought back the suggested medicine to B. By then, she was mostly just dehydrated. She had stopped throwing up, but kept falling asleep. I mixed some salt and sugar into a water bottle to replenish her electrolytes. She sipped at it slowly, accepting the medicine gratefully.

After she convinced me she would be alright, I decided to return to the same restaurant as the night before, too hungry to search for anything else. Unopposed to dining by myself, I threw my journal in my bag and prepared to immerse myself in a creative poetic and culinary environment.

The waiter and owner were both sorry to hear that B. was still sick. After ordering my dinner, I took out my journal. Tonight, a table at the back hosted a handful of people and a few instruments. One of them slowly strummed a guitar and another sometimes joined in with a flute. They weren’t performing; they were just messing around while they chatted over dinner. My anticipated artsy atmosphere was even more so. I felt inspired. My pen flowed across the pages of my journal, attempting unsuccessfully to keep up with the ideas pouring out of my mind.

Part way through my meal, the owner took the seat across from me. First, the conversation was polite, checking in on the food and inquiring about B. Then we got to talking about her restaurant and travel and passion. I learned that the musicians at the back table included her friend, the poet and artist, and I discussed why my writing meant so much to me. I divulged that B. and I were headed to Barcelona the following day. “I used to live in Barcelona,” she told me. “I dated a man who lived on a boat and traveled the world. When you get there, sit on the beach and think of me as you look out at the water.”

I asked her about Portugal – the language, the traditions, their Independence Day. She explained that Lisbon was the better Portuguese city for surfing and Porto was famous for its wine. I did not know to what she was referring. “Port,” she specified. “Have you ever tasted it?” I had not. So, of course, she bought me my very first glass. It was sweet and viscous, but not syrupy. It was warm and strong as it dripped into my stomach, comforting and stimulating all at once.

The wait-staff eventually came over to tease the owner, asking if she wanted anything to eat while she sat. Rolling her eyes, she excused herself, saying she’d better get back to work. I had not been excited about the interruption to my writing, but was grateful afterwards for the unexpected connection.

Not long after, she brought me the most scrumptious strawberry dessert – compliments of the chef. She taught me how to say “thank you” in Portuguese (obrigado for a male speaker and obrigada for a female speaker) and led me back to the kitchen where I met the chef, practicing my newly-learned phrase and shaking his hand like a star-struck fan.

Alas, the meal was over. I marked the final period in the evening’s journal entry and gathered my belongings. I dug through my tote as I walked to the cash register at the front and found the most embarrassing thing imaginable: I couldn’t find my wallet.

In disbelief, I explained myself to the owner. She was understanding and flexible, rejecting my phone that I offered as collateral while I ran to search at the hostel. I returned to a B. with more color in her cheeks; it was my turn to look stark white.

We searched our bags and our lockers; we asked the hostel staff and our roommates. It was nowhere to be found. I returned to the restaurant as they were closing, humiliated that I couldn’t pay anything after the outstandingly generous hospitality in which they had showered me. I told them that if I couldn’t find my wallet by the time they opened the following morning, we would stop by before our flight and B. would pay for me. I offered my phone as collateral once again, and once more they declined it.

The next morning I retraced my steps unsuccessfully, reporting the loss in resignation to the local police station. We stopped by the restaurant with our backpacks and defeat weighing us down. B. lent me the money I owed them. My wallet was never found.

So that’s the story of how I fell in love with port: one of my most humbling and moving experiences at a restaurant coupled with one of the most mortifying moments of my life.