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About Lisbon

I seen it – back in ’98. Shady joint. Neon buzzin’. Guy comes in – greasy hair. Asks for “the special”. Bartender – me – I’m like. What’s that? He winks. Slips a twenty. Next room – hands wanderin’. Oils. Whispers. Not just a rubdown – nah. It’s a *dance*. Skin on skin. Tension – like Cronenberg shoots it. “You’re done runnin’,” I’d say. If I was Viggo.

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After that little mishap, I decided to grab a coffee at this cute little café on Avenida da República. The barista, this dude named Tiago, was super chill. He had this wild hair and a smile that could light up a room. I ordered my usual—um, a galão, obvi. But then, he goes and spills half of it on the counter. I’m like, “Dude, it’s cool, just don’t spill it on me!” We both laughed, and I felt a bit better.

Américo Amorim, Portugal’s king of cork, dies at 82