Bagaceira is a nasty way to go. Harsh, power-packed, relentlessly fiery; it was pitched to me as “the national drink of Portugal.” However it was José who told me this. He ran a small slip of a bar in Porto, not far from the tourist district, but far enough removed that no tourists ever came in. Except, of course, for me. Was I really a tourist? Well I wasn’t a local, but maybe I travel a third path and it all started with a new friend who wanted to walk the Camino Frances.

Saint Jean-Pied-de-Port, which isn’t a port at all, but rather a landlocked Basque town on the French side of the Spanish frontier. It was the starting point of the 750km pilgrimage. I was young and possibly in love. We drank Calvados and studied the map, tomorrow was going to be the start of something wonderful. 

Tomorrow arrived with the hotel manager banging on my door. It was two o’clock, why hadn’t I checked out? My friend was gone, as was my wallet, passport, and the pocket watch my Great Uncle Archie had gifted me for my 12^th birthday.

Hitchhike to the Sea, find work on a fishing boat, collect my pay in Porto and jump ship. All caught up? Good.

I’m sleeping in a park under the Bacchus statue, preferring to spend my money on drinking, because priorities, am I right? Summer turns to Fall and one morning there they are sleeping beside me.

Their face illuminated by the rising sun, their smile; it is something I will treasure for the rest of my life. We frolicked around town, jumping off the Luis 1 bridge to shake some money out of the real tourists, taking the tours of all the Port Houses to get the free tastings at the end, and always ending up at José’s place to drink his despicable Bagaceira. He was as good at drinking as he was bad at math. It was a miracle he stayed in business, many nights we paid for nothing, others we bartered down the price of 20 drinks to three or four and even after that left without paying a penny, never worrying we wouldn’t be welcomed back with open arms.

Finally though, both luck and money ran out and I was forced to wire home for funds, help from the consulate and two tickets on the next ship to New York.

The money arrived first and we celebrated; moving into the Excelsior and living on room service Champagne and croquettes for a week while I waited for the Consulate to sort out a fresh passport. 

The night before our embarkation we returned to José’s for one last fling. I pressed a $20 Gold Eagle into our benefactor’s palm to make up for all the rotgut we filched off him. He produced a special bottle from behind the bar and we sat down outside. “This is the real national drink of my beloved country, but only a few can ever savor it.” He set down three snifters and filled them with the honey-colored spirit. “It is made by the friars of the Blessed Amadeus. Bee’s tears and saffron saplings. It is the most valuable thing our nation possesses.”

I raised my snifter and took a long sniff; barnyard, honeysuckle, gated cottage, a hint of rolling through a field of Poppies. I raised my glass to my friends and took a sip.

When I woke up, there was a New York City Cop shaking me. “Hey buddy, you alive?” I was parched, hungry and filthy; it was possible rats had been nibbling on my shoes. “You are under arrest for stowing away and attempting to enter the United States illegally.” He pulled me up into the sitting position and I spun my story; everything I could remember up to the moment I woke in the hold of this ship. “I did my best,” I told him. The cop, an older man of Irish descent who had probably seen his fair share of horrors, squatted down and put his arm around my shoulder. “Sometimes kid, your best just isn’t good enough.” Then he punched me in the face.