Down goes Frazier

I headed out with Bromwich (my bike) at the first sign of light for the metro station. At a cafe, four or five guys were drinking beer at 6:45. Hard-core, I thought. (This is an all-nighter; there is no last-call law here). Suddenly a fight breaks out among them. Fella in a yellow shirt lands a solid jab and down goes Frazier. Down goes Frazier. Down goes Frazier. Yellow Man kicks him in the head. A second guy does the same. Then a third. They’re kicking this guy in the head and he’s gonna die. I get out my camera because, well, this is YouTube gold. Then the guy with the caved-in head miraculously pops up and is ready to go again. His three attackers leave well enough alone and start walking toward me instead. Down the hill I go without any footage.

When I get to the station, prostitutes are working the entrance. At 7 a.m.! The hell is this place? Clearly there are two Portos: the thickly touristed Ribeira and Cathedral District areas, as well as the movie-set Clerigos neighborhood at the top of the hill where I reside — and the other Porto, with 26 percent unemployment and years of punishing austerity measures chipping away at real income and retirement benefits, where drunk-at-dawn guys take out their frustrations on one another. Pedaling toward the ocean, the pro-Brexit arguments took on more weight. Who needs this shit? (The custard pastries are amazing though.)