Alheira (59)

My moment of epiphany gives me hope. The weight I’ve carried since watching Rita waddle to the shorter security line at SFO evaporates. I don’t feel forgiveness; I just feel clarity and relief. So when Rita suggests we go to the restaurant where Simone’s nephew works, I’m all for it. I’m open to the experience even though I decided that I was done going to restaurants with her.

“Did you check if he’s there now?” Vera wants to know.

“He texted that his shift starts at four,” Rita says.

The dance they perform, Vera asking unnecessary questions and Rita answering without losing patience, is something they often do. Rita never snaps at Vera the way she does at her son back home. Nothing Vera says or does seems to irritate her, which still surprises me. Most of my girlfriends have tensions with their mothers, as did I when my mother was alive, but not Rita. She’s comfortable around her mother, never losing her cool. 

“How far is the restaurant?” Vera continues.

“Five minutes from here,” Rita says, looking at her phone.

I guess it’s good news because Vera seems satisfied. She could ask if it’s a big restaurant, how old Simone’s nephew is, or what his name is. But she doesn’t. 

The restaurant is larger and far nicer than the smoky dive I escaped last night. An ornate wooden bar faces the entrance, and small tables line the wall across from it. A friendly woman in a shiny green dress approaches us and leads us to a separate dining room that’s still empty. Cloth napkins and water glasses give it a respectable look. She hands us three large, one-page menus printed in English and Portuguese. 

“Is Emilio here?” Rita asks before the woman can recite the specials or offer to take our drinks order, or whatever they do in Tomar after seating guests.

“Emilio?” the woman asks with a slight tilt of her head, sounding confused. 

“Yes. He said he works here. Can you tell him his friends from America want to see him?” Rita persists. I hope she’s not getting him in trouble if he’s busy in the kitchen. Hopefully, they’re more relaxed here than the places I used to work in. Vera buries her face behind the menu. Maybe she’s uncomfortable, or trying to read, I can’t be sure. I’ve noticed that sometimes she removes herself from a scene as a way to camouflage her discomfort. She doesn’t criticize Rita when she acts pushy; she hides.

The woman pauses, then nods. “Emilio. Yes, he’s here. I’ll go look for him.”

“Obrigada,” Rita says, smiling, and grabs the menu to signal that she’s done.

The woman leaves to look for Emilio. Vera puts down the menu. I decide to stay pleasant and cooperative. This is Rita’s show, and I’m not interfering. 

“What are you going to order?” Vera asks, breaking the silence. After the breakfast she had for dinner last night, she probably wants something a little more satisfying and is unsure about what she sees on the menu. 

“I don't know. We can ask Emilio,” Rita shrugs and checks the backside of the menu.  

After a few minutes, Emilio enters the dining room, dressed in the quintessential black and white waiter’s uniform and a short black apron. He’s in his mid-twenties, tall, and good-looking in a way that doesn’t make you fall off your chair. When he sees Rita, he breaks into a wide smile.

“Oi, Rita, tudo bom? You made it.” 

If they were standing up, he would have kissed her on each cheek, but Rita is sitting down, and he can’t reach her. “Tudo bom, Emilio, yes. We made it. How are you?” Rita answers, sending him two air kisses. “Como vai?” she continues. 

“Very good,” Emilio says, nodding to Vera and me with “nice to meet you, nice to meet you,” before Rita explains to him who we are. 

After a round of questions and answers about our impression of Portugal and the places we’ve been to, Rita asks, “So how’s life in Tomar?”

He likes it, even though not much is happening here compared to Lisbon, especially for people his age. But it’s safe, and people are nice. He’s renting a room not far from the city center and goes to nursing school during the day. While he speaks, he leans on the chair next to Vera, the way tall waiters do when they want to create a casual atmosphere.

“When you decide to go to school? Simone know you going to school?” Rita asks. Her broken English usually bothers me because it feels lazy and performative, but now I’m not letting it bother me. 

“There are no good jobs around, and someone suggested I go to school, so I signed up and work here in the evenings,” he explains.  

“You like working here?” Vera interjects in a maternal voice.

“It’s a good job. Pays the rent and school,” he answers, like an American that he’s not.

“That’s great,” I add, to avoid looking antisocial.

A group of people enters the dining room and is led to a table by the woman in the green dress. They look local, which reassures me that we are not sitting in a tourist trap.

“Do you know what you want to order?” Emilio asks. His time is running out, and he knows it.

Rita and I know what we want, but Vera is not sure and asks for a recommendation. Rita takes a chance on the bacalhau despite her bad experience with this fish in Lisbon: shredded cod, cooked with onion, fried potatoes, and scrambled eggs, and, of course, a salad. I ask for the alheira de frango com batata frita, to pay homage to the Jews of Belmonte. During my visit to the museum, I learned that Jews stuffed sausages with bread and chicken instead of pork and hung them by the window, just like their neighbors. That’s how chicken sausage entered Portuguese cuisine. Vera is not tempted. After some back and forth with Emilio, she settles for a simpler version of Rita’s meal, skipping the fried sides and going for the boiled version.

Emilio scribbles our order on a small notepad he pulls from his apron pocket and heads toward the group that settled on the other side of the dining room. As he walks away, I watch him and feel a little twinge of envy. I came to Portugal to see if I could retire here, where the sun shines 300 days a year, the language is accessible, and real estate won’t bankrupt me. Instead, watching him wait tables and talk about his new life, I realize that I’d rather be young and starting over than settling into retirement. I’m sure he struggles like any other immigrant, even if for him, this move might be easier because he speaks the language. But Portugal is not Brazil, that much is clear to me.

“He made a good decision,” Vera says once he’s out of earshot. “He’ll be able to work anywhere.”

“I told Simone not to worry about him. I knew he’d be fine,” Rita says.

Their exchange reminds me that Rita took a nursing assistant course at a community college a few years ago, but realized it wasn’t right for her. She decided she could be making more money selling jewelry at street fairs without having to lift bedbound patients and bathe them. And this is how the healthcare profession lost a gifted nurse aide who knew how to cheer up a dying person without ever freaking out. While she was in training, I heard about her ability to sit with people as they drew their last breath and never doubted her, despite her tendency to embellish. I decide to say something nice to practice the new me. Focus on the positive and make her feel good.

“You would have been an excellent nurse,” I say. “I remember when you took the class.”

She raises her eyes from the phone. “I could, but I didn’t want to,” she shrugs and pretends to smile with her mouth, but not her eyes. 

Well, you can’t blame me for not trying. 

                                                    * * * 

Emilio brings our food and sets the plates in front of us. Everything looks good, especially my fries, which I’m happy to nibble and not share with anyone. The salad is unimpressive, more decoration than a real salad, but that’s okay. It’s still nice to see something green on the plate. The sausage pops when I take a bite, which I’ve learned is supposedly a sign of good quality.

There is not much conversation at our table. I think we’ve said everything that needed saying in these last few days, and I’m not racking my brain to find something to talk about. Let Rita do it, or Vera, if the silence bothers her. 

As I’m silently chewing fries, I bite my tongue. And it hurts terribly, making my eyes water. I’m mad at myself and that stupid fry. How could I do this? What’s wrong with me? I try to hide my pain from Vera and Rita and continue chewing as if nothing happened. I feel too stupid to confess, even though neither will faint at the sight of blood. I’m too embarrassed to cry in pain in front of them. But I can barely endure it. I want to spit out everything and storm out of the restaurant, but I can’t. I have to control myself. Let the pain subside. 

It feels like the universe hit me with a ten-pound sledgehammer, demanding I learn to shut up and stop judging others, and even myself. Or maybe I just bit my tongue. It happens to everyone. It could be the bridge the dentist put in recently that caused my mouth to go out of alignment.

But then again, maybe it’s a lesson I have to learn the hard way. 

Doce de Abóbora (58)

As we emerge from an alley onto a main street, I spot a neighborhood supermercado. We weren’t looking for one, but it occurs to me we should go in and explore the local offerings. I might find nuts dipped in something unexpected or some other culinary novelty to remind me of Portugal, instead of a tacky souvenir. One thing I’m sure of: we don’t need toilet paper. We still have the extra rolls Rita bought in Lisbon, sitting in the trunk of our fancy Toyota and taking up too much space. 

Near the supermercado, in the roundabout, stands a tall metal installation of three women in colorful dresses balancing loaves of bread and flowers on their heads. It must mean something. Probably a Catholic ritual they celebrate around here. I’ll have to google it later, like everything else I see in this country. I resist the urge to take a picture. Not everything needs proof; some things can be left to memory.

Rita and Vera don’t object to entering the supermercado. We’re not in a rush, and buying stuff is always a fun activity, for Rita anyway. Besides, we need to stock up on groceries. The last time we were in a supermarket was on the way to Peniche, which feels like an eternity ago, somewhere between pastel de nata and francisinha.

Only two other customers are inside, causing our small group to stick out like the foreigners we are, moving awkwardly between the narrow aisles and trying to decipher the contents of unfamiliar packages. A shelf brimming with jars catches my eye. I stop to read the labels. There’s no picture on the orange labels to clue in those who don’t know Portuguese. I read doce de abóbora, which gives me an advantage over those who like pumpkin jam but cannot read the language. I’ve never had pumpkin jam. I know pumpkin pie, soup, and bread, but I’m not crazy about any of them unless they’re mixed with ingredients that are free of cloves. But this is Portugal, and I feel adventurous, so I pick two jars and place them in my basket. I could gift them or bring them to a Thanksgiving gathering as a curiosity item from my trip.

 

“What’s this?” Rita asks, appearing out of nowhere and pointing at the jars in my basket. Her voice is a mix of curiosity and envy, as if she’s saying, I want what you have, even though I don’t know what it is. 

“Pumpkin jam.”

“Where did you find it?” she asks.

“Right here,” I say, pointing to the shelf.

She steps in front of me, grabs one jar, and puts it in her basket. 

“Is it any good?” I ask. Maybe she knows something I don’t?

“I don’t know,” she laughs. “But I can give it to someone.”

Suddenly, I see her in all her sad glory. For the first time, I’m not irritated. I realize that her constant noise and jubilance hide deep insecurity and a childish desire to be adored, accepted, and loved, as cheesy as it may sound. This behavior shouldn’t make me feel annoyed or indignant. It must be exhausting to live like this. 

What surprises me is that only this morning, I saw her stepping all over me, co-opting my experience to impress the world, erasing me with her need to feel more visible. But now, I see something else: a little girl wanting, acting out her insecurity. She even has her mother here to hold her hand, metaphorically, of course. How could I not see it? It has nothing to do with me. I’m just a mirror. 

I don’t know why I didn’t see it until now. Perhaps I was too absorbed in my own insecurities to see clearly. But somehow, in the intensity of being together every day, this small moment opened my eyes. Now I understand the insults, the giggles, the demands for appreciation. My seething silence. I see it all, and I am no longer offended. I should let go of my frustration and feel less judgmental toward her.

I hope I’ll be able to protect myself by remembering this moment, at least until we land back in Israel.

Heading to Tomar (57)

Again, we are on the road. This time, we’re heading to Tomar, a town I know nothing about except that Simone’s nephew lives there, and we are going to meet him as promised. Rita has already called him to let him know we’re coming and even booked a place for the night. Vera has no opinion on the subject, and neither do I. I’m not worried about what Tomar will be like. So far, I haven’t been disappointed by any place we’ve been to. Portugal is a treasure that reveals itself gradually. Every town is unique, every corner is steeped in history and beauty; the architecture, the music, the people, and nature itself. If it weren’t for the cruelty it inflicted on the Jews, still haunting its plazas, alleys, and stone walls, I’d say it’s an ideal place to lose oneself in and be renewed. 

The road is dotted with agricultural plots, small towns, and forested hills, but I’m more absorbed in my thoughts than in paying attention to the landscape. I’m curious about the name of the town. Tomar is a versatile verb in Portuguese, an infinitive, if you insist on using the accurate term. The dictionary might translate it as to take, but in practice, it means more than taking. They say tomar banho, to take a bath, tomar café, to drink coffee, tomar uma decisão, to make a decision, tomar sol, to sunbathe, tomar conta, to take care of or look after, tomar um remédio, to take medicine, and other phrases I either don’t know or prefer not to use in polite society. So what does it mean that a city is called Tomar? Tomar what? Tomar who?

I stop wondering about it when we reach the edge of town, which seems bigger and more developed than Belmonte. I don’t know what to expect. I only know that we are traveling through streets and roundabouts toward wherever we’ll spend the night. Rita finds a parking spot in front of a sidewalk café with a bank next to it, and off we go to look for our Airbnb. 

The two-bedroom apartment is small but charming, with a lovely view from the living room window. Like every self-respecting town in this country, Tomar’s skyline is graced by a sprawling fortress on a hilltop. The modestly equipped kitchen has a generous stock of tea bags and even sugar, more than most places we’ve stayed. Maybe the previous overnighters left them behind. 

After settling the bill with the Airbnb host and learning the house rules, we leave to explore the town, and it is gorgeous. An unassuming bridge above a calm river, whose name eludes me as usual, leads us to the historic town center. On the opposite bank, there’s a long white building with a tall red chimney rising above the rooftops. It’s picture perfect, but I have no idea what it is. Maybe an old mill or a brick factory. 

Beyond the bridge, we enter a labyrinth of narrow alleys paved with cobblestones and bordered by two- and three-story buildings painted white, pink, light green, or yellow. Some buildings have balconies surrounded by wrought-iron railings, which I’ve seen all over Portugal and even in parts of Rio and small rural towns in Brazil. The restaurants are empty, but the tablecloths and candles on each table promise that soon they’ll fill up with weekend customers. Below the looming fortress, which seems to be the focal point of town, a large plaza stretches in front of an old church that’s still open. A sign at the entrance advertises a Christmas concert series. I wish I could stay for at least one concert, but the first performance will be tomorrow evening, when I’ll already be on my way back to Lisbon.

When we turn back into the maze of alleys, we find a synagogue. If it weren’t for the sign and the Star of David above the door, I wouldn’t have guessed it. The building looks just like the other houses on the street; its exterior gives no clue that it’s a house of worship. It’s closed, maybe because it’s Shabbat, even though it would make more sense to keep it open today. Through the window, I don’t see religious artifacts, books, or other signs that this is a synagogue, only a table covered with a white cloth. It seems that during the week, someone gives tours here, but the hall no longer functions as a synagogue, unlike the dazzling sanctuary in Belmonte. Maybe there’s no Jewish community in Tomar anymore, and this synagogue is only a quiet reminder of distant, more benevolent times.

After the heaviness of Belmonte’s centuries-old stone buildings and the gloomy memories trapped in them, Tomar feels like a breath of fresh air. If Jews were persecuted here five hundred years ago, this town feels like it has moved on and found peace.

Galeria das Bonecas (56)

 I feel self-conscious wandering the alleys, killing time until Rita and Vera decide we should leave town. It wasn’t my plan, but it beats sitting on a park bench and watching the clouds. I just hope I don’t stand out too much. I draw a contrast to when I walked through Lisbon’s Alfama Quarter. There, the locals learned to endure the hordes of tourists gawking at them. In Belmonte, which isn’t much of a draw unless you’re Jewish or Israeli, people might be more sensitive to the presence of foreigners.

It’s still early in the weekend, so not much is happening. Only a few people are out, and the places that are already open are empty of customers. I turn into a narrow alley and find a courtyard with round tables, umbrellas, and trees shading empty chairs. At the far end, a short flight of stairs leads to a stone building with the door open. A sign by the door indicates that it’s a gallery of dolls, listing art classes and the dates of an upcoming puppet show. Although nothing gives me the impression that the gallery is open, I decide to enter. Worst case, they’ll ask me to leave.

A bearded man in a black flat cap greets me from behind a table covered with hand-painted ceramics and waves me in to look around. Inside, a song by a famous Brazilian singer is playing. I decide to say something about it and see what happens. 

“Cê gosta de Zé Ramalho?” I ask, using my best Portuguese accent. 

He stops twisting copper wire, raises his eyes, and studies me for a few seconds.

“You know Zé Ramalho?” he asks in perfect Brazilian Portuguese, which I could understand in my sleep.

“Conheço as músicas dele,” I say, smiling.

“Brasileira?” he asks. 

That’s what I love about Brazilians. In the U.S., people ask where I’m from the second I open my mouth. Brazilians assume I’m one of them. 

“In my heart,” I answer, in Portuguese, my canned response to the question when posed by Brazilians. And for a moment, my old self emerges from somewhere, reminding me of who I used to be before I was sucked into Rita and Vera’s orbit. A lighter and calmer, less paranoid version of me.

He asks how I learned Portuguese; I tell him I lived in Rio many years ago. It’s only part of the story, but all I’m ready to share. The conversation drifts where I hoped: connecting with a local, even if he was a transplant from another Portuguese-speaking country. He’s the second Brazilian I’ve met who lives and works here, aside from the tourists in Lisbon and the woman last night. 

He says he’s from Minas Gerais. “Have you been to Minas?” he asks, like a real Brazilian, dropping “Gerais.”

“Yes, more than once,” I’m happy to say. I have friends who live near Caparao National Park. I hiked with them to the waterfalls, but not all the way to the top. He’s impressed. I’m almost a peer now. He knows the area and has even camped there. 

“Why leave Brazil? It’s so much more fun,” I say, not to pry, just to show how I feel.

Fortunately, he’s not offended. He gets up and joins me by a shelf lined with whimsical handmade dolls made of colorful fabrics and beads. One of the dolls fell against another, so he picks her up and leans her against the wall. If I knew anything about making dolls, I’d ask about the artist. But I’m not crafty, so I don’t take the bait, if that’s what he’s trying to do. 

As he rearranges the dolls, he tells me that he was an English teacher at a college in Belo Horizonte, but he grew tired of it and decided to try his luck in Portugal. “It’s easy to make friends here,” he says. “The only problem is that Belmonte is a small town, so there’s not much going on,” he adds, handing me a business card with the name of the artist who made the dolls.

“She owns the gallery,” he explains. “I help run it when she’s in Lisbon.”

I can’t help but wonder if he needs a special permit to work here like other non-EU residents. Unfortunately, I can’t ask. It would be even worse than asking why he left Brazil. So I slip the card into my pocket and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I’ll return to Belmonte one day and meet this artist, and who knows what may come of it.

“I thought about teaching here, but the paperwork was too much,” he says in English, as if he could read my mind. “Then someone introduced me to Mirele.”

“I’d love to meet her one day,” I respond in English. 

“Meet who?” Rita’s voice quacks behind me.

Of course, she has to appear out of nowhere and interrupt this blissful moment. I shouldn’t entertain any illusions of connecting with people without her barging into the conversation and taking over. I should be grateful and graciously clear the stage because I’m the warm-up and she’s the headliner.

I don't bother to answer her question since the name is inconsequential. Besides, the Brazilian has already turned to greet her and respond to the flood of compliments she showers on the beautiful little gallery.

While she soaks up all of the man’s attention, I sulk in a corner by a display of jewelry. My part is done, and whatever spark there was dissolves into nothing as always. I tell myself: Let Rita be Rita. I’ll be me. I can endure a few more days, learning my lessons, discovering my limits, and practicing humility.

In the background, Rita has chosen a doll that reminds her of her sister. She giggles as she shows the doll, whose arms are made of decorative teaspoons, to Vera. Vera is not sure about the similarities, but agrees that it’ll be a nice gift as long as Rita doesn’t say that it looks like Sigal. 

I watch Rita follow the Brazilian to the table by the door, where he gift-wraps the doll. She asks him if he sells leather bracelets like the one on his wrist. 

“No,” he says. He got that one in Brazil. 

I leave the gallery and wait for her and Vera in the empty courtyard. I’m beyond relieved she didn’t try to negotiate the price down. And I refuse to watch her perform the schtick she does whenever she meets a Brazilian, and pretend that it’s cute.

Belmonte: Terra De Tolerancia (55)

After a quick stop at Hotel Sinai to return the keys to the trusting front desk attendant, we find a charming café with a patio surrounded by flowering potted plants. This time, I order a galão like a local, sparing the barista the confusion over my request for espresso and then for milk. I also order for Rita and Vera, so Rita will quit worrying that I’m plotting to skip paying my share of gas. She began hinting at it when we were leaving Porto. Don’t ask me why. It has nothing to do with reality. Maybe an after-effect of Anna’s departure. 

When the barista brings the coffee, Rita announces she’s looking for a place to stay in Tomar.

“What’s in Tomar?” Vera asks.

“Simone’s nephew,” she says, eyes still on her phone.

“How far is it?” Vera persists because that’s what she does.

 
“A couple of hours. We still have time to walk around. Check in at four,” Rita says.

“There’s a Jewish museum here. We can see if it’s open,” I say. The tuk-tuk guy in Lisbon mentioned a museum, and since we’re here, why not? I just hope an idea from me won’t trigger Rita like it did in Porto when I suggested another restaurant. Vera’s stupid comment earlier was more than enough. 
To my surprise, Rita puts down the phone and agrees. Maybe it’s not the worst idea. 

“Is it close enough to walk?” Vera asks, the ever-practical link in the chain.

A glance at the tourist map shows it’s only a short walk away. We leave the café and find the museum in one of the narrow alleyways in the old part of town, where laundry hangs outside to dry and green moss grows between old cobblestones. The museum, with its Jewish color scheme, is open even though it’s Shabbat.

This is the first museum we visit in Portugal. And the last one, for sure. Museums were not on the itinerary from the start. Rita has little patience for them, unless they are so famous that tourists must visit despite the high risk from pickpockets and a painful entrance fee. Otherwise, museums slow down momentum, require the ability to focus, and provide no interactions with people or merchandise. A lethal combination for fun seekers.

To be honest, I don’t expect much. I just want to get a feel for the place. Maybe we’ll see something interesting. The community here is quite small anyway and doesn’t seem to have many resources. Still, I appreciate the thought of building a center for learning about the history of Belmonte’s Jewish community. At least the books at the entrance appear promising if you can read Portuguese. The rest is standard Jewish paraphernalia, pretty but not groundbreaking.

Rita and Vera vanish into a side gallery as soon as we enter the main exhibit. I take my time to read some labels beside the pictures and objects on display. I suddenly realize this is the most educational phase of the trip. Digging into the past of Portugal’s Crypto Jews, learning how they practiced the traditions behind thick walls and dark curtains. There are even pictures of religious artifacts that the women used throughout the centuries and passed to their daughters, who learned to perform rituals in secret until they became almost unrecognizable.

Seeing all this makes me sad, not satisfied, even though a happy ending came five hundred years later, like Vera’s survival during the war in Europe. She came out of it alive, but the trauma remained buried until it resurfaced later in life in the form of night terrors. I wonder if she sees any parallels between her experience and this story. Probably not. It might be too painful to think about. For me, it’s a reminder of what could have happened in my lifetime, but didn’t, thanks to the sheer luck of being born elsewhere, under different circumstances. And I’m grateful for being lucky for once. As for Rita, I don’t think she would reflect on it. Why think about heavy stuff that makes you sad? Life is short and we must enjoy every minute because every day can be the last. Blah blah blah. Tell me something I don’t know.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I go outside to meet the two of them and see what’s next. A great conversation about the meaning of being Jewish? I doubt it. Rita wants to explore the antique stores we passed on our way to the museum, and Vera is happy to plod along. We decide to meet at the car in an hour, and off I go to explore the narrow alleys on my own, again.

Losing My Cool (54)

With Rita taking over the conversation, all bells and whistles and jewelry dangling from every extremity, I retreat to finish packing and tidying up my room. I don’t leave a mess for those who clean up after me. I always remember the proletariat. From inside my room, I hear laughter and Rita’s broken English asking how much to pay. The driver murmurs something, and then a metal door slams shut, the engine starts, and the van drives away. 

Rita pokes her head in to say she’ll bring the car to the front door to spare Vera the walk with the luggage. “Then we can look for a place to have coffee near the hotel,” she suggests.

“Great idea,” I say. 

She deserves credit for thinking of all the details. And I need to appear more cooperative after leaving her and Vera at that stuffy bar last night. Skipping breakfast in Porto could pass as laziness, but leaving after they’d ordered dinner might have felt like a provocation. No need for more drama. I think we’ve had enough of it. My challenge is to end this trip on a positive note, keep grudges buried, and deal with them later on firmer ground. 

I finish tidying up the room: the sink is clean, the trash is in the bin, and the towels are on the rack. I roll my carry-on outside to wait for Rita. Vera joins me with her luggage on the pavement, ready to conquer the day or at least the first two hours. If we’d been staying in the same house, she would have walked with me earlier. But today I was selfish, and I took advantage of the situation to walk by myself. 

“How was your room? Did you sleep well?” I ask to quell my somewhat guilty conscience. It’s the polite thing to do. Engage in meaningless small talk. “It was fine,” she recites her usual generic response. Good. I just want to make sure the atmosphere is congenial, with no hard feelings about last night. 

When Rita pulls up in front of us, I help Vera lift her carry-on into the trunk and then load mine. 

“I’m going to stop at the hotel first,” Rita says, heading up the stone stairs to collect her stuff and lock up. 

That’s right. We’re following the honor system here. Not skipping town without paying for the rooms, even if it might tempt some people. 

While we wait for Rita, I decide to go back in and make a final sweep. “I’m going to step in and check that I didn’t leave my phone charger,” I say to Vera. 

“Ah,” she shrugs without looking at me. “Then leave it. If you forgot, you forgot.” 

Jesus Christ! What do you even mean, “If you forgot, you forgot?” I’m still here. I just need to step inside for a minute. People always do this when they check out. It’s not a sign of a mental disorder. Chargers are the most forgettable objects. You want me to leave it behind just because you don’t think I should check? Will you buy me one if I leave it here? You’re driving me insane. I could strangle you. I’ve been patient, respectful, helpful, friendly, and this is what I get? Damn it! 

Of course, none of this comes out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “It will only take a minute,” like the grown-up I pretend to be, and take a deep breath to slow down my heart. 

I check the outlets, under the bed, and under the blanket. Nothing. I lock the door and return to the car’s backseat. Still fuming. Because Vera already occupies the front. Peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s caused.

Pão de Sal (53)

Since I arrived in Portugal, every morning had started with some unexpected drama. But today, I can simply open the door and step into the street without pretending, inviting, or watching a bizarre scene unfold before me. The neighborhood looks the same as it did last night, except that I now notice Umberto’s other properties. They have brass plaques by their doors with the names of Jews he wanted to immortalize, Don this, Dona that, with a brief description of who they were. The old quarter is so small that I can walk it in fifteen minutes. I snap a few photos of the alleys with the mountain range peeking between the houses, then turn back to my room to finish packing.

When I reach Casa Dona Branca, I see a woman in a pink robe standing at a doorway next to mine. She’s probably in her eighties and looks far less “widowy” than the woman I met yesterday. Her white hair is not covered by anything black, and her feet are secured in fluffy green slippers. In short, she looks cozy and comfortable, part of the scenery, unbothered by the cold air. I suddenly realize I hadn’t considered that people lived next door, which is silly. Of course, people live here, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t run into someone.

“Bom dia, senhora,” I say when I’m close enough for her to hear me. Behind her, a man’s voice on the radio drifts out, mingling with the clink of dishes.

The woman asks me if I spent the night next door. I tell her that I arrived yesterday and that I’m a friend of the owner, Umberto. “Do you know him?” I ask, excited that she understands my Portuguese and is open to talking.

Yes, she knows him, and more than that. The room I’m staying in, and the upstairs where Rita and Vera are staying, were part of her family home, and she was the one who sold them to him. Her older sister, who lives with her now, but is not feeling well, was against splitting the house and selling the rooms, but they needed the money.

I’m not sure how we got here, but I’m amazed by my luck. I went out for a stroll and now I’m talking to a woman who can tell me things I’ll never find in a tourist brochure. It feels like an out-of-body experience. Part of me converses with her, part watches us from outside in disbelief, and another prays that Rita and Vera stay in bed and let me continue the conversation.

Her family lived in this house for generations, she says.

“I learned about Belmonte only recently,” I say.

She’s easy to talk to. I only have to nod or express curiosity, and she responds, volunteering details without trying to impress me or accuse anyone. Maybe my questions make her remember things she hasn't thought about in a long time. Maybe that’s why she’s so open.

She tells me that her family escaped to France during the dictatorship, and she spent many years away from Belmonte. She married in France, and her children stayed there. But she grew up here. She walked these alleys as a kid and played with the Jewish kids outside. There was no hostility towards them. 

“They were just like us,” she reminisces. “They dressed like us, spoke like us. We knew them and their families until we left.” But no, she didn’t keep in touch with anyone.

I ask her how she found the house when she returned. She says it was empty and many things needed repair. Umberto helped her paint the walls and fix a leaking faucet, and when she found out he was buying properties in the neighborhood and fixing them, she suggested splitting her home and selling part of it. Her sister was against it, but they didn’t need such a big house, she explains.

I have to focus on understanding everything she says. She speaks at a normal pace, not slowing down for me, with an unfamiliar accent and some words I don’t recognize. But I get the story, and I’m floored by this encounter. This is the most interesting moment in my whole trip. I couldn’t have planned or imagined anything even close to what I’m experiencing here. Her openness feels like a small miracle. This is exactly what inspires me when I travel. Meeting people and hearing their stories. Connecting without expecting anything in return. I don’t volunteer much, though. Her story is much more interesting.

I have many more questions for her. I was amazed when she said her family escaped or left during the dictatorship. My Portuguese colleague at work had the same experience. So I can imagine what she went through. Leaving everything behind and becoming a refugee in a foreign country. Working jobs no one wants to do. Starting over from the bottom. I want to ask her about her life in France, but our conversation is interrupted. A white van pulls up in front of us. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue apron, climbs down and greets us with a Bom Dia. He goes to the back of the van and opens the door. Inside, there are crates full of rolls and loaves of bread, some I recognize as pão de sal. Soft white bread that smells like heaven.

The last thing I expected. I thought he was a plumber or house painter, not a baker. 

It takes me a moment to realize the woman had been waiting for the van all along. She selects some rolls and a loaf, puts them in a plastic bag, and hands the driver a few coins from a small purse tucked into her robe. I ask the driver if I can buy bread, too. Maybe because he realizes from my accent that I am not a local, he forgives my idiocy. Of course, I can buy bread. That’s why he’s here. He’s not running a delivery service; it’s a mobile bakery. I want to tell him I’ve never seen anything like it before. But I don’t. I wonder, do they sell ice blocks and deliver bottles of milk to your door here? Which century is this?

I step inside to get my wallet. By the time I return and pay him, Rita opens the door and joins us on the pavement.

And just like that, one of my best moments in Portugal comes to an end.