I am sitting in my living room with a friend who sometimes works as a tourist guide with Israeli tourists who want to explore California. Most of her clients can’t speak English and are the religious type who insist on finding a kosher restaurant in the middle of the Mojave Desert or a synagogue in Las Vegas. She asks me when I am planning to travel to Israel to visit my family. I tell her I’m planning to go in November and that I want to stop in Portugal for a few days on the way to Israel. I’ve been thinking about visiting Portugal because I am fluent in Brazilian Portuguese and sometimes entertain myself with the thought of retiring in Portugal someday. Also, Portugal is cheap, it sits kind of halfway between Israel and California, and I can speak with people there, so why not give it a shot?
My friend, whom I’ll call Rita, thinks it’s a great idea. She’s never been to Portugal and would like to go there too. Maybe we can go together, she thinks aloud. She checks flights and prices, and suggests we meet in Israel, spend a few days there, go to Portugal for a week, and then back to Israel.
Since she's been talking for several years about spending time with me in Israel, I am inclined to accept her idea. Traveling with company is better than traveling alone, right? And beside, what have I got to lose?
On the spot, we buy round trip tickets from Tel Aviv to Lisbon. Before the excitement dies down, she suggests that I also fly on the same flight with her to Israel. It’s a direct flight from San Francisco to Tel Aviv and it costs less than the flight I usually take via Istanbul. I hesitate. Sitting 15 hours in an airplane does not appeal to me. My knees scream hell when I sit for 10 hours, and 15 would be torture. I tell her I would rather break the flight into two parts.
“Don’t,” she says. “We’ll take aisle seats side by side and spend the flight talking and stretching. You won’t feel it. I’ll entertain you during the flight. It will be fun.”
I agree only because she is an experienced traveler. She’s been flying to Israel twice a year ever since she started living with a morbidly obese man of means she met in a bar when she was on the verge of homelessness—I’ll call him Fred. Fred pays all her expenses and lets her live a life unburdened by small stuff like rent and bills and having a job. When she wants something she usually gets it. A two-week trip to Morocco? Sure, let’s go! We’ll sleep in the best hotels, eat in the most expensive restaurants, and explore the Sahara Desert with our personal Tuareg guide. A weekend in Hawaii? Sure darling, and do you want that 200-dollar hand-painted leather wallet to go with it? Just say the word. A vacation in Mexico with your Mexican girlfriend? My pleasure, everything on me for both of you. Last year he bought them a house because she insisted that he start investing in real estate. This year, he bought her a new car because her old van was well, getting old. This summer, after he said he didn’t think they needed an outdoor Jacuzzi, she went ahead and ordered two. So, she understands money and flying to far-away places.
I find a ticket to Tel Aviv on the same flight as Rita and reserve an aisle seat, something I never do, because I absolutely have to sit by the window if I want to sleep.
A week after I buy my tickets to Israel and Portugal, Rita tells me during one of our walks that she invited a friend to join us in Portugal. The friend, she says, lives in Spain. I’ve heard about this woman a few times, but have never met her. Rita says that this friend, Anna, has no money and no car. She lives in a small village with her emotionally troubled 25-year-old daughter and neither of them is employed.
“How is she going to pay for the trip if she has no money?” I dare to ask.
“She’ll manage. She’s a vegetarian,” Rita says.
Oh, really? What does it mean? That she doesn’t eat a lot? That she has inexpensive taste?
“Are you going to pay for her share of the hotel rooms and car rental?” I ask again.
“No, she will share everything with us,” Rita promises.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to invite someone who has no money,” I persist. “Plus, I thought that this trip was just for the two of us. What if she has a different agenda?”
“Don’t worry. Anna is easy going,” Rita says. “She goes with the flow, she will do whatever we want. You’ll see. Don’t worry. We’ll have a great time.”
Since my opinion does not matter and the ticket has already been bought, I give up. There is not much I can do at this point. I have to let it go. Rita says we will get along fabulously; she has experience getting groups to function well. She has been in situations with Israeli tourists who complained about everything and everyone hated them and at the end of the trip everyone became friends. So, I shouldn’t worry.
Two weeks later, during another one of our walks, she tells me that she invited her mother, who lives in Israel, to travel with us to Portugal. I hold my tongue. I know her mother. I’ve met her. She is who she is. Rita says she is not sure her mother can find a ticket on the same flight as us, but she is working on it. I say nothing. I assume that this family reunion will not happen. Her mother is 76. People her age don’t jump on planes to go spend a week in Portugal at the drop of a hat. They live on a fixed income. They plan trips ahead of time. Our trip is in less than a month. All I can think is that Rita is living in a fantasy world. It won’t happen, so why stress about it? But I can’t help myself and I say, “Well, it looks like you are planning a trip with your friend and mother and I am kind of tagging along. I thought this whole trip was my idea.”
“You’re not tagging along. It will be fine. Everyone always gets along with everyone on my trips. You’ll see.” And again, she breaks into a reverie about an Israeli bitch who made everyone miserable on one of her tours and how she put the woman in her place and how by the end of the tour the woman changed, and now they are friends on Facebook and the woman asks Rita to take her to Cuba and show her a good time. It will be fine; everyone has fun on her trips.
I don’t want to get mad, so I put it out of my mind. But one thought is gnawing at me. I can’t sit in an aisle seat for 15 hours. I have to sit by a window. I tell Rita I have to change my seat.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll arrive a little earlier at the airport and arrange for you to change your seat.”
I stop worrying. I know she can do it. She gets people to do whatever she wants. Provided they are not cops. Because cops don’t bend to her will. They have handcuffs and they use them when she makes a scene. Once she had to be handcuffed and walked out of a courthouse because she wouldn’t stop arguing with the judge. Another time, she exasperated a cop who was giving her a parking ticket to the point that only handcuffs made her kind of understand that she needed to shut up. But other than cops, I’ve heard countless stories about how she managed to get what she wanted from random people. She can help me. I trust her. All I have to do is arrive at the airport early enough. I can certainly do that.
I spend the night before the flight at a friend’s house near the airport. Her husband is a limo driver and he is going to give me a ride to the airport. Everything looks good. I am confident that I will have a great trip to Israel and don’t have any of those butterflies in my stomach I usually have before a long trip.
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