A Wedding Gift to the Queen (16)

We are on the road again, with Rita at the wheel and Vera in the front seat next to her. Since it is still our first day in the car, I am not complaining about being stuck in the back seat. I let it slide even though it is not my nature to let things slide without saying anything. 

“I found a place with four bedrooms for tonight,” Rita announces when it becomes clear that no one else will start a conversation. “It’s a bit out of the way, but we’re not rushing to get anywhere.” 

“Whatever you decide is fine with us,” Vera asserts, without consulting Anna or me. She has a tendency to make decisions for all of us without asking first, but this one is completely acceptable.

Four bedrooms! What a great idea. Not that it matters much to me. At the most, it will make me look less selfish when we settle in for the night because I don’t share a bedroom. Perhaps Rita realized that she needed a full night’s sleep if she wanted to continue leading our expedition and staying awake at the same time. Or maybe she feels sorry for Anna. I don’t know her reasons, but I do applaud the outcome. 

I have to admit that Rita’s ability to take care of all the necessary arrangements by herself, while on the road, is admirable. She knows how to find her way so easily in a foreign country, book affordable Airbnb places, and plan an itinerary. I was never good at these things. My travel philosophy never included planning ahead, not because I am such a spontaneous person, which to my detriment I am sometimes, but because I don’t know how to plan for the future. In fact, as far back as I can remember, I’ve never planned a trip. I just took off.

During my early twenties, my idea of travel preparations entailed borrowing a sleeping bag from a friend and buying a roll of film for my camera. Everything else was either too expensive or too overwhelming. Learning about a prospective travel destination did not even cross my mind. When I decided to travel to Bolivia and Peru after living in Rio for almost a year, I knew exactly nothing about those countries. I thought the only difference between them and Brazil was the language and I figured I’d learn to speak Spanish soon enough to help me get around. I didn’t realize that I would find myself in a place where it snowed and oxygen would be in short supply because of the altitude, for example, and that my chances of surviving in the Andes in a flowing cotton skirt and tennis shoes were not too high. 

Luckily, I met many good people on the road, foreigners, and locals, who bestowed on me the appropriate clothes and information I needed during the months of my unplanned traveling. That’s what helped me to survive five days in the pouring rain on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu with a group of French hippies I met in a bar one night. They suggested I join them, and I accepted without giving it much thought. What kept me warm and somewhat dry during the toughest parts of the hike was the long wool coat I received from an elderly woman who lived in the retirement home for Holocaust survivors in La Paz, where I was staying for free, courtesy of the local Jewish community. A couple of months later, before I began another unfortunate hike in the Cordillera Blanca, believing that I was going to get some sun in the mountains, I bought myself an alpaca wool sweater in the market at the insistence of another backpacker I had met on the road. That sweater saved my life. Hiking in the snow above 5,000 ft in tennis shoes and a light windbreaker is not something I would recommend to anyone. 

Interestingly, I have learned little from these experiences. I still don’t plan my trips, even when, objectively speaking, I can—I have time, I have a computer, and I know how to read. Yet, I still just let things happen. And this trip to Portugal is no exception. 

I stop dwelling on my poor travel habits when a picturesque town enclosed by ancient stone walls appears on a hillside not too far from the highway. A gray fortress or a castle breaks through the town’s soft skyline, reminding onlookers that the current peaceful scenery might have been quite bloody in the past. As our car approaches the town, the sky darkens and rain begins to fall. Rita has to circle the narrow alleys outside the walled town a few times before finally finding a half-full parking lot. She quickly figured out how to pay for parking, something I wouldn’t know how to do even in California, and we set off to explore the town on foot. In front of the town’s gate, a small crew in yellow construction hats and vests is working on a crane around a giant Christmas tree, decorating it with huge white globes. The rain does not seem to bother them, just as it doesn’t bother the few tourists who form a line on the wood planks that cover the wet sidewalk leading to the main street.

For a moment I think that we have to pay to enter the enclosed town when I see a large sign in front of the gate, but upon closer inspection, I see that the sign greets visitors and advertises some restaurants and a few upcoming holiday events. In truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had to pay to enter this charming gem of a town. Everything about it screams “tourist trap.” I find it hard to believe that real people live here, and not just the occasional renters and vacationers. This collection of houses and alleyways is anything but ordinary. The whitewashed stone two-story houses decorated with wide yellow trims at the bottom and blue stripes at the corners, the blooming bougainvilleas that cover the sides of the houses all the way to the slanted red-tile roofs, the narrow cobblestone alleys and winding stairways, the small bowls of cat food next to closed doors, the old churches with their steeples, fountains, and colorful tiles—they are all so breathtakingly gorgeous, that they make the heartache for a forgotten world. Unfortunately, I already know that a place that makes me feel as if time stood still must hide some ugly truths I am better off not knowing. For example, that this town in its medieval heyday lacked underground sewage lines and centralized garbage collection. But why bother with these unsavory details when everything I see is so aesthetically pleasing and awe-inspiring?

Today, neither horse-drawn carriages nor cars roam the winding streets of Óbidos, as this little national treasure is called. Only people, most of whom are tourists, are to be seen walking the streets. And a few cats. As usual, I don’t plan to buy touristy stuff, so the moment Rita and Vera enter the first artisan shop on the main street, I separate from them and go to explore the town on my own. It’s too small to get lost in and I am sure our paths will cross sooner than later. 

During my solitary stroll, undisturbed by other outsiders, I discover that sometime in the thirteenth century Óbidos was given to the queen of Portugal as a wedding gift from the king. What a cool idea. I got a washing machine when I got married, but if you’re a Portuguese queen you may get a little town on a hill, with a castle and a rampart thrown in for good measure.

The castle, which was originally built by the Moors twelve hundred years ago and changed hands many times over the centuries before eventually being converted into a hotel, is closed to the public at the moment due to construction work. Two pickup trucks parked by the stone wall and a pile of construction materials are a reminder that time has not completely stopped in Óbidos. I step onto an improvised plywood walkway that leads to a steep stone staircase. The stairs take me all the way to the top of the rampart, from where I can see the entire valley. As I expected, the view is spectacular. Beyond the town’s roofs and balconies, I can see orchards and vineyards dotted with windmills and a highway that cuts through them. By now, the rain has stopped but the heavy rainclouds still hang above, adding depth to the scene, with the sun breaking through the gray clouds and patches of blue sky peering from above.

I want to stay and breathe in this beauty, relax, and imagine what it was like to live here centuries ago, even without indoor plumbing and electricity, but this is a privilege not available to a tourist. I have to rejoin my group and be reminded of my outsiderness. I don’t belong here. I am just a tourist. I come, I see, and I leave, hopefully, after I buy something I don’t need because the local economy depends on my generosity.

I don’t like being a tourist and rushing from place to place, but here I am, taking pictures of this beautiful little town and thinking about how this experience enriches me, changes me, or even improves the world. Would I be a different person had I never seen this place? 

I know the answer, but I am not going to deal with it now. I am going to descend this castle wall and go look for my travel mates. I will probably run into them in one of the many shops I avoided on my way up here.

Aqui Onde A Terra Se Acaba (15)

Eventually, we reach a parking lot. On a hill to the right of us, several buildings painted white are encircled by a white wall. A lighthouse stands tall inside the compound. The reddish roofs and the bright red top of the lighthouse lend the scenery a charming touch. I have no idea where we are. Rita circles the parking lot, looking for an empty spot, and stops near a building that looks like a visitor center. The number of coaches and tourists that walk the grounds gives me the impression that we have arrived at a well-known place. 

I can see the ocean at the end of a fenced walkway that leaves the parking lot. A tall stone monument overlooking the ocean far below rises at the end of the trail. To the left, narrow trails cut through invasive-type vegetation that covers the rocky landscape. Many previous visitors obviously ignored the signs to please stay on the marked walkways and stepped on the vegetation to explore the area on their own. I choose one of the unauthorized footpaths and head toward the monument to discover what it commemorates. 

The place is called Cabo da Roca. The stone plaque at the bottom of the phallic monument announces, “Aqui onde a terra se acaba e o mar começa,” easily translated to “Here is where the land ends and the sea begins.” A cross on the top of the monument lends it a seal of approval. Apparently, this is the westernmost point of Portugal and continental Europe. 

Unsurprisingly, knowing that I am standing on the very edge of Europe does not make me feel anything special. I think I once stood at the westernmost point of the coast of California, but I have no memory of feeling overwhelmed by the thought. In general, I am not one to be impressed by anything defined as “the most.” I will never try to conquer the summit of the highest mountain or the deepest cave of any continent so I can say I’ve been there. I don’t see any merit in activities that disturb the natural environment and endanger my life. I am more moved by nature’s beauty than by geographic curiosities. So, this Cabo da Roca can be anywhere in the world for all I care. And still be a beautiful place. Just like Big Sur, which I consider my weekend playground. A place where I go to see narrow, white sand beaches surrounded by tall granite cliffs that drop straight into the ocean; observe sea birds glide above me on the wind, motionless with their wings outstretched, and gray rock formations rise from the ocean’s depths to meet unforgiving waves. 

I walk to the edge of the cliff away from the crowds to feel the wind on my face, get my blood moving, and breathe the fresh salty air. I can see my travel mates walking slowly on the designated trail to the monument, where Rita takes pictures of her mother, who obediently poses in front of it. Anna keeps to herself again and veers away from the two of them to look at the spectacular view and take pictures. I take my time exploring the different trails away from the center of the attraction, where most of the tourists congregate. After a few days in the city, it’s refreshing to be out in nature where I can see all the way to the horizon and feel dirt instead of asphalt under my feet.

When I return to the monument to meet everyone, Rita is busy taking her quintessential selfies with the imposing rocks down below. She smiles at the cellphone screen, adjusts the angle of the phone, tilts her head to one side, then the other side, smiles again, and click, click, click. She loves taking selfies, especially since she has started getting Botox shots that erase even the most stubborn lines between her eyebrows. Selfies are her trademark. She has hundreds of them on her Facebook page. Wherever she goes in the world, she takes a closeup selfie with something small in the background as proof that she was there. She beckons me to pose next to her in one of her selfies. I acquiesce. Refusal might be seen as a repudiation and I am not in the mood to advertise my subversive disposition. 

Now that we have proof that we’ve been to the westernmost point of the continent we can look for the bathrooms and relax over a cup of coffee. I follow Rita and Vera into the building at the end of the parking lot. Inside, there is a gift shop with the typical tchotchkes Portugal offers to its tourists and a friendly attendant by the cash register. Since I am not inclined to buy anything, I proceed to the spiral staircase that leads me downstairs to an unassuming café with only a few patrons. Rita and her mother are still upstairs deciding whether to buy something or not, but Anna is already seated at one of the small tables by the window with a cup of coffee in front of her. She seems preoccupied with something, paying no attention to the beautiful view outside the windows. I wave to her and go to the counter to ask about the bathroom. The woman behind the counter tells me I have to pay to use the bathroom and also buy something. I order coffee and receive a card that will unlock the entrance to the restrooms. As usual, I skip the sugary pastries on display. 

The woman hands me an espresso. I ask her to add milk and join Anna by the window. “Did you try out the restrooms?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says putting down her cell phone. “But you have to pay to get in.” 

“The cashier gave me this,” I show her my card, and ask if the bathrooms are clean. 

Life has taught me that it’s always good to be prepared. In general, my experience with European bathrooms has not been completely positive. In addition to the questionable quality of the toilet paper and the unfamiliar flushing contraptions I encountered not too long ago in London and Vienna, I also had to pay to use a public restroom. In the United States, I’ve never been in a situation where I had to pay to use a public toilet no matter where I found myself—a rest area in the middle of nowhere on Interstate 5 or the boardwalk in Monterey—but in Europe, it’s a common practice in some places. At least in Brazil, they don’t charge seniors to use public bathrooms. But in Portugal, they ask you to pay to use the bathroom at a restaurant. Live and learn. 

“They’re fine,” Anna shrugs off my question as irrelevant. I can feel she nurtures a hidden contempt for my attachment to the bourgeois notion of cleanliness.

When I finally leave for the bathroom, I find myself standing behind a man and his son who are trying to figure out how to insert their cards into the slot in a turnstile that blocks the entrance. I watch them closely because I’d hate to make an idiot of myself and have to ask them how to do it. Eventually, they pass through the turnstile and I follow them. When I come out, Rita and Vera are on the other side of the turnstile with their cards.
“Just push it in here,” Rita shows her mother.

“I know, I know,” Vera says, grabbing the card from Rita’s hand.

“Good luck,” I say to them and join Anna, who is still sitting at the table by the window scrolling on her phone.

Later on, on the way out of the parking lot to the next unknown destination, I spot a line of women standing outside a grungy-looking door in another smaller and less attractive building. On the door, I can see a small square sign with the blue shape of a person in a skirt. It looks like in our rush to the gift shop, we missed the free toilets.

Is That The Sintra-plex Up There? (14)

“Who wants an apple?” Vera suddenly swings into action from the front passenger seat. She is probably tired of listening to us and wants to lighten up the atmosphere, which has become somewhat less cheery than desired. Being a Holocaust survivor, she is not one to dwell on the irreparable.

Rita puts her hand out and Vera gives her a wedge. A 50-year-old baby chick accepting food from her mommy bird. I have to keep from rolling my eyes. Stay positive, I think to myself. You’re in Portugal and you don’t have to drive or even look at a map.

“Do you want me to cut you a piece?” Vera asks me.

“Sure, thank you.” I don’t want to look ungrateful and deep down I welcome the interruption. My mission to get personal information from Anna has become a sad success. I got a lot more than I bargained for and I’m not sure what to do with it. One thing I can say for sure: Anna is definitely a woman in distress and this trip is a diversion she can barely afford. I can try to be nice to her, but that’s about all I can or want to do. I know my limits. I chew the crisp apple slowly and stare out the window. The road sign says that we are on our way to Sintra.  

I know nothing about Sintra except that it’s a city in Portugal. Rita read something about it in a travel blog before we left Israel and mentioned to me in passing that there was something to see there. A castle or a palace. She said we might stop there on the way to Porto, but she was not sure. I didn’t bother googling the city. I trust Rita’s assessment of its offerings. We might stop to see beautiful historical edifices.

We start climbing up a winding road. Through the thick foliage that covers the hills, I can see roofs and balconies of magnificent mansions poking through the greenery. Rita does not give any sign that she is planning to stop the car and take in the view. Should I ask her to stop? Do I want to get out of the car? I can’t decide. I expect one of my travel mates to say something but no one comments on the changing landscape. 

As we climb higher and higher into the mountains, an enormous castle-like megaplex punctuated by towers and domes that look like something out of Disneyland slowly comes into view. Each structure of this fairytale fortress is painted in a different bright color: red, yellow, orange, and gray. I have no idea what I am looking at. Maybe a theme park, maybe not. Rita says nothing. I decide to say nothing as well. I don’t want to start a conversation that might devolve into a debate. I can live without seeing a Disney version of a Portuguese palace, which might turn out to be an expensive and mindless tourist trap. In any case, my interest lies in living and speaking humans, not in tourist attractions. I want to get to know Portugal through its people, not through its tourist offerings to outsiders who drive through the country from one end to the other and barely notice what it is like to actually live there.

After the colorful castle disappears behind us, I hear Rita’s cheerful voice from the driver’s seat. “Hi, Freddy. Boker tov.”

It’s early morning in California and she is calling to check on him. He’s probably awake already, preparing to go to work, and she is eager to report to him about her new adventure. Calling Freddy several times a day is Rita’s way of not feeling alone in the world. Every time I walk with her, she calls to ask him how he’s doing even though she has nothing to say to him. It’s a routine they perform for an invisible audience to reassure one another that they are still there, somewhere, thinking of each other. When she finishes talking to Freddy, she usually calls her son, Ari, and goes through the same routine. Sometimes she calls her son first and Freddy second. Today, she calls Freddy first. Her teenage son may still be asleep.

“Good morning, how you doin’?” Her voice sounds more nasal when she speaks on the phone.  She stretches the words and emphasizes the final consonants.

“I’m OK,” I hear Freddy from the other side of the world. 

“How are you?” she asks again in that nasal voice.

“Good,” he says.

“What’s going on?” she asks. It’s the same routine every time. Sometimes she asks him these questions in Hebrew. She has trained him to do this opening act of the phone call in Hebrew. It’s quite impressive to hear him responding correctly to her “ma koreh” which translates to “What’s happening?” with “hakol besder.” 

“You’re on speaker phone,” she lets him know, just in case he might say something we shouldn’t hear.

“Hi Vera,” he says. 

“Hi Freddy,” we all say in tandem. 

Now that the preliminaries are over, she tells him about the car and whatever she has been through since the last time they spoke. She concludes the call with a shameless “I love you,” which is an overstatement although not a complete lie. She loves his money and the lifestyle it affords her. In return for that love, Freddy gets a lot of womanly attention, something he was seriously deprived of before he met her. I have nothing but admiration for her survival skills. Without him, I don’t want to speculate where she would have ended up after her divorce. At present, though, she is worried about him. He has been threatening to quit his job and, because she is not sure from where the money would keep coming, she keeps him on a short leash with phone calls, texts, and empty declarations of love. So, life is good, and on we go, to visit someplace not too far from where we are now.

On the Road to .... Where? (13)

Rita programs the GPS on her phone to wherever she plans to go—I have only a vague idea that we are heading north and toward the coast—and takes the road like a local. Vera reads the road signs aloud while Rita checks the dashboard gadgets and activates the windshield wipers, probably unintentionally. She maneuvers the car out of the airport and quickly finds the entrance to the freeway. We all breathe a sigh of relief even though I had no doubt that Rita would manage to find it quickly.

Now that I am sitting next to Anna, I wonder if I should try to build some rapport with her and get to know her a bit better. Until now there has not been much to build on. She has kept to herself most of the time, waiting for us on a bench, staying behind in the apartment, avoiding restaurants, and not saying much about anything. I ask her where she met Rita.

“I met Rita more than twenty years ago when she bought jewelry from me,” she says.

“And you invited me into your house afterward,” Rita interjects from the front seat. 

“My mother was already sick then and I was taking care of her, that’s why I had a table by the door, outside the house,” Anna explains.

“Where was the house?” I ask.

“In Tel Aviv, near Shuk HaCarmel,” Anna says.

“Not far from your brother’s house,” Rita adds, looking at us in the rearview mirror.

“I love that area,” I tell her. “I used to live not far from there before I left Israel.” I want to make the exchange feel more like a conversation than an interview but I can’t help myself. “How long did you live there?” I ask again.

“About ten years,” Anna says as she pulls her phone out of a side pocket of her backpack. “My mother bought a small house when we came to Israel, but after she died, I had to sell it because I needed the money.” 

Too bad she had to sell it. That neighborhood became one of the most popular spots in the city, with all the little bars and restaurants that sprouted around it in the last decade. Had she kept that house she would now be a millionaire and wouldn’t have to eat boiled potatoes and carrots for dinner. I don’t say anything because I assume that she knows that too, and I don’t need to rub it in. Instead, I offer my sympathy. “She died young,” I say in a way of “I’m sorry.” I don’t need to do a lot of math to calculate that her mother was younger than me when she passed. 

“She had a stroke when she was forty-five and became almost paralyzed,” Anna says, looking for messages on her phone. “Then she got cancer and other stuff. I had to take care of her for years. It was not easy.” Her voice is flat, as if she is talking about people she doesn’t know.

“She was a beautiful woman,” Rita contributes her part to the conversation. She strains to hear us while paying attention to the road. This setup makes it harder for her to commandeer conversations that I initiate, and that’s good for me because I can steer the conversation to where I want it to go rather than quietly disappear into the background.

“Beautiful and difficult,” Anna says. I can tell it’s not the first time that she is describing her mother in these terms.

Since the landscape outside the window is not terribly captivating, it’s easy to continue my little interview. “Where did you live before you came to Israel?” It looks like Anna has an interesting story and she’s not too shy to share it.

“France,” She says.

“You’re French?” I am definitely caught by surprise. She doesn’t sound French at all when she speaks Hebrew and she doesn’t have that French je ne sais quoi about her. She gives me the vibes of a mournful Earth Mother, not a femme parisienne. Sorry about the stereotyping.

“Actually, I was born in England. We moved to France after my mother married a French man when I was really young, so I grew up there.” That explains it.

“You speak French?”

“I went to school there, so yes, I did, but I forgot most of it,” she shrugs and smiles apologetically.

“How old were you when you moved to Israel?” 

“Twenty-four,” she says without missing a beat.

“Why in the world did you come to Israel of all places?” I know it’s unpatriotic of me to ask something like that in the company of other Israelis, but considering the tense political situation in Israel, I don’t think I sound too controversial.

“Because of her mother,” Rita shoots from the front. “She wanted to live there.” Rita doesn’t like to be excluded from the conversation and will do anything to stay involved, even though it’s hard to hear us from the front seat. 

“After my mother got divorced, she met a Jewish man who got her interested in Judaism, so she converted. After she separated from him, she decided that she wanted to live in Israel.”

“And you went with her?” 

“Yes.” Anna sounds somewhat surprised by my question even though for me the answer is not so obvious.

“Did you want to live in Israel?”

“No, I liked my life in France but that’s what happened. She made us go, and she made us convert to Judaism.” 

“Us? Who is us?”

“My sister and me,” she says.

“You converted to Judaism because of your mother? How could she make you do that?” I am beyond incredulous. This story is getting weird. I find it hard to wrap my head around it. She was not a child when she came to Israel. She did not have to convert. She did not even have to leave France. 

“You don’t know my mother,” Anna says. “We had an unusual relationship. She was very abusive.”

I am starting to wonder what I got myself into by asking all these questions. I definitely got carried away, but Anna is not hiding anything. She is a willing participant. Our conversation is starting to feel like a therapy session. We are entering sensitive territory and she is not shy about sharing her story.

“Did you have to serve in the military?” I ask. I have a feeling that she didn’t, partly because she didn’t know Hebrew at the time, partly because she was too old to be drafted, and partly because she doesn’t seem like someone who served in the military. I know it’s strange, but I can tell if someone had that experience or not. Israeli women of my generation have a rough edge and directness that we developed as a way to survive the macho culture of the military, and Anna doesn’t have it. 

“I didn’t, but my sister did.”

“Where did she serve?” Rita asks, looking at us through the rearview mirror. She can’t help herself. She has to be part of the conversation.

“In the Air Force.”

“Did she leave Israel right after she finished military service?” Rita asks, showing off her knowledge of Anna’s situation, and the few gaps that still need to be filled.

“No, she stayed a couple of years,” Anna responds. Then she turns to me to explain that her sister eventually met a French guy on the beach in Tel Aviv, married him, and moved with him back to France.

Suddenly a light bulb goes off in my head. During our many walks, Rita told me that she had a friend from England who converted to Judaism but not because she was enchanted with the religion. She might have explained why but I can’t remember now. She also told me about an artist friend from France who had a rich aunt in Hollywood; when the aunt died, her friend had to leave her cute house in Tel Aviv and rent a shack somewhere in Israel. Another story I remember was about a friend who left Israel because she had a sister in France who promised to help her buy a house in Spain. The stories kept popping up during our walks and I never registered them as being about the same person. Now, I realize that all these stories were about Anna, the woman sitting next to me. 

Rita used to talk about Anna’s millionaire aunt from Hollywood with such reverence and detail, I never understood why. I also can’t understand why she became friends with Anna. Maybe because both of them sell jewelry on the street; otherwise, I can’t see the attraction. Rita devours life with insatiable greed and shamelessness while Anna looks like someone who has to think twice before taking a breath. 

“I just got a message from Monique,” Anna breaks into my sudden insight. I assume it’s the adult daughter that was left behind in Spain. Yesterday, Anna mentioned that she was worried about leaving her alone for a week. 

“How is she? What does she say?” Rita asks. She once told me the sad story of Anna’s daughter, too. Now that I realize who Anna is, I connect many dots that Rita has mentioned during our walks. Anna’s daughter was gang-raped at a young age and was taken away by social services for I don’t know how long. To this day she suffers from a variety of problems because of it, and her removal from home affected her relationship with her mother for the worse.

“She ran out of dog food.”

“Tell her to go to the grocery store and buy some more,” Rita commands Anna in no uncertain terms. “It will be good for her to walk outside and get some exercise.” According to one of Rita’s stories, the daughter is overweight and a chain smoker who watches TV all day and never leaves the house.

“It’s too complicated to explain all this to her. If she is texting me about things that she is running out of, it means that she is not doing well.” Anna contemplates. She’s definitely been there before and knows what she is dealing with. “I might have to return to Spain sooner than I thought.”

“Tell her to go buy more dog food,” Rita insists.

“OK,” Anna says, unconvincingly.

Traveling in Style (12)

Our drive to the airport is as uneventful as the drive from the airport into town a couple of days ago. No traffic jams, road work, or collisions to slow us down. The road to the airport is also nothing to brag about. It’s just a freeway bordered on both sides by industrial complexes, warehouses, and apartment buildings. The airport is also the same as all other international airports, only the signs are in Portuguese and most people seem to be European, whatever that means. Interestingly though, now I can recognize some of the pastries offered for sale in the cafés and fast food joints we pass as specific to Portugal. The famous pastel de nata and pastel de Tentúgal which I’ve seen in the quaint bakeries of Lisbon and did not dare to eat because of their high sugar and fat content are the definite stars beside the quintessential croissants, donuts, and sandwiches. Their price, unsurprisingly, is much higher than in town.

Rita pays no attention to the pastries even though she usually cannot resist such temptations. She is on a mission to collect the rental car and leave the airport as fast as she can. She heads to the rental car area with the confidence of someone who has rented cars in foreign countries countless times. I trail several feet behind her, matching my pace to Vera’s, who looks a bit startled by the commotion. I think she is contemplating a trip to the bathrooms but she decides to stay with us for the time being. 

There are three men behind the car rental counter, but they don’t seem incredibly interested in attending to customers. A couple that arrives only seconds before us attracts the attention of one of the men. The other two men ignore us, pretending to be doing something on their computers. We line up behind the couple and wait. And wait. And wait. After several minutes, Vera and Anna give up and go look for the bathrooms with their carry-ons. I stay with Rita in case she wants some company and diversion. She is not a person who possesses endless reserves of patience or basic manners and I don’t want to risk it. 

I have to say that I am in awe of Rita’s confidence and knowledge. Maybe because I’ve never rented a car in a foreign country or even in a city outside of California; maybe because I am a coward; maybe because I am intimidated by new experiences that include cars that I am not familiar with, or maybe because I’m just me. A person who has no problem taking a seven-hour bus ride from Rio to a small town up in the mountains of Brazil, but who is too afraid to hop into a late-model rental in Portugal and drive off into the sunset. 

Rita has no such qualms. She knows what she is doing and she has Fred’s credit card to back her up. 

One of the rental car attendants sitting behind the counter and staring at his computer screen, finally notices the two of us and comes out through a side door to talk to us. He is tall, black, gorgeous, and has an accent I can’t place. I immediately want to find out what other language he speaks, but it’s Rita’s show and I have to stand back and keep my mouth shut. They talk about Rita’s online order and eventually move on to her travel plans. When he asks where we come from, I see an opening and ask him where he’s from. I always do it when people ask where I am from after they hear my accent. It’s my way of putting them in their place: If you think I’m a foreigner because of my accent, then I’ll treat you like one as well. This time, though, it is I who is curious about an accent and somewhat shameless about asking that question.

“Angola,” he says.

I would have never guessed Angola, but of course, it makes total sense. Angola was a colony of Portugal until the 1970s, so naturally, people from Angola would come to live, work, and study in Portugal. Brazilians do it too. This tiny country on the edge of the Iberian Peninsula is viewed by some of them as the motherland, although it was probably not very maternal at the time of colonization. Luckily for them, Portugal desperately needs immigrants because its weak economy sends its own young citizens all over Europe and even the United States in search of good jobs. Interestingly, this man who seems trapped inside a suit and tie and a boring job in a small corner of this airport is not the first Angolan I’ve met or tried to talk to in Portuguese. About ten years ago, I met a woman from Angola who came to study business administration at a university where I was teaching at the time in Monterey. She had a Russian name because her father was a revolutionary communist who at the time of her birth was fighting to free Angola from the oppressive colonial regime. I named her Jasmine because Olga was a name too dreary and uninspiring to call a woman who looked more like Princess Jasmine from Aladdin than a Soviet babushka. I learned a lot about Angola when I practiced my Portuguese with her and I loved every moment. 

Unfortunately, as usual, I can’t get into a serious conversation with the Angolan man because at issue is our rental car, not my urge to connect with Portuguese-speaking people. Rita seems pleased with the direction that the conversation is taking because the man offers her a free upgrade which she gladly accepts. 

“These Portuguese are really nice,” she tells me in Hebrew as she follows the man to the counter to sign some documents and pay. Once the two of them are done, he takes us to a parking garage and introduces us to our car. Three muscular millennials are hosing and polishing a white Toyota CH-R SUV, which might as well have been assigned to us by a cosmic stroke of luck. I can’t decide what is more impressive, the cool car we are going to travel in or the three dudes in blue uniforms and high-visibility reflective vests who circle the car with bottles of glass cleaners and towels like elegant birds of prey.

“Where are you from?” one of them asks me in English once they’re done wiping the car and are waiting for it to dry.

I noticed long ago that being from California generates a more positive response than being from Israel unless my interlocutor is some type of devout Christian or Messianic Jew. Because this young guy doesn't look like a religious type but more like a combination of a surfer, gym rat, and club hopper, I say, “I am from California.” In Portuguese.

Hearing that I am from California, he immediately breaks into a reverie about how much he wants to travel to California to see the Hollywood sign and Disneyland. It makes me feel guilty for being from there. I know that it might take him a long time to save enough money to buy a plane ticket and travel to the U.S. I think working at a carwash for a rental company does not provide much disposable income.

Again, I see that I am more interested in people than in checking out famous tourist attractions. I want to ask him if he rents an apartment in Lisbon and how much it costs if he goes to night school if he has roommates, and what he does for fun after work, but our conversation quickly comes to an end. Interrogating the locals about their lifestyle choices and challenges is really not part of the itinerary and the car is now ready for us.

We pack everything in the trunk and settle inside the spacious car. Rita, our dedicated guide, is at the steering wheel, Vera is next to her, and Anna and I are in the backseat. It is finally time to say goodbye to Lisbon and begin the expedition.

Keeping it Together (11)

I don’t know what it is, but even indoors Lisbon feels charming and safe. The only danger the city may pose to the occasional tourist is a massive earthquake, like the one that destroyed most of it in 1755. This interesting piece of information was imparted to me by our easily offended tuk-tuk driver, who pointed to some buildings that survived the earthquake after our walk through Alfama Quarter. Luckily, being from California, I am used to earthquakes, and the fear of living through another one did not cause me to lose any sleep. 

Vera’s screams, however, did interrupt my sleep a couple of times during the night. Although I was somewhat prepared for them, I didn’t know they were going to sound that loud and horrific. I don’t know much about night terrors, but I assume something must have happened to Vera in the past to have triggered them. Back in California, during one of our walks, Rita mentioned that her mother was kidnapped after the family returned to Poland from Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan at the end of World War II and was probably traumatized by it. According to Rita’s story, her mother was a toddler at the time of the kidnapping and doesn’t have any memory of the experience. She also doesn’t know who kidnapped her, how long she was missing, and how she was rescued and reunited with her family. Rita speculated then that the kidnapping might have triggered the night screams, but considering Rita’s vivid imagination and exaggerations, I don’t even know if I believe the story. She also said that her grandparents ended up in Kazakhstan after they were expelled by the Nazis from Poland to Siberia, something I seriously doubt because it doesn’t agree with what I have learned about the Holocaust. I think the Nazis killed Jews they came across without bothering to send them anywhere but to death camps. So again, I am at a loss. However, I don’t plan on asking Vera about the screams or what causes them. I’ll let Rita contrive whatever story she wants if the topic comes up, which I doubt because I am sure Vera will not allow that to happen.

I pack up my stuff and straighten up the room I occupied during the last two nights. I never leave a mess behind. That’s what growing up on a kibbutz and waiting tables for many years have taught me. To care about the people who do the shit jobs because I used to be one of them. I wish I could stay in this room a little longer and explore the city and its inhabitants at a more leisurely pace, but I have no control over my destiny. Rita decides how I spend most of my time, even though she is still stretched out on the couch, unconscious, with her bare feet dangling over the couch’s arm and her face buried under a pillow. Last night she told me that we had to be at the airport at eleven to pick up the rental car, and even calculated at what time she had to call the Uber ride. Soon she will have to wake up and spring into action.

When she finally wakes up, she puts Vera through the same routine she performed yesterday. “Who were you screaming at?” She asks and gives a cute little giggle that makes her sound like a five-year-old girl. It sounds as if she’s laughing at a secret little joke that no one but her ever heard. It’s a unique giggle I’ve heard before, mostly when I witnessed her scrolling down her phone, and looking at videos she thinks are hilarious and I think are beyond stupid.

“What were you quarreling about? You sounded really mad. You didn’t want to let someone get on the bus.” She tries to provoke Vera to respond and bursts out laughing as if it’s the funniest thing. Again, Vera shrugs off the questions without raising her head from the phone. She’s been through this before and she’s not going to get sucked in.

This whole scene is cringe-inducing and I am not sure how I’m supposed to deal with it. I don’t understand why Rita finds the manifestation of trauma so funny. To me, it looks like serious stuff. I wonder if she is trying to hide her unease and make these unsettling horror shows feel harmless because her reaction is simply mind-boggling. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not that I have been around a lot of Holocaust survivors and their offspring in such intimate settings. I wish I could talk to Vera about it, but she seems completely disinterested, showing no emotions or any desire to share her thoughts about her night terrors or her daughter’s behavior. From the way she reacts to Rita’s giggles and nonsensical questions, it seems that we have to treat her nightly screams as a quirky habit she acquired in the course of her life and move on. Pretend it's all normal stuff.

Or perhaps she is used to this silliness and cannot be bothered.

As our unofficial chaperon and timekeeper, Vera is all packed up and ready to go. Her small suitcase stands by the door signaling to us that our time in this quaint, little apartment is coming to an end and we’d better get our shit together already. She sits at the head of the table, drinking instant coffee and reading something on her cell phone just like she did yesterday. Since I am not sure what the plan for breakfast is and I’m not particularly interested in finding out or initiating anything, I boil water for tea and prepare a light breakfast that includes bread, cheese, and jam. Anna joins me at the table with a cup of tea. I offer her bread and cheese. I can’t watch her eating a carrot and crackers for breakfast. There’s a limit to my selfishness.

By the time we finish eating, Rita is almost ready. She is dressed in colorful tight leggings, a purple overshirt that accentuates her protruding belly, well-worn knee-high leather boots that she had bought for two dollars in a garage sale, and a variety of her favorite silver jewelry around her neck and fingers. We only have to wait for her while she enjoys a cup of instant coffee with milk and a breakfast that includes whatever is left from yesterday’s shopping spree. She takes her time, though, savoring her coffee and whatever she is reading on her cherished phone. She is the opposite of what I expect a tour guide to be because as a rule of thumb, she is the opposite of anything one might expect. She is the last one to wake up, the last one to clean up, and the last one to pack. The world is her stage and she is the main character, director, and playwright and we are her loyal audience. The moment she takes the last sip of coffee, Vera jumps from her chair and takes the cup and plate to the kitchen sink, where she washes them with her back turned to us. She then collects what little food is left in the refrigerator and puts it in a couple of plastic bags. Then she wipes down the kitchen’s surfaces.

“Come on, Rita, we need to leave,” she nudges her daughter who I need to remind myself is over 50.

“I’m calling the Uber ride,” Rita says, partly to herself and partly to her phone. 

One last check of the apartment and off we go. It’s the last time we will walk down the rickety staircase from the fourth floor. I help Vera with her suitcase again, even though going down is easier. She doesn’t resist this time, which is nice. She’s starting to relax. Maybe she feels that she doesn’t need to prove that she is strong enough to travel with us. She showed what she could do last night when she went with us to listen to Fado.

The car arrives within a few minutes. It is the first time that the four of us travel in one car with all of our luggage. Until now we have only shared a tuk-tuk and traveled in a streetcar, so this is a test to see if we can fit into one vehicle. Luckily, everyone is traveling light so we manage to secure everything in the trunk with the help of our cooperative driver. Rita takes the front seat by the driver and the three of us squeeze into the back. Vera, the smallest among us, insists on sitting between Anna and me. We don’t argue.

Since it is a short drive to the airport, it is not an issue who sits where, yet. I only hope it will remain so during the next few days. When Rita first told me that she invited her mother and Anna on the trip, I got pissed because I immediately saw myself riding in the back seat the whole time; something I did not plan to inflict on myself when I agreed to travel with her to Portugal. But now reality has handed me this situation which I need to cope with in the most gracious way I can think of, and the only idea that comes to my mind is to just wait and see.

A Night Walk (10)

Back at our quaint little apartment across town, Anna is still awake. She is sitting at the dining table, doodling on a large piece of paper. Vera retires to the bedroom almost immediately. It’s been a long day for her; she has seen enough. Rita crashes on the couch. Kicks her shoes off her feet.

 

“How was your evening?” I ask Anna. “Did you connect with the muse?”

 

Anna shows me a pile of blue ink drawings she made while we were out. They look like the patterns on the azuleijos she photographed during our walks. Each sheet of paper consists of a different intricate design. They are pretty, but to me, they look more like art therapy than art, but I am not one to make a judgment. Maybe she is planning to do something with them.

 

“Show her your jewelry,” Rita calls from the couch. “They are really special.”

 

Anna puts her hand over a necklace that hangs above her sweater. It is a blue crochet thread with several seashells, beads, and other small objects hanging on it. Some of the objects are partly covered with the same blue crochet. I recognize the necklace. I saw some of its sisters when I visited Rita’s booth at one of the festivals she worked at after she returned from her last trip to Israel and Spain.

 

“Who would buy something so ugly,” I blurted out to Rita when I first saw one of those “special” necklaces. They were notably different from the eclectic collection of jewelry on Rita’s festive table.

 

“People have different tastes,” Rita shrugged, unmoved. “Someone will buy it,” she predicted.

 

Back then, I believed Rita’s wisdom. She’s been selling custom jewelry for quite a while and knows her clientele. But now I feel somewhat trapped looking at Anna’s necklace hanging around her own neck rather than spread on Rita’s table. What am I supposed to say?

I know etiquette requires that I appreciate the necklace, but integrity calls for the truth. Silence might be the best solution. While I try to decide how to graciously maneuver out of the unfortunate situation, Rita joins us at the table.

 

“Did you start building a website to sell your jewelry?” Rita asks Anna. Rita has a Facebook page where she promotes her own jewelry business, but the traffic on it is sluggish, to say the least.

 

“I don’t have a website, but I have pictures on my phone,” Anna responds. She picks up her phone and scrolls through some stuff. Then she shows us the pictures.  

I can recognize a master crocheter and Anna is one. My mother, too, was a master crocheter, but she had never called herself an artist. She did it to occupy her hands when she watched television or was cooped up in her bombproof bedroom during aerial bombings. When she was lying on her deathbed, she bequeathed to me a magnificent table cover that she completed during the First Gulf War. Anna, on the other hand, uses this art form to hold the world around her together. She shows me pictures of a tree trunk and rocks of different sizes that she covered in crochet patterns. Even a part of a garden fence. 

 

Looking at Anna’s work, I get a better sense of her angst. Her art seems more like an obsession, an uncontrollable urge to interrupt the world and make it into something that it is not, or maybe cannot be. I am not an art expert, but I understand some rules of esthetics and none of the work I see follows them.

Anna is unperturbed by rules, not in her art, her parenting style, or her traveling decisions. She has her own rules or aspirations, which I am still trying to decipher.  She puts away her phone and begins preparing her campsite on the floor between the wall and the dinner table. Rita drags herself back to the couch to scroll down her phone and see if she missed any new video posted on her page. For me, the day is not yet over. I want to be outside and get some fresh air. Just to be polite I ask the two women if they want to join me. To my relief, they turn me down. 

* * * 

No one is out on the street at this hour but me. A few buildings up the hill, I spot a menu inside a golden frame hanging by a heavy wooden door. If there is a restaurant inside the quiet building, it is completely hidden. A man comes out with a large trash bag and throws it inside a bin standing by the sidewalk. He does not acknowledge me or even look up. Maybe he didn’t notice me. I continue down a narrow alley, trying to see if there is life behind the closed windows, but nothing gives. No lights, no music, no people anywhere. The blue light of television screens spilling out of living room windows, which is so common where I come from, is nowhere to be seen. A few blocks from the apartment, I pass a large mansion surrounded by a tall white wall. I can’t see the entrance to the mansion, not even a pedestrian gate. 

 

I continue down the hill all the way to the main street, where I saw a street car passing by earlier in the day. Even this street feels deserted, but I feel safe. A young woman passes me on the sidewalk. She could be a student at a local university or maybe she has just finished work and is on her way home. A few restaurants are still open. One tiny restaurant is full of people. The tables are covered with white tablecloths and white napkins can be seen on plates giving the place an aura of respectability. The diners appear to be having a good time. Wine glasses are full, candles are shimmering in the soft light, and the sound of silverware clinking against plates can be heard through the window. I pass another restaurant. The small dining area is below street level. I look in. A man in a knee-length white apron is sweeping shards of white china piled on the floor. It does not look like an accident. I wonder if there has been a celebration of some sort earlier on. I should check if they break China in Lisbon as they famously do in Greece when they get excited. Maybe it is a Greek restaurant.

 

I cross the street and enter a small park attached to an art museum. At the bottom edge of the park, an open-air restaurant is closing. I can see the river from where I am standing and a long bridge that connects Lisbon to somewhere on the dark horizon. On the other side of the bridge, there is a tall, lit statue with a cross on top. I saw that monument earlier during the walk to the Tower of Belém. Probably another pilgrimage spot with a story behind it. I can always ask Google. 

 

I enjoy seeing the city in the dark, alone, without a guide and other tourists. I get to feel the ambiance without the nervous energy of having to see everything or figuring out how to get to the next attraction and why even bother. I am by myself, no one is pushing me to go anywhere, see anything, buy stuff, eat when I am not hungry, or learn about something I don’t care to know. I can just be. Feel the pulse of a city I don’t know and discover that it does not exist only for the sake of tourists, but mostly for the sake of its own residents, who also work in furniture stores, barber shops, dental clinics, graphic design, and small startup companies. Not just in souvenir shops, restaurants, bakeries, museums, or high-end boutiques.   

 

When I get back to the apartment, Rita lies awake on the couch, scrolling on her phone and giggling to herself. Anna is on the floor, sleeping under a pile of blankets.

 

“That was a short walk,” Rita says, not lifting her eyes from whatever she is watching on her phone.

 

Since I did not time myself, I have no idea how long I was out. All I know is that scrolling down a phone makes time fly. So maybe for her, I was out for only a minute. “It was long enough for me,” I say and wish her a good night.

I go to bed. A few minutes after I turn the light off, I hear Vera’s voice. It starts as a loud argument just like on the night before and slowly develops into blood-curdling screams. This time I am not horrified. I know she will go on and off for about ten or fifteen minutes, and then it will be quiet again.

Fado is Good for the Soul (9)

Shortly after 6 p.m., Rita makes an announcement. “We have ten minutes to be downstairs. I called an Uber and it’s on the way.”

Vera has been ready to go for the last half hour. When Rita asked her earlier if she wanted to go listen to Fado in the evening she immediately said yes, even though she had never heard of it. But she is not one to miss anything. She paid good money to come to Portugal and does not plan to waste her precious time idling in the apartment. I think it’s a generational thing. My father was also a dedicated traveler, although his traveling style was a bit different from ours. He used to organize tours that were led by prominent archaeologists and historians who gave lectures about every Nabatian ruin and Roman mosaic floor his hard-core companions encountered on their hikes. Our tour feels more like being caught inside a slow-moving, aimless tumbleweed.

Anna is not interested in going anywhere. She needs some alone time to regroup and work on her art. I am not sure I believe her. I suspect that it’s the money thing again. I don’t know how much we will have to spend on the privilege of listening to live Fado, but I am sure that paying for the Uber ride there and back is on her mind too. Stop it, I tell myself. She’s an artist, and artists need solitude to create their art and reflect; they need to slow down to let the muse emerge from her hiding place. I decide to pretend that I believe her and head out with Rita and her mother. It’s raining again but at least it’s not too cold. 

The restaurant hosting the Fado performance is tiny and nearly filled to capacity. There are only six tables in the split-level dining area and they are fully taken except for one table at the far end of the room. It stands in a corner near a tall microphone and a couple of empty chairs. Two women sit at that table, eating their salads. We are directed to join them. A young man who does not look like a waiter comes to take our drinks orders. I ask him to recommend one of the ports on the wine list. After I order a glass of port, we are told that we have to order dinner as well. This time a young woman who doesn’t have the vibe of a waitress comes over and hands us three menus.

The bilingual menu is succinct. All the dinners cost the same, 20 euros, and include soup or salad and fish. I realize that instead of charging a cover to listen to the music, the establishment includes the dinner in the deal, and two thoughts immediately pop into my mind. The first is that the sandwich I made for myself back at the apartment was too big, and the other is, lucky Anna.

Because I live in California, I am familiar with many types of ethnic foods, but Portuguese food was never one of them. Only recently did I learn that some of the foods I ate in Brazil, like the delicious bolinhos de bacalhau, which can be described as fried codfish cakes (the fish is mixed with pureed potatoes, onions, and eggs), originated in Portugal. I used to think those bolinhos were a Brazilian invention until my Portuguese friend told me that her mother used to make them. Now I am learning about authentic Portuguese food. Or more accurately, authentic Portuguese food served mostly to tourists. After checking the menu a couple of times, I order the only vegetarian dish, accompanied by an unfamiliar “green soup.” 

 

While waiting for the food, I start a conversation with the woman next to me. I find out that she and her daughter, who sits across from her, are from the United States. The daughter, who is a PhD candidate in special education, came to Lisbon to present a research paper at a conference and the mother came along for moral support. They’d never heard of Fado until someone at their hotel mentioned it and they decided to give it a shot. The conversation turns to how the daughter got the funding for her research and the invitation to the conference, and I suddenly find myself in my element for the first time since I arrived in Portugal. I am talking about topics I understand and find interesting, since my daughter is a graduate student too, and is going to present a research she had worked on in San Diego. Luckily, Rita cannot interfere and cut my conversation short because academic research and academia in general are not her forte. The conversation eventually has to be put on hold when the women’s meals and our first course arrive. 

 

The soup, which was described as cabbage soup, contains no visible cabbage, only a couple of small pieces of sausage floating in it. It’s also watery and borderline flavorless. The color of the broth is not really green, but not really any other color I can name. I eat it anyway. Luckily, I am not really a vegetarian and I am not one to complain when braving unknown cuisine in a foreign country. 

The main dish does not redeem the opening act. Next to the few steamed vegetables I can recognize, there is a small brown brick that tastes like a mix of fried bread, tofu, and tempeh, which is another variation of fermented soybeans. I have no idea what that little brick is supposed to be except that it is vegetarian and tastes awful. But hey, I’m in Lisbon and I am living the high life of a privileged tourist. So who cares what I’m eating. I’m not hungry anyway.

Rita in the meantime stuffs her face with a piece of salmon and the same sides that are spread on my plate. Vera, who also ordered fish, has the same expression I have seen at the falafel place: resignation mixed with determination not to say anything negative. I don’t ask her if she’s enjoying her food. I think she’s tired and this meal has long passed her dinner time.

At the end of the meal, Rita orders two desserts, for herself and for her mother. I think she does this to liven up the conversation or maybe make our server less frowny, because hungry she is not. I focus on my glass of port and wait for the performance to begin. And suddenly I notice a man staring at me from across the room. 

The first thought that comes to my mind is that I must be imagining things. I am far beyond the flirting age, plus it’s quite obvious that I am sitting next to Grandma. Then I’m thinking, maybe it’s wishful thinking, because the man is attractive and definitely younger than I am. Then I decide that it’s probably the port, although I can tell that it doesn’t have enough alcohol to give me such a strange buzz. I look again in his direction, and yes, his eyes are still planted on me. Now I think, maybe that’s why I came to Portugal. To let my non-existent hormones re-enter my bloodstream and reawaken my dormant fantasies. An embarrassing thought for a dedicated feminist like me. I decide to ignore him. 

Thankfully, the two elderly men who sit at the corner near our table begin to play on their stringed instruments. A man who stands by the upright microphone and looks like the mayor of a small, rural town begins to sing. And time stops. I let the music swirl around me for a few minutes before I realize that the true reason I came to Portugal was not to visit historical churches, monuments, and monasteries or see where Jews were killed centuries ago. I did not make the trip to taste the local cuisine or decide if this land is a good place to retire. I didn’t even come here to discover whether I can still feel something when a stranger eyes me, or if I can understand continental Portuguese. I came to Portugal to lose myself in Fado. The music penetrates my skin, my blood cells, and some internal organs I never knew existed, and stirs up the painfully sweet sensation of what Portuguese speakers call saudades. It’s mesmerizing.

Those who said that the heart has four chambers overlooked the attic where Fado dwells. It is unexpectedly powerful and soul-stirring no matter who sings it. The first singer who moves me nearly to tears is replaced by another man who looks like an accountant, by which I mean no glamor or charisma; but his voice and emotions make the air vibrate and the heart aches with something that I can recognize but not ready to admit or dwell on. So I just sit, among strangers, and listen. I can understand a word or two here and there. They sing about Fado, Lisbon, love, loss, and beauty but most of the lyrics go over my head.

After a short break, more singers take to the microphone. The last one is a tiny woman with short, bleached blond hair and thick, black eyebrows. She is dressed in a dramatic black dress and feathers, reminding me of the famous Fado singer Mariza. I don’t retain her name or the names of the other singers, but I can tell that this beautiful woman who sings in an unmarked venue that holds barely thirty people, has the energy, magnetism, and voice that can captivate an arena. She is magnificent and I don’t want her to stop. But after several songs, her performance comes to an end and the spell begins to dissipate. Soon we will have to vacate our seats for those who will come to enjoy the next performance. I want to hold on to the feelings that washed over me. I am not ready to leave. 

A petite woman who helps herself to the empty seat at our table provides me with the excuse to stay a little longer. I silence my inhibitions and ask her if she is a friend of one of the singers because earlier I saw her standing by the bar talking to one of them. She laughs. Although she knows the singer, she is not connected to him romantically or otherwise. She lives in the neighborhood, she says, and often comes to the restaurant to listen to the music. I’m impressed. She seems well into her seventies, maybe even eighties, yet she goes out on her own to listen to Fado, have a glass of wine, and hang out with strangers. Absolutely admirable. I ask her if she is also a musician or any other type of artist because despite the cane she left leaning on the back of the chair, she looks like a true bohemian. Again, she laughs and says no, she is not an artist. She likes to dress up when she goes out at night. 

My pleasant conversation comes to an abrupt end in the same manner that most of my conversations here have ended recently. Rita grabs center stage. She can only be sidelined for so long, and since my conversation with the bohemian-looking woman is in Portuguese, Rita is excluded and there is only one way to intervene. She does it by declaring that she wants to buy a CD. I have absolutely no idea why she wants to do it. I don’t believe she owns a CD player. From what I have seen, she uses streaming services to listen to music, mostly in her car. Besides, CDs are so passé and Rita is a connoisseur of new gadgets, so her announcement seems somewhat contrived. However, I do have to admit that she likes interactions that involve buying things. She buys stuff not only because she wants to own it—after all, she always plans to sell whatever she buys once she gets tired of it—but for the attention that the act of buying provides and the opportunity to connect with someone who might otherwise not have noticed her.

She quickly gets what she wants. One of the elderly singers brings her a couple of CDs to choose from. She tells him in broken English how much she enjoyed the show and then points to one of the CDs. He hands it to her, extremely pleased to have made a successful sale. He doesn’t know, though, that she will never listen to it. But that’s a minor detail. She was noticed, he made some money, and everyone is happy. Now we can leave.

On my way out, I see the man who was looking at me from across the room earlier standing up and putting on his jacket. He is talking to the people who shared his table. They prepare to leave, maybe to another bar, perhaps to another show, I can’t tell. It is not clear if they are locals or foreigners. Their clothes don’t give away their nationality and I can’t hear what language they speak. A small part of me contracts with envy. I wish I could join them. They seem so much more fun and interesting than my little group. But I know that this will never happen. I surrendered to my special circumstances when I flew to Portugal and I cannot escape.

Where Jews Used to Live (8)

It’s a bumpy ride along the river with a name that still eludes me. Our driver explains some stuff to Rita but I can’t hear him. We pass buildings and more buildings and reach an enormous square surrounded by what I think is a palace. I saw something similar to this vision of architectural opulence in Vienna ten years ago, but I know little about European palaces so I don’t assume anything. Rita asks if we can stop and walk around. The driver says it’s impossible to find parking and he can get a ticket if he stops to let us get off the tuk-tuk, and, so, he continues up charming streets that slowly become narrower and windier until he finds parking and we get off to walk around.

 

The first building I notice has a big banner above the entrance with the words “Fado Museum” printed on it. 

In hindsight it seems now that my gamble of telling Rita that Fado was a real thing in Lisbon has paid off. I get a point for knowing something. It might help me be treated as something more than an afterthought or a tolerable addition to the group in the coming days. The museum looks closed as no one is standing in front of it apart from a couple of scooters. We proceed to an old fountain decorated with a horse’s head on each side.

Water spouts out of the horses’ mouths and we are told that the fountain was used as a trough in bygone centuries. Expressions of awe are shared, a selfie and a couple of pictures are taken, and on we go to explore the Alfama Quarter.

We climb narrow alleys and go down others, admiring the beauty of the old neighborhood. The small cafés and restaurants are mostly empty of patrons, and the hole-in-the-wall shops cater to tourists who might be interested in colorful scarfs and Portuguese memorabilia. 

 

We learn that in the past, Jews used to live in picturesque stone houses and walk the narrow streets until they were expelled from Lisbon. I feel a bit sorry for the current residents who have to endure the endless stream of tourists such as myself, but knowing that our presence supports the local economy—as tourism seems to be one of the main contributors to Portugal’s GDP—helps alleviate my guilt. 

 

From what I’ve seen so far, I can tell that foreigners are an important source of income for the country. We actually had to pay a small tax to spend the night in the city. Not that I’m complaining. Furthermore, the moment I stepped out of the airport, I saw a giant billboard advertising land and properties for sale to foreigners. I also know about many Israelis who received Portuguese passports after they proved to the government that their ancestors had lived in Portugal, and now they buy real estate like there’s no tomorrow and settle all over the country. I can’t even dream of getting a Portuguese passport based on my ancestry because the last name I was endowed with at birth couldn't have been anything but Polish. 

 

At the end of the Alfama loop, we are again hoisted up into the tuk-tuk to continue our expedition. We stop at a church to admire the amazing artwork inside the sanctuary and climb to a vista point above the city where we take more pictures but receive no explanations from our guide. He leaves us and goes to smoke a cigarette with other drivers slouching on their tuk-tuks and waiting for their clients to finish admiring the view. From there we merge into the afternoon traffic that carries us to several plazas in which hundreds of Jews were hanged, burned, stoned, and tortured during the time of the Inquisition, according to our learned guide, who provides specific numbers of deaths at each plaza we pass. For some reason, he can’t resist the urge to share the gruesome details with us. If we were a group of Jew haters we would have probably appreciated the information, but we are three women of Polish-Jewish descent and Anna, a British expat who moved to Israel. There is no need to shove this information down our throats. I don’t tell him any of that though, because I vow silence. Instead, I ignore the past and try to enjoy the present surroundings.

The tour comes to a blissful end in front of our temporary residence. We thank our driver and make the ascent to the fourth floor, where we can relax before we commence with the evening entertainment program. Eat something, have a cup of tea, and freshen up the lipstick.

A Tuk Tuk Ride (7)

My unexpected communion with the divine is cut short when Rita and her mom show up and join me at the table. The falafel balls on their plates do not look fried enough and everything next to them is not especially alluring. For a moment before the two come out, I think that maybe I’m a bit too skeptical about the idea of eating Arab food prepared by Portuguese hands. Portugal, after all, was ruled by the North African Moors for several centuries and her indigenous people might have learned a thing or two from them about frying garbanzo beans. But the limp falafel balls that lie on the plates in front of me confirm my earlier hunch that no good falafel can come out of an improvised eatery connected to an enormous tourist complex in Lisbon.

“Have a falafel,” Rita intones with her mouth full of food, generous as always.

“It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

“Come on, have one,” she shoves a ball at me. It falls apart in my hand before ever reaching my mouth. It’s crumbly and soggy.

Vera is not super impressed with the food but she is hungry and she doesn’t care much about how it tastes. Her expression denotes resignation to a tough reality mixed with determination not to complain about it.

“How is it?” I ask her.

 

“It’s good, it’s good,” she says unconvincingly. Vera is the quintessential Polish mother. She is not going to complain, no matter how much she dislikes the situation. But the way she says it lets you know that things are not optimal. I don’t know for whom she is trying to be a good sport or why she bothers. Probably out of a habit.

I started noticing that Vera was working hard on being agreeable as soon as we left the airport. During the drive into the city, she started telling me about one of her trips to New York, in which a limo driver was waiting for her at Kennedy Airport. Apparently, a family friend paid for the limo but she didn’t know that until she wanted to pay the driver. I had no idea why she thought I needed to hear that story, but etiquette required that I listen and express disbelief or something of that sort. While she was telling me the story, Rita was arguing with the Uber driver, who was insisting that the address she had given him was wrong, so immediate relief was unavailable. I knew that Vera was only trying to be friendly, but I really wanted her to stop. I also realized that I would probably be subjected to more stories of this genre over the next few days.

Anna’s reappearance on the scene puts me back on track. She went strolling down the street and came back to report on her findings. Rita knows that we have to decide what we are going to do next. There are still several hours of daylight to explore the city, but how we should do it is unclear.

The dilemma appears to have a tentative solution when Rita’s attention moves to a line of funky-looking tuk-tuks parked by the sidewalk not too far from us. She takes off to negotiate with one of the drivers of these motorized rickshaw look-alikes.

“The most famous bakery in Lisbon is only a few doors from here,” Anna informs me quietly. “It looks like from another century. And there’s a long line in front of it.”

“Did you go in?” I wonder aloud. Maybe she had one of those cholesterol and sugar-laden pastels de natas over there. 

“No, but we should have gone there instead of that dirty falafel place,” she says. “It’s a historical place and it’s really nice inside.”

Do I detect a subversive tinge in Anna’s voice? Maybe I can commiserate with her about our predicament as the accidental hostages in Rita’s traveling band. There is no time to find out, though, because Rita approaches us with an offer. “He agreed to take us to see the city for 140 euros.” That’s 35 euros per person.

 

I have a strong feeling that the idea of paying so much money to travel in one of those noisy, rickety tuk-tuks won’t sit well with Anna’s ecological sensitivities or her budget. Vera is standing several feet behind us, surveying the scene as if she has no stake in the outcome of the proceedings. Maybe she knows that Rita’s boyfriend will pay her share.

“Mom, what do you think?” Rita asks.

“Whatever you decide,” she shrugs, meaning you as in all of us.

“Anna?” Rita checks the next in line.

 

“I can’t pay that much,” Anna says. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

 

Of course she doesn’t. She’s planning to boil potatoes and carrots for dinner, so why would she sink 35 euros into a tuk-tuk ride when she can take a bus for a few euros and see the same sites? Now I have to think on my feet and fast because knowing Rita, she will suggest that we pay Anna’s share. I can see her wheels turning and I am not open to doing it. Sorry. I told her weeks ago that if Anna was unemployed and poor, she should not come. I refuse to be manipulated into picking up the slack. I also think that it would set a bad precedent. It’s only our second day in Portugal and if I start chipping in for Anna so early on, I might go over my budget in a couple of days. There is only one way out of the situation. Stick with Anna. Only a few minutes ago she hinted that she would have liked to go with another flow, not necessarily Rita’s, so I have something to work with.

“I don’t want to pay this much either,” I say. I also want to provide cover for Anna and show solidarity with the financially disadvantaged.

 

Looking at Rita’s expression, I don’t think she expected me to stand up to her. She has to re-evaluate the situation. She really wants to ride that tuk-tuk. She goes back to the man and tries to negotiate him down. But he does not relent. I approach the two. 

 

“How long does this tour last?” I ask in Portuguese. I want the man to understand that we are not the typical gullible female tourists; we speak the language. 

 

“Two hours,” he responds in Portuguese. He starts listing the names of places he plans to show us. I don’t recognize any name, since I know nothing about the city. Then he explains that we won’t be able to walk up the hills because they are too steep and too far from where we are. I translate what he says into Hebrew for Rita.

“What language do you want to speak?” he asks Rita, irritated. “English? Portuguese?” I can feel his hostility. I thought he would be pleased that I speak his language, even though I sound Brazilian rather than Portuguese. But it looks like I misjudged.

“Speak English,” Rita responds. “English, English.” She knows she has to appease him if she hopes to bring down the price, and his hostility toward me is obvious. Maybe he understands my game.

“Where are you from?” he wants to know.

 

“Israel,” Rita says. It feels weird to hear that I am from Israel, but that’s where I am from, I guess. At least one of us lives in Israel, and all of us have Israeli passports whether we live there or not.

“I can do a Jewish tour,” he lights up. “I get lots of tourists from Israel. We have Jewish tours and general tours, so you can choose.”

We find out that he’s an “expert” in Jewish history. He’s a certified tour guide, not only a tuk-tuk operator, he says, although there is no certificate to prove it. He suggests we travel to a city I’ve never heard of, where we can visit a museum of Jewish artifacts from way back when Jews thrived in Portugal.

I am positively floored. Tuk-tuk operators cater to Israelis who do Jewish roots trips. They are really bending over backward to make up for their sins of the past. But I am not interested in learning about the atrocities inflicted on my forefathers and mothers in Portugal five hundred years ago. If I wanted to be traumatized and see places where Jews were murdered en masse I would go to Auschwitz or Treblinka, not Lisbon. I don’t need grim reminders of my precarious existence, especially considering that my trip was meant to be a pre-retirement expedition.

 

Rita seems to read my mind. “I want the general tour,” she says looking at me and chuckles. She finds the idea of a Jewish tour funny, not awkward or mildly offensive as I do. Just because we are from Israel he assumes we are Jewish and want to see the Jewish menu. 

“So how about 120 euros?” Rita tries one last time. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrenders and gives her a little break. “120.”

Rita turns to Anna again. “You sure you don’t want to take the tour? We’re not going to be able to see everything on our own,” she tries to reason. But Anna remains firm. She can’t spend that money. 

 

“I don’t want to pay that much, either,” I say, in Hebrew, so that the driver will not understand.

“Okay, I’ll pay it,” Rita announces after a short pause. She’s tired of arguing and she needs to move again. She takes her wallet out and hands the tuk-tuk guy several bills. Anna does not protest, and neither does Vera. Rita’s act is so sudden and unexpected that it makes me feel uncomfortable rather than grateful. But I stick with my original plan to go with the flow and not make waves. Be the unofficial blob. It’s either all of us paying or nobody, by which it appears that Freddy is paying.

Now that the deal is finalized, we climb up the tuk-tuk and settle on the hard benches behind the driver. Rita and her mom take the front bench, and Anna and I are in the back. I have to leave a part of me on the sidewalk because the situation is beyond uncomfortable for me. But Rita is happy again. Her mission is accomplished. We’re going on an adventure in an exotic mode of transportation, usually found in the Philippines, India, or Thailand, not Western Europe.  

 

As we squeeze ourselves into the back of the tricycle, our dubiously certified tourist guide begins a lecture on Jewish history. I barged in to tell him that we know the Jews were expelled from Portugal in the 16th century.

 

“If you want to be the guide, maybe I shall let you do the tour,” he cuts me off.

 

Oy vey. I really pushed him too far this time. I didn’t mean to, honestly. I just don’t want him to think I am ignorant. I admit that my barging in was uncalled for and probably impolite, although done in the spirit of the student who wants to impress her teacher. I want him to understand that we are well-informed, intelligent people who don’t know the city too well but know some history. At least the history of the Jews. 

 

I decide to shut my mouth for the rest of the tour. I am not going to utter a syllable, in Hebrew, English, or Portuguese. Promise. I am going to let Rita do all the schmoozing from now on and accept my place in the back seat, literally and figuratively, as an unpaying but grateful hostage.