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 is going to start a conversation. “It’s a bit out of the way, but we’re not in a rush to get anywhere.”
“Whatever you decide is fine with us,” Vera asserts, without consulting Anna or me. She has a tendency of making 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 needs a full-night’s sleep if she wants 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 at above 5,000 ft in tennis shoes and a light windbreaker is not something I would recommend for 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 figures 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 heart ache 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 myself got a washing a 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 expect, 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, 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 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 that I avoided on my way up here.
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