Evening in Lisbon (4)

The moment we land, Rita gets into her tourist-guide mode and marches us outside the terminal to look for the rental car company. I spot a sign in Portuguese directing passengers to a cluster of rental car booths, but Rita does not need help. She reserved a car online and knows exactly where she is going. She’s been to enough airports to practically smell these places.

I admire her ability to sail through this process so naturally. My experience with renting cars is limited to two times, both of which were total embarrassments. The first time I rented a car, part of the deal included having the car delivered to my house, but the company forgot about it, so the next day when I came to claim my car they awarded me with a two-seater, Mercedes-Benz convertible. I congratulated myself on my luck until thirty-five minutes into my trip, when I started hearing weird noises coming from the side of my eye-popping, gold-painted dream machine. By the time I found a safe spot to pull over, the tire was so shredded that I couldn’t even tell there had ever been anything attached to that poor wheel. The second time I rented a car I was too scared to get on the freeway, and my traveling companion had to do all the driving. After that I never dared to rent a car, no matter the inconvenience it caused me.

Rita entertains no such fears. She has driven in Morocco among donkeys and goats, in India she rode a motorcycle, and only recently risked her life driving on Mexico’s most dangerous roads with her teenage son, so driving in Portugal will be a piece of cake for her. She tells us that she plans to return to the airport in two days to get the car because she doesn’t want to deal with parking in Lisbon. Vera and I agree. We don’t want to waste our two days in Lisbon circling crowded plazas and narrow streets in search of parking and risking scratches, dents, and other calamities. We take an Uber into town where we meet Anna, Rita’s friend, who has just arrived on a bus from Malaga, Spain. We spot her sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of an apartment building, with a book on her lap. 

According to Rita, Anna used to be a beautiful woman, but life’s complications robbed her of her youthful charm. She is on the heavier side, with long straight brown hair and sharp blue eyes. She looks like the tortured artist type who feels the pain of Mother Earth and the creatures who inhabit her, but never complains. She is happy to see us getting out of the car in front of the building where the two-bedroom Airbnb apartment that Rita reserved for us online is located. We climb up to the fourth floor with our luggage to meet the host and get the keys. Vera is doing great climbing the rickety wooden stairs, but I help her with her suitcase in spite of her protests.

After we sign in and pay the city’s fees, I claim one of the two bedrooms. Even before Rita decided to invite her mom and Anna, I told her that I couldn’t share a bed or a room with anyone because I am an incredibly light sleeper and any little noise wakes me up. Rita didn’t object. Later on, when the issue of her mother joining us came up, she mentioned that her mother screams in her sleep. I didn’t give it much thought or ask what she meant by “screams,” because Rita likes to exaggerate and I was not going to get sucked into another one of her crazy stories.

Anna says that she prefers to sleep on the floor in the living room because her back bothers her. Rita says she will sleep with her mom in the second bedroom. I say nothing.

We leave to explore the town on foot. The Airbnb host recommended that we go to Time Out Mercado da Ribeira. It is the most famous food market in Lisbon and because it is Sunday, it is packed.

I separate from the group to check the different venues, read menus and experience the commotion. Hundreds of people are sitting on tall chairs around cafeteria-style long wooden tables, beer and wine glasses and plates of mostly fried foods in front of them. I am not particularly hungry, but I order tuna and beets on a bed of greens at one of the more crowded places. I assume it must be one of the better eateries, probably because it is owned by a celebrity chef that the local people know. The guy behind the counter warns me that the fish is not fully cooked, only seared on the outside. I tell him that’s fine with me. I talk to him in Portuguese and he doesn’t ask me to repeat anything. My order costs 12 euros and he accepts my credit card and returns it without questions. I almost start to feel at home. People understand my Portuguese. It’s exhilarating. When my number is called, I get my plate and walk around looking for a place to sit.

Miraculously, someone leaves a spot just as I walk by. Several Brazilian couples are sitting across and next to the vacated chair. They are friendly and greet me as soon as I put my plate on the table. One of the men tells me that he and his wife left their five kids in Brazil and came to Lisbon to have a good time. They do it every year. They ask me where I am from in Brazil.

“I’m not from Brazil,” I say.

“You speak Portuguese like a Brazilian,” one of the men compliments me.

“I lived in Brazil for a while a long time ago,” I say.

“Where do you live now?” 

“California.”

“Wow, we want to go to Las Vegas,” one of the women says. Now everyone looks at me with greater interest.

“I’ve never been to Las Vegas,” I say. Usually I brag about it, but now I sound apologetic.

“Did you come here all the way from California?”

“No, I flew in from Israel.” I can see that my answer creates some confusion, but I am not inclined to explain. 

When I am almost done eating, Rita arrives. She tells me, in Hebrew, that she found two seats at another long table and that the bacalao (salted cod) she ordered was terrible, so dry and rubbery it almost choked her. Now, she and her mother are ready to leave. When she realizes that I am surrounded by Brazilians, she starts “Como vai? Como vai? Tudo bom?” which represent her entire Portuguese vocabulary, acquired during a short fling she had with a Brazilian man who got bored with his Mexican American wife and needed a woman who would not judge him or make any demands. I want to stay with the Brazilians for a little longer, but Rita almost pulls me from the chair, so I say my goodbyes and leave with her.

It is raining now. Anna is waiting for us by the entrance. Only after we start walking up the street do I find out that Anna did not buy anything in the famous market. It was too expensive for her, so she chose to wait for us outside.

“I'll eat later at the house, after we do some grocery shopping,” she says. 

I don’t really know what to say when I hear this. “Did you just stand there in the rain?” I ask.

“It started raining only a few minutes ago,” she says as if that makes it OK. “I didn’t even get wet.”

Is this what Rita meant weeks ago when she told me that Anna had no money? I didn’t expect it to be so obvious and so soon. I agree that 12 euros is probably a bit much to pay for a small piece of fish and some leaves, but is she planning to go hungry because she can’t afford to spend any money? Did she tell Rita she was going to wait for us outside? I have so many questions, but so few answers. I decide not to make an issue out of it, and act as if nothing unusual has happened. As Rita likes to say, “Don’t worry, everything’s great, she’s an adult, she can do whatever she wants.” 

The colorful apartment buildings that cover the hill we are climbing are magnificent but we can’t continue admiring them because of the rain. We have to find a place to wait it out. My socks are getting wet, too. Rita says that she has to eat something sweet to get rid of the fish taste that still lingers in her throat, so we enter a small, deserted bakery-café that looks like a tourist trap, not a place where you can leisurely relax over a cup of coffee. Rita orders a variety of pastries and two cups of coffee for herself and her mom. She is back in her element, hanging out near mostly recognizable food and talking loudly in broken English to the woman behind the counter. There is really no need for tourists to know Portuguese in Lisbon.

I check the display and see a tray of bolinhos de bacalhau, which are the Portuguese version of fried fish cakes, tucked in the back. I enjoyed many of those the last time I was in Brazil and I am happy to sink my teeth into one and see what the Portuguese version tastes like. Anna buys a cup of coffee and Rita offers her a tart that she gladly accepts. I think Rita wants to make Anna feel more included in the eating activities since Anna seems bent on not spending any money unless it is absolutely necessary. I wonder if Rita promised her anything when she invited her to go with us to Portugal.

Before I have a chance to see if anyone wants to taste my bolinho de bacalhau Rita asks for a bite. She doesn’t fall out of her chair when she tastes it and it almost hurts my feelings. I have great memories of eating this snack and drinking cold beer with a bunch of girlfriends on the beach in Rio and was looking forward to it. Rita offers me one of the three tarts left on her plate. I turn it down. A glossy brochure I picked up earlier from the top of the counter explained that the tart is called pastel de nata and is filled with rich egg custard. It also says that this tart is the quintessential Portuguese dessert, made by monks and nuns many years ago at a monastery somewhere near Lisbon. Although it sounds exotic, I am not in the mood for a sugar and fat overload, even though I am a tourist and I am supposed to eat anything that is put in front of me. I do appreciate Rita’s generosity, though. She tends to buy more food than she can eat, and then eats everything if nobody else wants to share it with her. This habit, I suspect, is among the culprits in her latest weight gain. She always tells me that she hasn’t eaten anything all day, but every year she puts on more and more weight and her clothes get tighter and tighter, until they look like they are bursting at the seams. And since she got together with Fred, the situation has become even worse.

I blame Fred for this, even though Rita has always struggled with her weight, per her own admission. She just loves everything life has to offer. In big portions. Not just food. But Fred has serious issues with food and it’s infectious. If something is not drowning in melted cheese and topped with bacon and pepperoni or looks like a big piece of meat he will not eat it. I know because I’ve seen it. They invited me to dinner a few times in fancy restaurants in Carmel and Pebble Beach to liven up the conversation. Though I was grateful, I did not enjoy it. I don’t frequent this type of restaurants, mostly because they are too expensive for my taste and have waiters who hover above you and every few minutes ask if everything is okay and if you need anything. I am also not a health freak. I love bread, I love mayonnaise, and I put sugar in my tea, but I do watch my sugar and fat intake. Even when I travel. So, no pastels de nata for me. Not now, anyway. 

After the rain stops we venture out again. On the way back to the apartment we find a grocery store where we get food for breakfast. I buy bread and cheese, tea, strawberry jam, cookies and a couple of tomatoes. Rita gets instant coffee and milk, eggs and bread and fills her basket with more stuff that her mother wants. She even buys toilet paper because there is only one roll for four women at the apartment and she doesn’t want to risk running out. Anna buys apples and some crackers and carrots.

Back at the apartment, we acquaint ourselves with the bathroom, which was ingeniously designed to include a shower, toilet, and sink in a space no larger than a queen-size bed. Fred would certainly not fit in there, but everyone else is a good sport, and there are enough towels for all of us. We finally get to relax, take a shower, and prepare for the night. I boil some water for tea and put the cookies out for everyone to get a feel of home. I wash my dress in the kitchen sink and hang it out the window to dry in the light rain. Vera retires to bed first. Our bodies are still operating a couple of hours ahead of Lisbon, since we came from Israel on a six-hours flight, and we need to rest before another big day tomorrow. Anna spent more than 10 hours on a bus, and she is ready to collapse on the blankets she piled on the floor. Rita is already snoring on the couch which is a bit too short for her, so her feet are hanging over the side.

My room has a little balcony from which I can look at the street winding down a steep hill. It’s quaint and quiet, and I love it. It’s the first time I’m by myself and able to collect myself, hear my thoughts. I close the bedroom door and change into a t-shirt. As soon as I lie down, Rita enters. She’s exhausted, but the day is not over for her yet. She wants to talk about our plans for the next day. I ask her if she would like to go listen to Fado. She doesn’t know what it is.

“It’s like the soul music of Portugal,” I say. “Usually sad, but not always. They play Fado in bars and restaurants around the city.”

She pulls out her phone, googles ‘Fado in Lisbon’ and asks if she should make reservations. “Absolutely,” I say. Finally, I can contribute to the itinerary and not just tag along. 

Usually she frowns when I know touristy stuff that she doesn’t. But tonight she is tired, and maybe this is why she is soft on me. Or maybe because I speak Portuguese she can accept my skimpy knowledge of Portugal’s culture. 

“Okay, we have reservations for tomorrow night,” she says and drags her body out of my room.

The apartment is quiet. I turn the lights off and get under the blanket. I can hear Anna’s soft snoring from the living room. It doesn’t bother me. I’m relaxed and comfortable in my bed. I don’t know how long I float between wakefulness and sleep before a part of me hears a woman talking loudly on the other side of the wall. I’m on the verge of sleep, but the talking is getting louder. The woman sounds agitated. She is shouting at someone but I can’t understand what she is saying. Then the shouts stop. Then they start again, not as loud. Now I am fully awake and somewhat rattled. I turn the light on and stare at the ceiling.

What was it? Who is screaming and why? What kind of people live in this building?

After a short lull, the shouts turn into high-pitched, ear-piercing, blood-curdling, horror film style screams. To the innocent bystander it sounds as if someone is butchering a woman while showing her really scary stuff. She knows the end is coming and she is terrified. Making my heart race. And then it hits me. Rita said that her mother screams in her sleep. She used the word “scream” and I didn’t believe her, and now I am hearing the screaming and it is absolutely horrific. 

After a few minutes, the screaming stops. The apartment is completely silent. I don’t hear footsteps or a door opening and closing. No murmurs behind the wall. Nothing. I assume Rita is in the other bedroom with her mother, taking care of the situation, whatever it entails. 

I decide to stay put. There is not much I can do anyway. Outside my room I can hear Anna quiet snores. I turn the light off and try to fall asleep again.