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: 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 a 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 of a 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.
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