It is already dark when we get into town. The GPS does its miracle and leads Rita to the Airbnb address on a wide avenue across from a promising neighborhood café that’s still open. A long triangular traffic island divides the avenue into two parts; buses and small European cars rush up and down with not a crosswalk in sight to slow them down. At the bottom of the triangle, there is a fire station with a fire truck parked out front. Hopefully, Porto’s firefighters are not going to be too busy tonight, running their sirens at odd hours and galloping up the hill to deal with this or that emergency.
Rita parks in front of a three-floor apartment building that reminds me of a San Francisco Victorian even though it probably represents Portuguese architecture. One cute balcony hangs on each side of the second floor, more for decoration than for use by the apartment’s dwellers. I have little time to admire the beautiful façade though, because as soon as we get out of the car and hit the sidewalk, the Airbnb host spots us.
The woman is friendly, talkative, and dressed in casual business attire that gives her the aura of a real estate agent. Also, her accent and demeanor tell me that she is Brazilian. Maybe I will be able to talk to her in Portuguese, but not just yet. It is Rita’s turn to do the talking, to introduce us and let the woman lead us into the building.
We collect our bags and follow her up the stairs. Unlike the fancy staircase of the indistinct house Rita found in the surfer town of Peniche, this staircase does not give clues about the apartment. It’s as nice as any staircase in a well-kept apartment building. The Brazilian woman, whose name we find out is Maria, rummages through a heavy keychain for the apartment key. She manages other rentals in town, she explains.
She points to one door and explains that it leads to another apartment and that we should not try to unlock it because someone lives there. Then she opens the door to “our” apartment. I don’t need to see all of it to know that Rita scored a nice place this time. It doesn’t have the musty smell of a century-old building or the convoluted floor plan and mismatched furniture we saw in the other places we’ve stayed in so far. The enormous living room features a high ceiling, wooden floors, large windows, a full-size couch, a glass coffee table, and a large flat-screen TV. The kitchen is even better. It’s large and fully equipped with the quintessential IKEA silverware, white ceramic plates and cups, and a nice collection of pots and pans. There is a coffee machine on the wide granite counter and next to it, sugar, teabags, and salt and pepper shakers. We comment on how clean the apartment is and Maria says that she just cleaned it and that she cleans all the apartments she manages.
“I love this job,” she laughs when I ask her if she’s tired. “I meet people from all over the world and the work is never boring.”
Now I wonder if Brazilians typically do the menial jobs in Portugal. Or maybe cleaning houses and managing short-term rentals for owners of amazingly large and well-furnished apartments is considered a good job? I can’t tell. Maybe it’s better than working at a coffee shop or a bookstore. I mean, the flat TV screen they have here is huge and that must mean something.
A nearly empty bottle of port and four wine glasses stand on a tray in the middle of a formal dining table that can sit six people. There are a few documents on the table, which Maria asks us to fill out and sign. While we pay her and provide all the necessary information, Maria pours a little port into each glass. It seems like a nice gesture, I think to myself, and then I realize that there is exactly enough port in the bottle for four glasses, not a drop more. I let my observation float away. The thought is what counts, I tell myself, not the amount of port in my glass. If I want more port, I can buy a bottle. Porto is the home of port, after all. It will not be hard to find a place that sells port, I am sure.
The bedrooms, we find out, are downstairs. The lower level gives me the impression that this house is probably a restored mansion that was divided into rooms that can be rented to families or small groups. There are three bedrooms on this level. The bedroom at the farthest end of the hallway includes a small nook, big enough for a single bed and nothing else. Rita and Vera decide to take that bedroom combination for obvious reasons. The bedroom’s windows are at street level and blocked with iron bars. Through the windows I can see the sidewalk and the bottom of several parked cars. I wonder if in the old days this part of the house was the section where the help used to reside. Under the kitchen and out of sight.
We proceed to look at the next bedroom. Anna parks her backpack on the floor by a double bed because she can probably feel that I am not about to volunteer to spend the night near Vera’s bedroom. Thankfully she is more agreeable than I will ever be. A clearly renovated bathroom with a smart sink and toilet separates this bedroom from Rita’s. The many white towels hanging on racks by the shower stall indicate that the property owners are either more generous than their Lisbon counterparts or more prepared for the task of hosting well-paying tourists with high expectations.
I score the best bedroom without one pang of guilt. It is located on the other side of the stairs, away from the other bedrooms and any unusual noise that might erupt during the night from the farthest one. I didn’t claim this fabulous room or declare that I wanted it during the walk through. It happened because I kept my mouth shut and let the other women choose their rooms first. And so, I get a nice big room, my own private bathroom, a queen size bed with a nightstand on each side, and a glass door that leads to a small, fenced garden. I can’t sit there now because it is dark outside, and the garden furniture looks wet. But it is nice to know that in the morning, if the weather permits, I might be able to sit outside. Maybe I’ll have my morning tea there before we start exploring the city. Or maybe I’ll just stay here, read about Portugal, take it easy, and absorb the city vibes without doing anything touristy.
I couldn’t be happier. I am going to have a few hours of peace and privacy during the next two nights. A room all to myself and away from everything and everyone. But not just yet. I still have to go upstairs and accompany Rita and Maria to the car. Maria is going to show Rita where to park, and I don’t want Rita to go by herself, wherever it might be, even though I know she can take care of herself. This woman has gotten out of sticky situations many times before and I am not the one to save her. More likely, she would have to save me. But still, I feel that I should go with her at least to help her carry the few bags that are left in the car.
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