I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but the silence in the car is a bit heavy. It’s not the silence that stems from having nothing to say, but the kind that grinds on you because you know that people are thinking about things that they prefer to keep under a lid in order to maintain the peace (except for Rita, who lacks the disposition to be silent about anything). We are driving out of town toward another city on the coast, somewhere between Nazaré and Porto. I have no idea what to expect from that city, but that’s fine. I am used to this now. Being shuttled from one place to another and stopping to appreciate the ambience and landscape, and occasionally watch Rita buy stuff.
I don’t take responsibility for the silence. I was not the one who blew up. I don’t have much steam to blow at the moment anyway. I made a decision to tag along and I am not going back on it. I have to enjoy this trial-by-fire vacation as it is. Observe human nature, practice my Portuguese, and avoid mental health damage. As a bonus, I might learn a thing or two about Portugal.
Considering the fact that my job description includes researching and writing the history, geography, politics, economy, and culture of a variety of countries, it is hard to explain why Portugal remains such an unknown to me. I can talk about the economy of Turkmenistan and its vast natural gas reserves or Niger’s diplomatic relations with its neighboring countries, for example, or the turbulent history of Serbia and why it hasn’t joined NATO or the EU, but ask me anything about Portugal and I go blank. Even though by now I’ve learned that pastel de nata is the pride of the country and noisy tuk-tuks roam the streets of Lisbon, anything beyond that would require serious digging, which I haven’t done for a variety of reasons. Maybe tonight I will venture onto YouTube and explore this country a bit. Provided there will be Wi-Fi at the place Rita booked for us in Porto.
“Simone is driving me crazy with her texts,” Rita’s voice breaks the long silence. “She doesn’t stop,” she complains, unconvincingly. Rita loves occupying people’s brain space, and when they forget to call or text her, she makes sure to remind them of her existence with friendly WhatsApp calls and messages. I know from experience.
Simone, the Brazilian hairdresser who wants Rita to visit her in Brazil, is following the news in Portugal and reporting back to Rita. We learn from Simone’s message that the waves off the coast of Nazaré were unusually big today and that a famous Brazilian surfer nearly died by a big wave earlier. It looks like I was not imagining when I thought that the waves in Nazaré were bigger than anything I’d seen before. Only I haven’t seen any surfers.
Rita’s phone beeps another message, causing her to let out little-girl giggles as if she is sharing an amazingly funny secret with herself. I have observed her doing this when she watches silly videos on Facebook, but now she is driving, so it must be related to the messages from Simone or her need to break the long silence emanating from Anna.
“What’s so funny?” Vera asks in that annoyed tone she uses when Rita’s quirky behavior gets on her nerves. She definitely does not think it’s funny that a surfer was nearly killed off the coast.
“His name is Scooby,” Rita giggles. Her silliness does not help warm the atmosphere, but it does engage her mother.
“Why is that funny?” Vera demands again.
“Scooby,” Rita giggles. “You don’t remember Scooby?”
It is time to intervene before Vera loses her patience. “Scooby was Rita’s stupid dog who always ran away and got her in trouble with the neighbors,” I say, leaning forward so Vera can hear me.
“He was not stupid,” Rita giggles, unoffended, looking at the rear mirror. “He just had issues.”
Of course, he had issues. All dogs have issues, especially rescue dogs. I can’t remember where she got him, but she told me that he was miserable and covered in parasites when she adopted him. But regardless of his traumatic yet unknown past, he was a cheerful creature who maintained an incredibly gregarious approach to life, including lots of enthusiastic barking, jumping over fences, and chasing squirrels.
“Yes, yes, yes, now I remember,” Vera says. “He was a big dog, not the chihuahua.”
“He was big, with messy white hair, or gray, depending on how clean he was,” I add to the conversation. I don’t want to sound too critical though. Rita loved him, as much as she loved all her other pets, which included a variety of feral cats, caged birds, chickens, and even a white rat at one point.
Rita giggles again. Her pets give her enormous pleasure. Especially when they are naughty.
“He destroyed half of your house,” Vera exaggerates, disapprovingly, which makes Rita giggle even more.
“My dog ruined my best pair of boots,” Anna finally joins the conversation, signaling that soon things might go back to normal and that her silence from now on will be the result of her usual concern for the daughter she left behind rather than my inexcusable behavior at the restaurant.
I bet Rita is taking credit for this encouraging development. As she told me a lifetime ago, people on her trips get along, they have a fabulous time, and everything’s great. She is the ultimate tour guide who knows how to make people enjoy each other’s company. And Anna goes with the flow after all.
“I can’t count how many shoes my dogs ate,” Rita laughs.
“Becky chewed up dad’s favorite slippers the moment you brought her home,” Vera says dryly. She is not one to betray negative emotions when it comes to life’s ordinary mishaps.
Vera’s reaction is anticipated. Rita bought Becky, a little fluffy purebred, for her mom during her previous trip to Israel and Vera fell in love with it. Now Vera has someone to walk with when her husband is slouched in front of the TV, indulging in one of his foul moods, according to a report I received from Rita during one of our walks. But it doesn’t solve my problem.
The conversation puts me on alert. I don’t have a dog and I don’t plan to have one, so I can’t share any cute anecdote about my dog’s bad behavior. I am friendly with dogs who belong to other people, even when they sniff me on nature trails, but that might not be enough to make Anna think that I am not the worst person on the planet. I will have to think of something else to bring her back to my side.
“He needed new slippers so good for him that she chewed them up,” Rita laughs. Then she looks up at the rearview mirror and asks Anna if her daughter has bought food for the dog.
“She said that she did, but I am not sure I believe her,” Anna says.
“What are you going to do about it?” Rita challenges her again, like she did the first time when the topic of the uncooperative daughter came up.
“I might have to return home earlier than I thought,” Anna says.
Surprise, surprise. Maybe the blow up at the restaurant had nothing to do with me after all. I might have just given her a good excuse to explode.
Rita doesn’t miss a beat. “We can check the bus schedule when we get to Porto,” she suggests. I have to confess that at these moments I absolutely admire Rita. Nothing fazes her. She is the ultimate tour guide. She knows what to do. She doesn’t question Anna’s decision. She accepts reality as it is.
Although this turn of events feels unexpected, I am not surprised. Since I first met Anna, I haven’t been able to understand why she dragged herself here with no money to spend, leaving her dysfunctional daughter alone in Spain without a support network. Furthermore, the woman looks uncomfortable in her own skin and is definitely not too keen on being a part of our motley crew. Maybe Rita didn’t explain to her what she was getting herself into, just like she didn’t explain to me. I’ll never know.
“When are we getting to Porto?” Vera jumps in, probably to divert the conversation to a more agreeable topic. She definitely doesn’t want to talk about Anna’s problems at home and beyond. She is very sensitive in this way.
“It depends on how much time we spend in Aveiro,” Rita responds.
“Aveiro? What’s there?” Vera asks again.
“It’s the Venice of Portugal,” she explains.
“That sounds good,” Vera declares and on this cheerful note, life goes back to almost normal.
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