It takes her two minutes to reorient herself. Without hesitation, she steers the car downhill as if she has already figured out the town’s layout. The streets we pass are narrow; some are paved with cobblestones and others are covered with cracked blacktops that make them look run down but still quaint. The town’s general feel is decidedly not modern despite the few unattractive apartment buildings that look completely out of place and in need of a paint job.
“Where do you think the hotel is?” Vera asks Rita, more out of habit than curiosity.
“Somewhere around here,” Rita shrugs.
Where else can it be if not around here, somewhere?
“You can look on your phone,” Vera suggests even though Rita doesn’t seem worried. This woman took us from Lisbon to Porto and all the way here and made only one U-turn when she entered a dead-end street in Peniche when we were looking for a bathroom. I don’t know how she does it. If it were me, we would still be looking for the airport exit. But for her, the hotel is just another place she has to find. Her ability to find her way without losing her cool is admirable.
She ignores Vera’s advice and slows down. Two middle-aged men are standing on the sidewalk, one wearing a black yarmulke and the other smoking a cigarette. Rita rolls down the window and stops the car next to them.
“Excuse me,” she calls out the window in English, punctuated by a heavy Hebrew accent. “You know where Hotel Sinai?” She pronounces the hotel’s name See-Nai, the way Hebrew speakers do, and omits miscellaneous grammar words like ‘is’ and 'do' because Hebrew does not behave like English.
The men stop talking and the guy with the yarmulka approaches our car. “Shalom, at medaberet ivrit?” he asks in Hebrew. He recognizes immediately that she is Israeli. Her strong accent is a clear giveaway.
“Of course I speak Hebrew,” she responds in Hebrew.
The man reminds me of the Israeli types I used to see working in electronics stores in New York City in the early 80s. His belly hangs over his pants, and his light blue shirt looks frumpy. I am sure he’s not a local who learned Hebrew in Sunday school—if that even exists in Portugal. He’s probably here buying real estate and selling it to the Israelis who have been flocking to Portugal in the last decade. It’s not his fault I have a bad impression of him, but I have a knee-jerk reaction to men who sound Israeli and wear black yarmulkes. I might feel differently if he wore a colorful yarmulke and an oversized cotton shirt with intricate embroidery. But, Rita is unperturbed by black yarmulkes. She is happy to meet someone who speaks Hebrew and who might know the area.
“Are you from Israel?” the man asks in Hebrew. He’s so excited that he forgets she asked for directions.
“Yes,” Rita says. In other circumstances, she would fall into a chirpy conversation, telling him she lives in America and what she does there. But right now, bonding with him is not a priority. She’s been driving all day and wants to get things done. Besides, Vera is next to her, ready to remind her to find a place to spend the night. “We are looking for Hotel See-Nai” she repeats. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes. Continue down this street,” he gestures in the direction we came from. “You will pass a park, then turn left. The hotel is right there, on the right side of the street.”
I don’t mind asking people for directions when I am lost, but as soon as they say, “Go straight and then turn left or right at the stop sign and then…,” I go blank. My brain can remember only one detail. After that, I have to ask someone else about the next turn. I’m hopeless when it comes to retaining this type of information. But if the information does not include “turn right then left,” there is a small chance I will remember it.
The best directions I’ve ever gotten were from my brother, who has interesting ideas about giving directions. I was driving with a friend to meet him in northern Italy and asked him for the address of his hotel. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t know the hotel’s name or even the street it was on, so the directions he gave me sounded like this: “When you approach the city, look for a large IKEA billboard and take the exit immediately after you see it. Then, get on the street and make sure the sun is at your back.” As outrageous as it sounded, we found him leaning on a street pole waiting for us in front of the nameless hotel. All I had to remember was IKEA and the sun in my back. That was easy.
But Rita has to remember a few more details.
“Is this your first time in Belmonte?” the man asks Rita, trying to prolong the conversation. I can't tell if he’s doing it because he is friendly, polite, nosy, or excited to meet another Israeli. I only hope he doesn’t try to sell us anything.
“Yes, someone recommended it to us,” Rita says.
“All the Israelis who come to Belmonte stay at Hotel See-Nai,” he says.
“Many Israelis come here?” Rita asks.
“Yes. Belmonte is very popular. Lots to see,” he promises.
“Yofi, toda. Shabbat Shalom,” Rita concludes as if she were talking to him on the street in Israel.
“Shabbat Shalom to you, too,” the man returns the greeting. His companion who has a large gold Star of David pendant on a chain around his neck offers us a Shabbat Shalom as if exchanging Shabbat greetings in some random Portuguese town is the most natural thing in the world.
And off we go down the street to look for a park and then turn right or left—I already forgot.
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