By the time we see the hotel and Rita maneuvers the Toyota into a small parking spot on the edge of town, I’ve already congratulated myself for persuading her to spend a night in Belmonte and stay at Umberto’s Airbnbs. The night in Lisbon, when she got excited about Fado, was the last time she agreed to one of my suggestions. She even became hostile when I suggested something less touristy than she had in mind, so I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know what made her agree to stay in Belmonte, and I shouldn’t care. It’s a positive development that I have to embrace and applaud.
Even before we enter the hotel, I can tell it caters to Israelis. A menorah and the Hebrew words “Mount Sinai” are painted in blue on the facade of the building. For those who cannot read Hebrew, the uncapitalized words “belmonte sinai” are mounted underneath the Hebrew, with “monte” emphasized for effect. The word HOTEL is plastered on the gray portico above the wide glass door, leaving no doubt about the function of the building. Clearly, some thought went into making the hotel welcoming to Hebrew, English, and Portuguese visitors. In any case, I am sure the Hebrew signs make Israeli visitors feel welcome and safe.
Not so for me. I have to navigate Rita’s need to interfere in any interactions that don’t put her at the center of attention. She can’t allow me to take charge, especially when it means talking to the woman at the front desk about Umberto’s Airbnbs. She has to prove she knows better, even though I’m not competing with her. After all, she is the undisputed expert in speaking to strangers and getting the best deal.
Booking hotel rooms and staying in nice hotels is second nature for her. It is also a lifestyle choice. Before Freddy came along, she stayed in cheap motels while traveling to arts and crafts fairs, or whenever her tourist clients didn’t cover her room. But after Freddy entered her life, she learned to treat hotels as a second home like he did. According to her, Freddy preferred living in hotels over the cramped shack he occupied on the edge of his family’s estate. He didn’t like changing sheets or doing the laundry, and living in hotels was the best solution to this problem. She shared this interesting detail with me after she visited him there at the beginning of their affair. His room contained a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, empty food containers, and giant spiders. I only hope he doesn’t show up here, unannounced, like he does sometimes when she leaves him alone at home for too long.
Unlike her, though, I avoid hotels when I can. Apart from the fact that the nice ones are pricy, I find them somewhat disgusting, even those that look clean. I’ve seen too many investigative reports about housekeepers who cut corners and guests who do unspeakable things in their rooms. So, I prefer sleeping in a tent under the stars or staying at friends’ houses when I can. Unfortunately, that option doesn’t exist in Portugal. Here, it’s either a hotel or an Airbnb.
The woman at the front desk is not surprised when I tell her in Portuguese that I’m Umberto’s friend and I need to speak to his business partner. From the way she responds, it is obvious that I am not the first person he has sent to the hotel for one reason or another. Even my Portuguese does not cause her to ask where I am from, which is a good sign. She is not going to box me in any of her preconceived notions like they do in the States every time I open my mouth.
She says the guy will be back in a couple of hours but that she can help us in the meantime.
I tell her we have just arrived in town and need a place to stay.
Rita who stands next to me with her face buried in her phone as always, asks me in Hebrew to tell the woman we only need two rooms. She will share the room with Vera. She doesn’t understand what I am saying, of course, but she knows what the conversation is about. What is no doubt the opening salvo in her takeover of the conversation is interrupted when her phone chimes. Against my expectations, she leaves me and goes to the lobby where she can talk or text to her heart's content.
Even though I am sure the woman does not understand Hebrew, she says there are no properties with two bedrooms but she can give us two one-bedroom houses next to each other. She hands me two simple keys and explains that the properties have names, not numbers. That reminds me that Umberto named his properties after prominent Jews who lived in Portugal during the Inquisition. I saw pictures of some properties on his Facebook page with prices next to them, but I can’t remember their names or the prices.
The woman promises that it won’t be difficult to locate them. I only have to ask people on the street where I can find Casa Jose Vizinho and Casa Dona Branca Dias. She shows me the names carved on the leather tags attached to the key holders in case I forget.
And on what street are they located? I ask. This situation is a little unexpected but is still manageable.
She doesn’t know the street’s name and is not even sure it has one. But she can show me how to find it on a map. She pulls out a glossy pamphlet and unfolds it. It’s a map of the historical center of town—more of a picture than a map, with numbers along two main routes marking parking lots, museums, and the park we passed on our way here. The other side features a photo of a statue of a man, the castle, and the town’s emblem. I notice that the north arrow is pointing toward the bottom, which completely disorients me. But she’s unperturbed.
With a blue pen, she draws a circle around one number on one end of the map, telling me this is where we are. From there, she draws a line along one of the routes until it reaches the other end of the map. She draws a circle around the letter P and a rua something I can’t read because the letters are so small they require a magnifying glass.
“The rooms should be in this area,” she says, circling the name of the street with the pen over and over as if it will make it easier for me to read if she only draws another circle. I nod, even though I have no idea how to use this map to find anything.
“Make sure to park in the marked area,” she says circling the P again. “There is no street parking in that part of town.”
I notice a tiny star of David at the top of the map and wonder what it might be. A Jewish museum? A synagogue? A kosher restaurant? Will anything be open on a Friday night? We might even meet some Israelis. That will cheer up Rita. Nothing makes her happier than having a fresh audience to mesmerize with her quirky stories.
“You can’t get lost,” the woman interrupts my reverie. “It’s a small town. After you pass the park stay on the right side of the road. Then you will find it.”
I don’t tell her that I’ll hand this silly map to Rita and hope she figures it out because I don’t know how you find houses that don’t have street names or numbers. Instead, I take out my credit card and put it on the counter. I have a vague notion that’s what you do when you get the key to a hotel room. Or is it your passport that you present?
She pushes the card back toward me. “I don’t need it now,” she says. “You pay when you return the keys.”
“Do you need me to leave my passport?” I ask. She must want some sort of deposit to ensure I return the keys and pay for the rooms. I am not sure what else I am supposed to do. Until now, Rita has communicated with the Airbnb hosts and nothing has seemed extraordinary. But this woman is sending me with keys to an unknown destination without asking for anything in return. How does she know I will return the keys and pay for the rooms?
“It’s okay,” she smiles. “You pay when you come back with the keys.” She speaks slower now, like people addressing foreigners who don’t understand their language.
I understand you quite well, I want to say, but I don’t.
As if she can read my mind she adds, “In Belmonte we trust people.”
“I like that,” I say, collecting the keys. “See you tomorrow.”
“Até amanhã,” she repeats, with no doubt in her voice.
