Vera Puts Me on the Spot (46)

I find the car where I left it and announce that I found Umberto’s casas. Vera is unimpressed. 

“We thought you forgot about us,” she says when I tell them about my encounter with the ancient woman.

I didn’t expect anyone to thank me for venturing into the unknown and returning with good news, but her little jab—that I forgot about them—came out of nowhere. I know I didn’t take too long. At least, I don’t think I did. But maybe time moves slower when you’re stuck in a car with nothing to do, and she’s bored enough to pick on me. I hope she didn't use the time to discuss my flaws with Rita, like my reluctance to eat cholesterol bombs and my distaste for touristy restaurants. Or whatever else I did during the last few days. 

I decide to ignore the not-so-subtle accusation. Vera belongs to a generation that can’t give people too much leeway for fear it would make them lazy or conceited. Besides, I don’t think she’s mad at me. It’s just her way of relating to the world without considering the effect her words have on people who don’t know her well enough. For all I know, she might be humoring me or insinuating that she was worried I got lost and she’d have to sleep in the car.

Luckily, Rita does not seem to share Vera’s sentiment. She’s lost in her phone, scrolling Facebook or Instagram for ridiculous videos of donkeys playing soccer or Israeli standup comedians—anything to make her laugh and distract her from the angst about how much money she has in her savings account or her fights with her ex over their son’s education.  

“Everything’s good,” she reassures me before I have a chance to respond. “Life is beautiful,” she repeats her mantra and pops the trunk. 

Thank you, Rita, for resolving the issue so masterfully. I thought Anna was annoying, but now I’m irritated by Vera, which is not good. Let’s see if this conflict resolution technique you acquired during your tours with obnoxious Israelis will hold for the next few days. Life is beautiful, everything’s great, and we only live once. Now, let’s collect our stuff and hit the pavement before it gets dark.

“Are you sure we can leave the car here overnight?” Vera asks one of her lame questions. 

Give me a break, I want to say. What does she think the “P” sign in front of us means? Playground? Pool? Police? Is she trying to be relevant by showing concern about getting a parking ticket? Is she worried that someone will steal the car? What’s her problem?

Rita takes Vera’s concern in stride. “I don’t see any sign that says we can’t,” she says.

“Okay,” Vera gives up. 

I’m glad I didn’t say anything. I was close to saying something that could have caused unnecessary drama. I have to remind myself not to sweat the little things. Vera doesn’t mean anything by these things. She just says them to fill the space.

“Where do we go now?” she asks as if to test my commitment not to be annoyed.

“We go straight and then right,” I say. “It’s very close,” I add, to prevent another question.

The narrow streets where the Crypto-Jews have been living in secret since the Spanish Inquisition have not changed much. Apart from the decorative street lamps standing by the stone houses and a few electric cables, nothing modern such as cars or traffic signs is in sight. I lead the group to our destination, our carry-ons rattling up and down the cobblestones just as I imagined. It makes me cringe.

Before I can tell if we are bothering anyone, we reach the doors with the promised nameplates and the mailboxes hanging next to them. The structure seems hundreds of years old, and only the doors and windows hint at contemporary materials.

“The woman at the hotel said Casa José Vizinho is the bigger one,” I say and give the key to Rita. She unlocks the door, and we see narrow stone stairs leading up to the second floor. I have no idea what it looks like inside, and I can only hope that the room offers enough space and comfort for the two of them.

The other door opens to a spacious room on the street level. From where I stand, I can see two beds pushed together, covered in pink blankets, and a small kitchen and bathroom tucked in the back. It’s strange, but the white walls and modern light fixtures make me think of how hard Umberto must have worked to transform a place that looks so ancient from the outside into something you’d expect to find in any hotel today. As if five centuries could be wiped away by a fresh coat of paint and a functioning toilet.

Before I enter the room, Rita suggests we leave our stuff behind and explore the neighborhood. “There’s a synagogue here, somewhere. Let’s find it,” she says. “It’s probably open. Maybe we can join their Kabbalat Shabbat.”

Although we are not religious, visiting a small-town synagogue on a Friday night in a foreign country can be an interesting experience. They might even be happy to welcome three Israeli women who unexpectedly appear at the door.

I only hope I don’t make a fool of myself if they ask us to participate in the ceremony or the meal. I have embarrassed myself more than once during Shabbat dinners at my ultra-orthodox neighbor’s in Monterey. I didn’t know I was supposed to be quiet when I washed my hands and not talk until after the blessing of the bread. And of course, I don’t know the prayers or the songs, no matter how many times I’ve heard them. Luckily, my neighbor knew me, and she wasn’t offended. Still, I felt like an idiot because there was no excuse not to know these things. I’ve attended enough Shabbat dinners to at least be proficient in the basics.   

Obrigada, Senhora (45)

We leave the hotel to look for the elusive casas in the old quarter. Rita suggests I walk through the neighborhood to ask if anyone knows about the two guesthouses while she waits in the car with Vera. I agree wholeheartedly. It's getting cold, and dragging our luggage over cobblestone streets will not be fun, even in tennis shoes. It will also be noisy, and I don’t want to antagonize the locals. I just hope I find the casas before it gets dark. But first, we need to find the neighborhood.

We drive past the park and take the right fork, as instructed at the hotel. A few minutes later, Rita pulls into a parking spot without making a single U-turn or asking the nonexistent pedestrians for directions. I’m not sure it’s the same lot marked on the map, but who cares? The place looks safe enough to leave a car overnight. And I trust Rita. When it comes to finding the way in a car, she's a magician.

I get out and scan my options. The fortress we passed earlier rises above the neighborhood. Below it, clusters of olive trees huddle on two terraces enclosed by walls reminiscent of the Old City of Jerusalem. It makes me feel somewhat jaded, like I already know this place, even though I have no idea where I am.

Two alleyways stretch in front of me, bordered by tightly packed houses, one or two stories high. Potted plants stand guard on the pavement by the doors and on staircases, and some walls are hidden behind thick, climbing vines. The brownish-gray stones that make up the external walls of these small houses come in all shapes and sizes, glued together in a mysterious order with mortar. These mismatched, weathered stones make me realize these houses were built to insulate the inhabitants from the extreme winter cold and summer heat—long before air conditioning. No wonder I feel like I’ve stepped back several centuries.

I choose one alley, hoping to find someone to point me to the casas. I worry that going door-to-door to find a name on a plaque could take too long, and the two women waiting in the car will quickly lose patience; especially Rita, with her certified ADD diagnosis.

Since there isn’t a soul on the street, I start doing exactly what I didn’t want to do. I look for signs on every door. My worry that it will be dark before I finish investigating the entire neighborhood is eased when I spot a woman walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more her old age becomes apparent. She is dressed in black, her shoulders draped in a black knitted shawl, her long hair pulled back and tied in a gray bun. She is slightly hunched over, leaning on a cane, bearing centuries of cumulative wrinkles. In short, she looks as old as the houses surrounding us. I doubt she’ll understand my Portuguese, let alone know anything about the guesthouses. But I have to give it a chance.

“Boa tarde, Senhora,” I say, pronouncing the rolling R as if I was born speaking Portuguese.

The woman stops to examine me. In her world, life moves slowly and I must give her time to absorb what she sees in front of her. She does not look suspicious of me or dismissive. She can tell I am a foreigner, no matter my fluency in Portuguese. She nods and wishes me a good evening.

Still using my best Portuguese, I tell her I am looking for Casa Dona Branca Dias and Casa Don José Vizinho and ask if she knows where I can find them. I hope I am using the correct formal speech since she looks much older than I am and I have little practice speaking this way. I don’t want to offend her or sound like a total idiot even though I am not a native speaker and she should cut me some slack.

To my surprise, the woman understands me. She also knows the houses and offers to take me there. I can barely believe my luck. She understands me, she knows where these houses are, and despite the cane, she insists on walking there with me when I ask for directions. This must be my lucky day.

She moves slowly but steadily. I walk beside her, deeply grateful for her kindness. Rita and Vera can wait a few more minutes in the car while I savor the moment—walking with a woman who seems to have stepped out of another century to show me the way to my next Airbnb.

I take the opportunity to ask if she knows Umberto, the owner of the casas. She doesn’t, but she knows about the houses rented to tourists. She says this without judgment or resentment, which I appreciate. I don’t want her to feel ill will toward me for being one of the tourists who stays in these houses. And here they are: two doors, side by side, with the nameplates hanging next to them.

I thank her, and she takes my hand between her small, gnarled hands—veined and twisted with age—and squeezes it, wishing me a good stay. Her gesture fills me with overflowing gratitude. What a cherished and unexpected moment to have lived through when I feel so distant from normalcy. Finally, I experience a connection that is not exploitative or transactional; just two women meeting on the street shortly before sunset.

GPS and Google Maps will never allow this encounter nor will a domineering tour guide who knows everything. I hope it’s a good omen for what lies ahead.