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.