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.