Belmonte: Terra De Tolerancia (55)

After a quick stop at Hotel Sinai to return the keys to the trusting front desk attendant, we find a charming café with a patio surrounded by flowering potted plants. This time, I order a galão like a local, sparing the barista the confusion over my request for espresso and then for milk. I also order for Rita and Vera, so Rita will quit worrying that I’m plotting to skip paying my share of gas. She began hinting at it when we were leaving Porto. Don’t ask me why. It has nothing to do with reality. Maybe an after-effect of Anna’s departure. 

When the barista brings the coffee, Rita announces she’s looking for a place to stay in Tomar.

“What’s in Tomar?” Vera asks.

“Simone’s nephew,” she says, eyes still on her phone.

“How far is it?” Vera persists because that’s what she does.

 
“A couple of hours. We still have time to walk around. Check in at four,” Rita says.

“There’s a Jewish museum here. We can see if it’s open,” I say. The tuk-tuk guy in Lisbon mentioned a museum, and since we’re here, why not? I just hope an idea from me won’t trigger Rita like it did in Porto when I suggested another restaurant. Vera’s stupid comment earlier was more than enough. 
To my surprise, Rita puts down the phone and agrees. Maybe it’s not the worst idea. 

“Is it close enough to walk?” Vera asks, the ever-practical link in the chain.

A glance at the tourist map shows it’s only a short walk away. We leave the café and find the museum in one of the narrow alleyways in the old part of town, where laundry hangs outside to dry and green moss grows between old cobblestones. The museum, with its Jewish color scheme, is open even though it’s Shabbat.

This is the first museum we visit in Portugal. And the last one, for sure. Museums were not on the itinerary from the start. Rita has little patience for them, unless they are so famous that tourists must visit despite the high risk from pickpockets and a painful entrance fee. Otherwise, museums slow down momentum, require the ability to focus, and provide no interactions with people or merchandise. A lethal combination for fun seekers.

To be honest, I don’t expect much. I just want to get a feel for the place. Maybe we’ll see something interesting. The community here is quite small anyway and doesn’t seem to have many resources. Still, I appreciate the thought of building a center for learning about the history of Belmonte’s Jewish community. At least the books at the entrance appear promising if you can read Portuguese. The rest is standard Jewish paraphernalia, pretty but not groundbreaking.

Rita and Vera vanish into a side gallery as soon as we enter the main exhibit. I take my time to read some labels beside the pictures and objects on display. I suddenly realize this is the most educational phase of the trip. Digging into the past of Portugal’s Crypto Jews, learning how they practiced the traditions behind thick walls and dark curtains. There are even pictures of religious artifacts that the women used throughout the centuries and passed to their daughters, who learned to perform rituals in secret until they became almost unrecognizable.

Seeing all this makes me sad, not satisfied, even though a happy ending came five hundred years later, like Vera’s survival during the war in Europe. She came out of it alive, but the trauma remained buried until it resurfaced later in life in the form of night terrors. I wonder if she sees any parallels between her experience and this story. Probably not. It might be too painful to think about. For me, it’s a reminder of what could have happened in my lifetime, but didn’t, thanks to the sheer luck of being born elsewhere, under different circumstances. And I’m grateful for being lucky for once. As for Rita, I don’t think she would reflect on it. Why think about heavy stuff that makes you sad? Life is short and we must enjoy every minute because every day can be the last. Blah blah blah. Tell me something I don’t know.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I go outside to meet the two of them and see what’s next. A great conversation about the meaning of being Jewish? I doubt it. Rita wants to explore the antique stores we passed on our way to the museum, and Vera is happy to plod along. We decide to meet at the car in an hour, and off I go to explore the narrow alleys on my own, again.

Losing My Cool (54)

With Rita taking over the conversation, all bells and whistles and jewelry dangling from every extremity, I retreat to finish packing and tidying up my room. I don’t leave a mess for those who clean up after me. I always remember the proletariat. From inside my room, I hear laughter and Rita’s broken English asking how much to pay. The driver murmurs something, and then a metal door slams shut, the engine starts, and the van drives away. 

Rita pokes her head in to say she’ll bring the car to the front door to spare Vera the walk with the luggage. “Then we can look for a place to have coffee near the hotel,” she suggests.

“Great idea,” I say. 

She deserves credit for thinking of all the details. And I need to appear more cooperative after leaving her and Vera at that stuffy bar last night. Skipping breakfast in Porto could pass as laziness, but leaving after they’d ordered dinner might have felt like a provocation. No need for more drama. I think we’ve had enough of it. My challenge is to end this trip on a positive note, keep grudges buried, and deal with them later on firmer ground. 

I finish tidying up the room: the sink is clean, the trash is in the bin, and the towels are on the rack. I roll my carry-on outside to wait for Rita. Vera joins me with her luggage on the pavement, ready to conquer the day or at least the first two hours. If we’d been staying in the same house, she would have walked with me earlier. But today I was selfish, and I took advantage of the situation to walk by myself. 

“How was your room? Did you sleep well?” I ask to quell my somewhat guilty conscience. It’s the polite thing to do. Engage in meaningless small talk. “It was fine,” she recites her usual generic response. Good. I just want to make sure the atmosphere is congenial, with no hard feelings about last night. 

When Rita pulls up in front of us, I help Vera lift her carry-on into the trunk and then load mine. 

“I’m going to stop at the hotel first,” Rita says, heading up the stone stairs to collect her stuff and lock up. 

That’s right. We’re following the honor system here. Not skipping town without paying for the rooms, even if it might tempt some people. 

While we wait for Rita, I decide to go back in and make a final sweep. “I’m going to step in and check that I didn’t leave my phone charger,” I say to Vera. 

“Ah,” she shrugs without looking at me. “Then leave it. If you forgot, you forgot.” 

Jesus Christ! What do you even mean, “If you forgot, you forgot?” I’m still here. I just need to step inside for a minute. People always do this when they check out. It’s not a sign of a mental disorder. Chargers are the most forgettable objects. You want me to leave it behind just because you don’t think I should check? Will you buy me one if I leave it here? You’re driving me insane. I could strangle you. I’ve been patient, respectful, helpful, friendly, and this is what I get? Damn it! 

Of course, none of this comes out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “It will only take a minute,” like the grown-up I pretend to be, and take a deep breath to slow down my heart. 

I check the outlets, under the bed, and under the blanket. Nothing. I lock the door and return to the car’s backseat. Still fuming. Because Vera already occupies the front. Peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s caused.