Heading to Tomar (57)

Again, we are on the road. This time, we’re heading to Tomar, a town I know nothing about except that Simone’s nephew lives there, and we are going to meet him as promised. Rita has already called him to let him know we’re coming and even booked a place for the night. Vera has no opinion on the subject, and neither do I. I’m not worried about what Tomar will be like. So far, I haven’t been disappointed by any place we’ve been to. Portugal is a treasure that reveals itself gradually. Every town is unique, every corner is steeped in history and beauty; the architecture, the music, the people, and nature itself. If it weren’t for the cruelty it inflicted on the Jews, still haunting its plazas, alleys, and stone walls, I’d say it’s an ideal place to lose oneself in and be renewed. 

The road is dotted with agricultural plots, small towns, and forested hills, but I’m more absorbed in my thoughts than in paying attention to the landscape. I’m curious about the name of the town. Tomar is a versatile verb in Portuguese, an infinitive, if you insist on using the accurate term. The dictionary might translate it as to take, but in practice, it means more than taking. They say tomar banho, to take a bath, tomar café, to drink coffee, tomar uma decisão, to make a decision, tomar sol, to sunbathe, tomar conta, to take care of or look after, tomar um remédio, to take medicine, and other phrases I either don’t know or prefer not to use in polite society. So what does it mean that a city is called Tomar? Tomar what? Tomar who?

I stop wondering about it when we reach the edge of town, which seems bigger and more developed than Belmonte. I don’t know what to expect. I only know that we are traveling through streets and roundabouts toward wherever we’ll spend the night. Rita finds a parking spot in front of a sidewalk café with a bank next to it, and off we go to look for our Airbnb. 

The two-bedroom apartment is small but charming, with a lovely view from the living room window. Like every self-respecting town in this country, Tomar’s skyline is graced by a sprawling fortress on a hilltop. The modestly equipped kitchen has a generous stock of tea bags and even sugar, more than most places we’ve stayed. Maybe the previous overnighters left them behind. 

After settling the bill with the Airbnb host and learning the house rules, we leave to explore the town, and it is gorgeous. An unassuming bridge above a calm river, whose name eludes me as usual, leads us to the historic town center. On the opposite bank, there’s a long white building with a tall red chimney rising above the rooftops. It’s picture perfect, but I have no idea what it is. Maybe an old mill or a brick factory. 

Beyond the bridge, we enter a labyrinth of narrow alleys paved with cobblestones and bordered by two- and three-story buildings painted white, pink, light green, or yellow. Some buildings have balconies surrounded by wrought-iron railings, which I’ve seen all over Portugal and even in parts of Rio and small rural towns in Brazil. The restaurants are empty, but the tablecloths and candles on each table promise that soon they’ll fill up with weekend customers. Below the looming fortress, which seems to be the focal point of town, a large plaza stretches in front of an old church that’s still open. A sign at the entrance advertises a Christmas concert series. I wish I could stay for at least one concert, but the first performance will be tomorrow evening, when I’ll already be on my way back to Lisbon.

When we turn back into the maze of alleys, we find a synagogue. If it weren’t for the sign and the Star of David above the door, I wouldn’t have guessed it. The building looks just like the other houses on the street; its exterior gives no clue that it’s a house of worship. It’s closed, maybe because it’s Shabbat, even though it would make more sense to keep it open today. Through the window, I don’t see religious artifacts, books, or other signs that this is a synagogue, only a table covered with a white cloth. It seems that during the week, someone gives tours here, but the hall no longer functions as a synagogue, unlike the dazzling sanctuary in Belmonte. Maybe there’s no Jewish community in Tomar anymore, and this synagogue is only a quiet reminder of distant, more benevolent times.

After the heaviness of Belmonte’s centuries-old stone buildings and the gloomy memories trapped in them, Tomar feels like a breath of fresh air. If Jews were persecuted here five hundred years ago, this town feels like it has moved on and found peace.

Galeria das Bonecas (56)

 I feel self-conscious wandering the alleys, killing time until Rita and Vera decide we should leave town. It wasn’t my plan, but it beats sitting on a park bench and watching the clouds. I just hope I don’t stand out too much. I draw a contrast to when I walked through Lisbon’s Alfama Quarter. There, the locals learned to endure the hordes of tourists gawking at them. In Belmonte, which isn’t much of a draw unless you’re Jewish or Israeli, people might be more sensitive to the presence of foreigners.

It’s still early in the weekend, so not much is happening. Only a few people are out, and the places that are already open are empty of customers. I turn into a narrow alley and find a courtyard with round tables, umbrellas, and trees shading empty chairs. At the far end, a short flight of stairs leads to a stone building with the door open. A sign by the door indicates that it’s a gallery of dolls, listing art classes and the dates of an upcoming puppet show. Although nothing gives me the impression that the gallery is open, I decide to enter. Worst case, they’ll ask me to leave.

A bearded man in a black flat cap greets me from behind a table covered with hand-painted ceramics and waves me in to look around. Inside, a song by a famous Brazilian singer is playing. I decide to say something about it and see what happens. 

“Cê gosta de Zé Ramalho?” I ask, using my best Portuguese accent. 

He stops twisting copper wire, raises his eyes, and studies me for a few seconds.

“You know Zé Ramalho?” he asks in perfect Brazilian Portuguese, which I could understand in my sleep.

“Conheço as músicas dele,” I say, smiling.

“Brasileira?” he asks. 

That’s what I love about Brazilians. In the U.S., people ask where I’m from the second I open my mouth. Brazilians assume I’m one of them. 

“In my heart,” I answer, in Portuguese, my canned response to the question when posed by Brazilians. And for a moment, my old self emerges from somewhere, reminding me of who I used to be before I was sucked into Rita and Vera’s orbit. A lighter and calmer, less paranoid version of me.

He asks how I learned Portuguese; I tell him I lived in Rio many years ago. It’s only part of the story, but all I’m ready to share. The conversation drifts where I hoped: connecting with a local, even if he was a transplant from another Portuguese-speaking country. He’s the second Brazilian I’ve met who lives and works here, aside from the tourists in Lisbon and the woman last night. 

He says he’s from Minas Gerais. “Have you been to Minas?” he asks, like a real Brazilian, dropping “Gerais.”

“Yes, more than once,” I’m happy to say. I have friends who live near Caparao National Park. I hiked with them to the waterfalls, but not all the way to the top. He’s impressed. I’m almost a peer now. He knows the area and has even camped there. 

“Why leave Brazil? It’s so much more fun,” I say, not to pry, just to show how I feel.

Fortunately, he’s not offended. He gets up and joins me by a shelf lined with whimsical handmade dolls made of colorful fabrics and beads. One of the dolls fell against another, so he picks her up and leans her against the wall. If I knew anything about making dolls, I’d ask about the artist. But I’m not crafty, so I don’t take the bait, if that’s what he’s trying to do. 

As he rearranges the dolls, he tells me that he was an English teacher at a college in Belo Horizonte, but he grew tired of it and decided to try his luck in Portugal. “It’s easy to make friends here,” he says. “The only problem is that Belmonte is a small town, so there’s not much going on,” he adds, handing me a business card with the name of the artist who made the dolls.

“She owns the gallery,” he explains. “I help run it when she’s in Lisbon.”

I can’t help but wonder if he needs a special permit to work here like other non-EU residents. Unfortunately, I can’t ask. It would be even worse than asking why he left Brazil. So I slip the card into my pocket and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I’ll return to Belmonte one day and meet this artist, and who knows what may come of it.

“I thought about teaching here, but the paperwork was too much,” he says in English, as if he could read my mind. “Then someone introduced me to Mirele.”

“I’d love to meet her one day,” I respond in English. 

“Meet who?” Rita’s voice quacks behind me.

Of course, she has to appear out of nowhere and interrupt this blissful moment. I shouldn’t entertain any illusions of connecting with people without her barging into the conversation and taking over. I should be grateful and graciously clear the stage because I’m the warm-up and she’s the headliner.

I don't bother to answer her question since the name is inconsequential. Besides, the Brazilian has already turned to greet her and respond to the flood of compliments she showers on the beautiful little gallery.

While she soaks up all of the man’s attention, I sulk in a corner by a display of jewelry. My part is done, and whatever spark there was dissolves into nothing as always. I tell myself: Let Rita be Rita. I’ll be me. I can endure a few more days, learning my lessons, discovering my limits, and practicing humility.

In the background, Rita has chosen a doll that reminds her of her sister. She giggles as she shows the doll, whose arms are made of decorative teaspoons, to Vera. Vera is not sure about the similarities, but agrees that it’ll be a nice gift as long as Rita doesn’t say that it looks like Sigal. 

I watch Rita follow the Brazilian to the table by the door, where he gift-wraps the doll. She asks him if he sells leather bracelets like the one on his wrist. 

“No,” he says. He got that one in Brazil. 

I leave the gallery and wait for her and Vera in the empty courtyard. I’m beyond relieved she didn’t try to negotiate the price down. And I refuse to watch her perform the schtick she does whenever she meets a Brazilian, and pretend that it’s cute.