As we emerge from an alley onto a main street, I spot a neighborhood supermercado. We weren’t looking for one, but it occurs to me we should go in and explore the local offerings. I might find nuts dipped in something unexpected or some other culinary novelty to remind me of Portugal, instead of a tacky souvenir. One thing I’m sure of: we don’t need toilet paper. We still have the extra rolls Rita bought in Lisbon, sitting in the trunk of our fancy Toyota and taking up too much space.
Near the supermercado, in the roundabout, stands a tall metal installation of three women in colorful dresses balancing loaves of bread and flowers on their heads. It must mean something. Probably a Catholic ritual they celebrate around here. I’ll have to google it later, like everything else I see in this country. I resist the urge to take a picture. Not everything needs proof; some things can be left to memory.
Rita and Vera don’t object to entering the supermercado. We’re not in a rush, and buying stuff is always a fun activity, for Rita anyway. Besides, we need to stock up on groceries. The last time we were in a supermarket was on the way to Peniche, which feels like an eternity ago, somewhere between pastel de nata and francisinha.
Only two other customers are inside, causing our small group to stick out like the foreigners we are, moving awkwardly between the narrow aisles and trying to decipher the contents of unfamiliar packages. A shelf brimming with jars catches my eye. I stop to read the labels. There’s no picture on the orange labels to clue in those who don’t know Portuguese. I read doce de abóbora, which gives me an advantage over those who like pumpkin jam but cannot read the language. I’ve never had pumpkin jam. I know pumpkin pie, soup, and bread, but I’m not crazy about any of them unless they’re mixed with ingredients that are free of cloves. But this is Portugal, and I feel adventurous, so I pick two jars and place them in my basket. I could gift them or bring them to a Thanksgiving gathering as a curiosity item from my trip.
“What’s this?” Rita asks, appearing out of nowhere and pointing at the jars in my basket. Her voice is a mix of curiosity and envy, as if she’s saying, I want what you have, even though I don’t know what it is.
“Pumpkin jam.”
“Where did you find it?” she asks.
“Right here,” I say, pointing to the shelf.
She steps in front of me, grabs one jar, and puts it in her basket.
“Is it any good?” I ask. Maybe she knows something I don’t?
“I don’t know,” she laughs. “But I can give it to someone.”
Suddenly, I see her in all her sad glory. For the first time, I’m not irritated. I realize that her constant noise and jubilance hide deep insecurity and a childish desire to be adored, accepted, and loved, as cheesy as it may sound. This behavior shouldn’t make me feel annoyed or indignant. It must be exhausting to live like this.
What surprises me is that only this morning, I saw her stepping all over me, co-opting my experience to impress the world, erasing me with her need to feel more visible. But now, I see something else: a little girl wanting, acting out her insecurity. She even has her mother here to hold her hand, metaphorically, of course. How could I not see it? It has nothing to do with me. I’m just a mirror.
I don’t know why I didn’t see it until now. Perhaps I was too absorbed in my own insecurities to see clearly. But somehow, in the intensity of being together every day, this small moment opened my eyes. Now I understand the insults, the giggles, the demands for appreciation. My seething silence. I see it all, and I am no longer offended. I should let go of my frustration and feel less judgmental toward her.
I hope I’ll be able to protect myself by remembering this moment, at least until we land back in Israel.
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