When I open my bedroom door, I see Rita sprawled on the couch in the same position I left her last night, sleeping under a blanket pulled over her midsection. The teacup I put on the table in front of her stands in the same spot, still full. She’s not much of a tea drinker, my brain notes before another thought occurs to me. She was too tired to be bothered, but not tired enough to sleep in her street clothes since she changed into her loose Minnie Mouse tunic before collapsing back on the couch.
“Good morning,” Vera greets me from her spot at the small table by the window. Like all the other mornings on this trip, she’s the first to rise and start the day. She probably already spoke to her husband and heard the latest family news, as well as whatever crisis is gripping the country.
“Did she sleep here all night?” I whisper, instead of responding with a good morning and asking Vera if she slept well, which would be the polite thing to do. The problem is that I can’t ignore what I see, a repeat of the mornings in Lisbon.
“I don’t know,” Vera says. “She was here when I got up.”
Fair enough. No reason to push further. I don’t want to sound invasive.
“Shall we wake her up?” I ask, feeling conspiratorial and guilty at the same time. Rita is not getting much sleep on this trip, and part of it might be my fault. I insisted on having a room for myself.
“I’m already awake,” Rita mumbles into the couch.
“Sigal wants to know what time we land tomorrow,” Vera says without missing a beat. Nothing surprises her, and if anything does, she doesn’t show it.
“I’ll text her later,” Rita says to the couch, her hand searching for the phone under the cushion. “I don’t remember now.”
Since I don’t need to hear what else Vera discussed with Sigal, and what Rita will say in response, I go to my room to prepare for departure. It’s our last full day in Portugal, and I hope it will be a good one. We made it through the week without a major crisis despite Anna’s doom and gloom and my super critical attitude. It turns out I can behave myself when I want to keep the peace, so I’m going to continue whatever I’m doing and enjoy whatever comes my way.
* * *
We cross the old part of town and the main square, again, this time heading toward the Convento de Cristo. We decide to walk up the hill because Rita prefers to leave the car, loaded with our stuff, in its shaded spot, and Vera is happy to comply. As always, she doesn’t ask for special considerations, not that I worried she would. The woman is a good sport and loves to prove it. Luckily, we don’t have to carry anything heavy, and the fifteen-minute walk on the moderately steep, winding trail doesn’t feel like much of a challenge, even for Vera.
Like most places we have visited, I don’t know what to expect, but knowing that this castle, which began as a twelfth-century Templar fortress and evolved into a convent, is a UNESCO World Heritage site gives me hope that it will be a treat. And it doesn’t disappoint. The entrance is already promising. The place looks almost abandoned, with only a few visitors walking toward the gates, cameras at the ready. To top it off, there is no entrance fee.
As soon as we enter, I’m bombarded by so much art and architecture that I can barely digest what’s in front of me: enclosed courtyards surrounded by arched hallways and granite pillars, magnificent stone carvings, and walls covered in white and blue tiles. Who would have thought such a treasure would hide behind these fortified walls?
Within minutes, I lose Rita and Vera, but I’m not worried. Though we didn’t set a place or time to regroup, I’m sure we'll cross paths somewhere, as we did in Óbidos. In the meantime, I walk around and appreciate the explosion of architectural styles, from Gothic to Renaissance to Baroque, and others I can’t name.
When I arrive at the most stunning part of the convent, the Rotunda, or Round Church, inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which I visited two years ago, I realize reluctantly that I have to shed some of my anti-tourism sentiments. If I weren’t a tourist, I wouldn’t be seeing this mind-boggling gem of a church. It’s too beautiful for words. I can’t stop taking pictures, even though I know I’m overreacting. I don’t recall having this reaction at the church in Jerusalem. I only remember standing behind hordes of people in front of something meaningful to Believers but unknown to me, and a priest swinging an incense burner back and forth in an empty hall. But here, I‘m by myself, surrounded by so much beauty, and it takes my breath away. So maybe not all tourism is bad, only the sites that become too popular and overcrowded. Since this place is not one of the Seven Wonders of the World, or the original spot where Jesus was crucified and buried, I can enjoy it without pushing my way through busloads of humanity or worrying about pickpockets or unscrupulous guides.
As I stand under the canopy of paintings and frescoes, surrounded by biblical scenes and angels in shades of blue, gold, pink, and white, I can’t help but think about what it’s like to live near a place where history is constantly in your face, mostly intact or perfectly restored, not buried under mounds of dirt or left to crumble on a hilltop like in ancient Israel. Here, you step out of your house, and the moment you look up, you’re reminded of the men who lived, prayed, and prepared for war in the centuries that preceded you. Then you enter the castle, or fortress, or convent, or whatever you want to call it, and the beauty hits you from every corner, making you realize that even when they built protective walls, battlements, and towers, they still made sure everything would be pleasing to the eye.
I have to force myself to leave the church and continue my expedition. If I ever feel an urge to be surrounded by this beauty, I’ll go online or review the photos I took on my phone despite my general rule not to take pictures of touristy sites. I already know that images of this convent can be found all over the internet, so there’s no reason to indulge my inner photographer in subjects that are obvious to anyone. I mean, how original can I be at such a highly photographed site? There are only so many angles from which I can take pictures of stonewalls covered in moss, or rows of Tuscan columns and arches, or red roofs. I like photos that tell a story, not just remind me that I went somewhere and saw something.
On a wide balcony overlooking an interior courtyard, I run into Vera and Rita. Rita is itching to leave. She’s seen enough and wants to return to the car and head to Lisbon before it starts to rain. Vera is fine with whatever we decide to do, which means I’m not going to insist on spending more time here even though I'd love to continue exploring a little more. However, as the backseat passenger, I have to accept whatever the front seat dwellers prefer. I’m definitely not going to start an argument at this stage of the trip. We have made it this far without a crisis, and I'm committed to crossing the finish line in peace.
