To Heat or Not to Heat (48)

 

A knock on the door brings me back to the present and to Rita, who surely isn’t bothered by the spirits of our beleaguered ancestors. I grab my jacket and scarf, then open the door. Rita and Vera are standing outside, bundled in their jackets. The sun had descended behind the mountain range, leaving the narrow alley darker and colder than when I entered my room.    

“Are you ready?” Rita asks.

I gather my key, phone, and some euros before stepping outside. I’m not optimistic about finding an open café or restaurant since I haven’t seen any on the drive from the hotel or during my short walk through this quaint neighborhood. But you never know—there might be something hidden away somewhere.

“Do you like your place upstairs?” I ask Vera, who is standing in front of the door. I’m sure she’ll say it’s okay since she isn’t one to complain, but I want to show her that I care. After all, I suggested staying at this place.

“It’s clean,” Vera shrugs, as if admitting something she finds hard to believe. It makes me wonder if she expected it not to be clean because the room is inside a centuries-old stone house or if this is how she expresses approval. I don’t know, and I can’t guess how she thinks.

“I turned the heater on, so when we get back, the room will be warm," she adds, zipping up her jacket to make a point about the temperature.

“Good thinking,” I compliment her. My room, too, was quite cold, but I was too preoccupied with its eerie atmosphere to consider turning the heater on.

“Go in, turn it on. We’ll wait for you,” she suggests, letting her maternal side emerge again, which I find so endearing—just like when she paid for my tram ticket in Lisbon and refused to let me repay her.

“Come on, let’s go,” Rita intervenes, impatient. Of course, Rita has to stop Vera’s maternal eruption. The quintessential jealous child is offended. Mommy is supposed to worry only about me, and these niceties are out of place.

“Let her go and turn on the heater,” Vera insists. “It will be freezing when she returns.”

I’m impressed she is arguing on my behalf and unsure where this goodwill came from. Less than an hour ago, she accused me of forgetting her in the car, and now she worries about my well-being. How sweet of her. Vera never ceases to surprise me.

“Fine,” Rita sighs, conspicuously pulling at her pockets in search of her phone. “Just do it quickly. It’s going to be dark soon.”

I don’t want to come between Rita and Vera. The last thing I need to do is take sides. Although I know Rita isn’t one to hold a grudge with her “be happy don’t worry” disposition, the situation is delicate, and there’s no need to escalate. I gather that the best thing to do is obey both of them and go turn that heater on.

Fortunately, we are still outside my door. I turn around with the key in hand, unlock the door, and enter, leaving the door wide open to let the light in. I set the heater to low. In my heart, I know I don’t need to turn it on; Vera wouldn’t know either way. But the room is cold, and it will get colder after nightfall, so why not? I guess it’s because I feel guilty about leaving Umberto with a high heating bill and acting like a spoiled and inconsiderate tourist. I never leave the heater on when I’m not at home just to keep it warm for when I come back. I can only hope electricity is cheap here and that maybe the heater is energy-efficient—get me off the hook.

I rejoin Rita and Vera, who have already started walking down the alley in the opposite direction from which we entered the neighborhood. Across the valley, I can see the sun setting, almost touching the tops of the mountains. The last light paints the stone walls in soft orange hues, casting a peaceful glow over the narrow alley. The houses on both sides are attached, but now and then, there is a gap between them, allowing us to see the houses on the street below. Through one of these spaces, between ivy-covered stone houses, 19th-century-style streetlights, and wooden shutters, we glimpse the top of a tall building with white walls. Under the slanted red roof, inside a circle of words too small to read from a distance, some Hebrew words are large enough to be seen: Bet Eliahu.

“This must be the synagogue,” Rita notes.

We head towards the building, winding through narrow alleyways and descending old stone stairs until we reach it. Now I can see the Portuguese beneath the Hebrew words: Sinagoga Bet Eliahu. Two enormous brown doors, adorned with a dark Jewish menorah, take up nearly the entire front of the building. No one is around, and we can’t hear any sounds from inside. No cars are parked outside, even though the street overlooking the valley is wider than the alleys we passed on our way down here.

We stand in front of the giant doors, trying to decide what to do. 

Casa Dona Branca Dias (47)

I am not religious and I don’t believe in God. I don’t pray—even when the airplane I’m flying in shakes violently during turbulence. I close my eyes and curse silently until the shaking subsides and I can breathe again. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason nor do I console myself with the other cliches that help humanity survive existential calamities. If I enter a synagogue, which is extremely rare, it is not to pray. I don’t fast on Yom Kippur or light Shabat candles. I don’t keep kosher, and even though I prefer not to eat pork or shrimp, it is mostly because of health reasons and habit, not for fear of divine punishment. Yet, despite all this, because I was born in Israel and Hebrew is my mother tongue, I have a strong Jewish consciousness and Israeli sensibilities.

This is why I know that what I sense in this random Airbnb room in the old part of Belmonte is something only a Jew could recognize. It is the heaviness of Jewish history—something that happened here long ago. I don’t want to feel it. I didn’t plan to feel it. But it keeps hitting me. When the tuk-tuk driver insisted on showing us the public squares where Jews were burnt, hung, and tortured in Lisbon, I turned him down. But here, in Belmonte, in this small room, it has finally caught up with me, forcing me to accept that Jewishness is in my blood. Simmering in the unconscious regions of my being whether I’m aware of it or not. They say the body keeps the score, so it must be in my cells, in the nuclei where my hereditary material has been stored since the beginning of days—or, as others may say, since we left Egypt or Jerusalem, whichever works.

It’s the same sensation I felt years ago when I sat in front of the Sephardi Chief Rabbi of the Jerusalem Rabbinical Court during his visit to San Francisco. That meeting, too, made me feel a connection to my Jewishness which, until that moment, I didn’t know existed inside me. It is like the feeling that washes over me when I hear the Israeli national anthem: Od lo avda tikvatenu… You hear it again and again and it becomes part of your cellular memory.

The rabbi agreed to see me after his wife spoke on my behalf when she heard about me from a mutual friend. I came to ask him about the status of my daughter, who was born to a non-Jewish father. I did it for her sake rather than for mine. I wanted to make sure that if for some reason in the future, she decided to enter the Jewish faith, she would be accepted as an equal. I also wanted to know if I could recite the mourner’s Kaddish in honor of my parents who recently passed away, even though I am a woman and, traditionally, this prayer is recited only by men.

I know this sounds contradictory because I am secular and a non-believer and shouldn’t care about these things. I also know I was not trying to please anyone or get points to ensure my entry into heaven. Besides, the Kaddish is a prayer that praises God not the dead. So why did I want to do it? Why did I care? Why did I want to recite Aramaic words that penetrate my soul when I hear them? Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba…

I had no answers then, and I have none now. I only know these words resonated inside me in a frequency that dissolved any intellectual resistance. They had nothing to do with faith, commandments, or good deeds. Perhaps it was a desire to belong to something larger than the self, even though, I didn’t think in those terms or aspired to anything resembling a religious awakening in those days.

The rabbi was dressed in the traditional uniform of ultra-Orthodox men: a white shirt, black jacket, and wide-brimmed black hat. A long, bushy beard with a few gray strands hid his neck, and thick eyebrows above his reading glasses completed the look. He was sitting in a small auditorium reading something when I entered. He put the book on the table by his side and invited me to sit in front of him. 

I wasn’t sure how he’d react to me, a secular woman who had never spoken to a rabbi, especially a Sephardic rabbi. Not only am I an Ashkenazi Jew, but I also lack any religious etiquette. I didn’t know how to behave near a rabbi except that I shouldn’t try to shake his hand. I also didn’t know if I had to use special honorifics or greetings. I was afraid he’d be preachy and patronizing, that he’d lecture me on the need to draw closer to God and the Torah. Instead, he was friendly and curious about my story. He wanted to know how I heard about him, where I grew up, and if I ever visited my family in Israel. He was impressed when he heard that my mother was born in Jerusalem. I think I scored a few points when I told him that. 

After I explained what bothered me, he promised me that my daughter was as Jewish as can be and that he had no problem with me reciting the Kaddish.

“You can recite it anywhere you want, even in a synagogue,” he said. “Just tell them I said so,” he added when he saw the surprise on my face.

It felt so natural to talk to him. There was not one awkward moment in our conversation nor a word I regretted uttering. For a second I thought he was even entertained by my request. The contradictions I presented probably did not make much sense to him, but he carried on without showing any displeasure or bewilderment. 

On my way out of the auditorium, I felt like I was emerging from a meeting with one of our sages of blessed memory who shaped Jewish laws and rituals two thousand years ago. Against all my expectations, I experienced a deep connection with him, as if we had met more than once before when I still understood and practiced religion. I knew it was that Jewish thing that made me feel it—not anything he said or did. It was just there, between us, something beyond words and logic or belief and wishful thinking. It was in my DNA, not in my brain. Otherwise, there is no explanation.

It is the same thing that makes me feel the Jewish history swirling inside this room in Belmonte. The room looks modern with its obvious mass-produced furniture, the fridge, the microwave, the electric heater, and the glass-walled shower. But the thick stone walls, the low ceiling, and somehow even the air hold inside them the stories of the Crypto Jews who lived here. I can feel the weight of their presence around me, not suffocating or ominous but light and elusive. It is not a happy presence for sure. It is secretive, inquisitive, and not very friendly—used to hide from nosy neighbors, the cruel Church authorities, and daylight. It needs time to become familiar with me and for me to become familiar with it. Luckily it is still daytime so there is no reason to feel uncomfortable.

I park my carry-on by the bed and shove the plastic bag containing the little food I bought in Porto into the small fridge: a couple of rolls, tomatoes, cheese, cookies, and tea bags. Later, I might make tea and sit by the round table to read about the history of this town, which would help me understand why this room feels so haunted.

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 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.   

Obrigada, Senhora (45)

We leave the hotel to look for the elusive casas in the old quarter. Rita suggests I walk through the neighborhood to ask if anyone knows about the two guesthouses while she waits in the car with Vera. I agree wholeheartedly. It's getting cold, and dragging our luggage over cobblestone streets will not be fun, even in tennis shoes. It will also be noisy, and I don’t want to antagonize the locals. I just hope I find the casas before it gets dark. But first, we need to find the neighborhood.

We drive past the park and take the right fork, as instructed at the hotel. A few minutes later, Rita pulls into a parking spot without making a single U-turn or asking the nonexistent pedestrians for directions. I’m not sure it’s the same lot marked on the map, but who cares? The place looks safe enough to leave a car overnight. And I trust Rita. When it comes to finding the way in a car, she's a magician.

I get out and scan my options. The fortress we passed earlier rises above the neighborhood. Below it, clusters of olive trees huddle on two terraces enclosed by walls reminiscent of the Old City of Jerusalem. It makes me feel somewhat jaded, like I already know this place, even though I have no idea where I am.

Two alleyways stretch in front of me, bordered by tightly packed houses, one or two stories high. Potted plants stand guard on the pavement by the doors and on staircases, and some walls are hidden behind thick, climbing vines. The brownish-gray stones that make up the external walls of these small houses come in all shapes and sizes, glued together in a mysterious order with mortar. These mismatched, weathered stones make me realize these houses were built to insulate the inhabitants from the extreme winter cold and summer heat—long before air conditioning. No wonder I feel like I’ve stepped back several centuries.

I choose one alley, hoping to find someone to point me to the casas. I worry that going door-to-door to find a name on a plaque could take too long, and the two women waiting in the car will quickly lose patience; especially Rita, with her certified ADD diagnosis.

Since there isn’t a soul on the street, I start doing exactly what I didn’t want to do. I look for signs on every door. My worry that it will be dark before I finish investigating the entire neighborhood is eased when I spot a woman walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more her old age becomes apparent. She is dressed in black, her shoulders draped in a black knitted shawl, her long hair pulled back and tied in a gray bun. She is slightly hunched over, leaning on a cane, bearing centuries of cumulative wrinkles. In short, she looks as old as the houses surrounding us. I doubt she’ll understand my Portuguese, let alone know anything about the guesthouses. But I have to give it a chance.

“Boa tarde, Senhora,” I say, pronouncing the rolling R as if I was born speaking Portuguese.

The woman stops to examine me. In her world, life moves slowly and I must give her time to absorb what she sees in front of her. She does not look suspicious of me or dismissive. She can tell I am a foreigner, no matter my fluency in Portuguese. She nods and wishes me a good evening.

Still using my best Portuguese, I tell her I am looking for Casa Dona Branca Dias and Casa Don José Vizinho and ask if she knows where I can find them. I hope I am using the correct formal speech since she looks much older than I am and I have little practice speaking this way. I don’t want to offend her or sound like a total idiot even though I am not a native speaker and she should cut me some slack.

To my surprise, the woman understands me. She also knows the houses and offers to take me there. I can barely believe my luck. She understands me, she knows where these houses are, and despite the cane, she insists on walking there with me when I ask for directions. This must be my lucky day.

She moves slowly but steadily. I walk beside her, deeply grateful for her kindness. Rita and Vera can wait a few more minutes in the car while I savor the moment—walking with a woman who seems to have stepped out of another century to show me the way to my next Airbnb.

I take the opportunity to ask if she knows Umberto, the owner of the casas. She doesn’t, but she knows about the houses rented to tourists. She says this without judgment or resentment, which I appreciate. I don’t want her to feel ill will toward me for being one of the tourists who stays in these houses. And here they are: two doors, side by side, with the nameplates hanging next to them.

I thank her, and she takes my hand between her small, gnarled hands—veined and twisted with age—and squeezes it, wishing me a good stay. Her gesture fills me with overflowing gratitude. What a cherished and unexpected moment to have lived through when I feel so distant from normalcy. Finally, I experience a connection that is not exploitative or transactional; just two women meeting on the street shortly before sunset.

GPS and Google Maps will never allow this encounter nor will a domineering tour guide who knows everything. I hope it’s a good omen for what lies ahead. 

Hotel Sinai (44)

By the time we see the hotel and Rita maneuvers the Toyota into a small parking spot on the edge of town, I’ve already congratulated myself for persuading her to spend a night in Belmonte and stay at Umberto’s Airbnbs. The night in Lisbon, when she got excited about Fado, was the last time she agreed to one of my suggestions. She even became hostile when I suggested something less touristy than she had in mind, so I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know what made her agree to stay in Belmonte, and I shouldn’t care. It’s a positive development that I have to embrace and applaud.

Even before we enter the hotel, I can tell it caters to Israelis. A menorah and the Hebrew words “Mount Sinai” are painted in blue on the facade of the building. For those who cannot read Hebrew, the uncapitalized words “belmonte sinai” are mounted underneath the Hebrew, with “monte” emphasized for effect. The word HOTEL is plastered on the gray portico above the wide glass door, leaving no doubt about the function of the building. Clearly, some thought went into making the hotel welcoming to Hebrew, English, and Portuguese visitors. In any case, I am sure the Hebrew signs make Israeli visitors feel welcome and safe.

Not so for me. I have to navigate Rita’s need to interfere in any interactions that don’t put her at the center of attention. She can’t allow me to take charge, especially when it means talking to the woman at the front desk about Umberto’s Airbnbs. She has to prove she knows better, even though I’m not competing with her. After all, she is the undisputed expert in speaking to strangers and getting the best deal. 

Booking hotel rooms and staying in nice hotels is second nature for her. It is also a lifestyle choice. Before Freddy came along, she stayed in cheap motels while traveling to arts and crafts fairs, or whenever her tourist clients didn’t cover her room. But after Freddy entered her life, she learned to treat hotels as a second home like he did. According to her, Freddy preferred living in hotels over the cramped shack he occupied on the edge of his family’s estate. He didn’t like changing sheets or doing the laundry, and living in hotels was the best solution to this problem. She shared this interesting detail with me after she visited him there at the beginning of their affair. His room contained a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, empty food containers, and giant spiders. I only hope he doesn’t show up here, unannounced, like he does sometimes when she leaves him alone at home for too long. 

Unlike her, though, I avoid hotels when I can. Apart from the fact that the nice ones are pricy, I find them somewhat disgusting, even those that look clean. I’ve seen too many investigative reports about housekeepers who cut corners and guests who do unspeakable things in their rooms. So, I prefer sleeping in a tent under the stars or staying at friends’ houses when I can. Unfortunately, that option doesn’t exist in Portugal. Here, it’s either a hotel or an Airbnb. 

The woman at the front desk is not surprised when I tell her in Portuguese that I’m Umberto’s friend and I need to speak to his business partner. From the way she responds, it is obvious that I am not the first person he has sent to the hotel for one reason or another. Even my Portuguese does not cause her to ask where I am from, which is a good sign. She is not going to box me in any of her preconceived notions like they do in the States every time I open my mouth.

She says the guy will be back in a couple of hours but that she can help us in the meantime.

I tell her we have just arrived in town and need a place to stay. 

Rita, who stands next to me with her face buried in her phone as always, asks me in Hebrew to tell the woman we only need two rooms. She will share the room with Vera. She doesn’t understand what I am saying, of course, but she knows what the conversation is about. What is no doubt the opening salvo in her takeover of the conversation is interrupted when her phone chimes. Against my expectations, she leaves me and goes to the lobby where she can talk or text to her heart's content. 

Even though I am sure the woman does not understand Hebrew, she says there are no properties with two bedrooms, but she can give us two one-bedroom houses next to each other. She hands me two simple keys and explains that the properties have names, not numbers. That reminds me that Umberto named his properties after prominent Jews who lived in Portugal during the Inquisition. I saw pictures of some properties on his Facebook page with prices next to them, but I can’t remember their names or the prices. 

The woman promises that it won’t be difficult to locate them. I only have to ask people on the street where I can find Casa Jose Vizinho and Casa Dona Branca Dias. She shows me the names carved on the leather tags attached to the key holders in case I forget. 

And on what street are they located? I ask. This situation is a little unexpected but is still manageable.

She doesn’t know the street’s name and is not even sure it has one. But she can show me how to find it on a map. She pulls out a glossy pamphlet and unfolds it. It’s a map of the historical center of town—more of a picture than a map, with numbers along two main routes marking parking lots, museums, and the park we passed on our way here. The other side features a photo of a statue of a man, the castle, and the town’s emblem. I notice that the north arrow is pointing toward the bottom, which completely disorients me. But she’s unperturbed.

With a blue pen, she draws a circle around one number on one end of the map, telling me this is where we are. From there, she draws a line along one of the routes until it reaches the other end of the map. She draws a circle around the letter P and a rua something I can’t read because the letters are so small they require a magnifying glass. 

“The rooms should be in this area,” she says, circling the name of the street with the pen over and over as if it will make it easier for me to read if she only draws another circle. I nod, even though I have no idea how to use this map to find anything.

“Make sure to park in the marked area,” she says circling the P again. “There is no street parking in that part of town.” 

I notice a tiny star of David at the top of the map and wonder what it might be. A Jewish museum? A synagogue? A kosher restaurant? Will anything be open on a Friday night? We might even meet some Israelis. That will cheer up Rita. Nothing makes her happier than having a fresh audience to mesmerize with her quirky stories.

“You can’t get lost,” the woman interrupts my reverie. “It’s a small town. After you pass the park, stay on the right side of the road. Then you will find it.”

I don’t tell her that I’ll hand this silly map to Rita and hope she figures it out because I don’t know how you find houses that don’t have street names or numbers. Instead, I take out my credit card and put it on the counter. I have a vague notion that’s what you do when you get the key to a hotel room. Or is it your passport that you present? 

She pushes the card back toward me. “I don’t need it now,” she says. “You pay when you return the keys.”

“Do you need me to leave my passport?” I ask. She must want some sort of deposit to ensure I return the keys and pay for the rooms. I am not sure what else I am supposed to do. Until now, Rita has communicated with the Airbnb hosts and nothing has seemed extraordinary. But this woman is sending me with keys to an unknown destination without asking for anything in return. How does she know I will return the keys and pay for the rooms? 

“It’s okay,” she smiles. “You pay when you come back with the keys.” She speaks slower now, like people addressing foreigners who don’t understand their language. 

I understand you quite well, I want to say, but I don’t.

As if she can read my mind, she adds, “In Belmonte we trust people.”

“I like that,” I say, collecting the keys. “See you tomorrow.”

“Até amanhã,” she repeats, with no doubt in her voice.

 

Two Men on the Street (43)

It takes her two minutes to reorient herself. Without hesitation, she steers the car downhill as if she has already figured out the town’s layout. The streets we pass are narrow; some are paved with cobblestones and others are covered with cracked blacktops that make them look run down but still quaint. The town’s general feel is decidedly not modern despite the few unattractive apartment buildings that look completely out of place and in need of a paint job. 

“Where do you think the hotel is?” Vera asks Rita, more out of habit than curiosity.

“Somewhere around here,” Rita shrugs. 

Where else can it be if not around here, somewhere?

“You can look on your phone,” Vera suggests even though Rita doesn’t seem worried. This woman took us from Lisbon to Porto and all the way here and made only one U-turn when she entered a dead-end street in Peniche when we were looking for a bathroom. I don’t know how she does it. If it were me, we would still be looking for the airport exit. But for her, the hotel is just another place she has to find. Her ability to find her way without losing her cool is admirable.

She ignores Vera’s advice and slows down. Two middle-aged men are standing on the sidewalk, one wearing a black yarmulke and the other smoking a cigarette. Rita rolls down the window and stops the car next to them.  

“Excuse me,” she calls out the window in English, punctuated by a heavy Hebrew accent. “You know where Hotel Sinai?” She pronounces the hotel’s name See-Nai, the way Hebrew speakers do, and omits miscellaneous grammar words like ‘is’ and 'do' because Hebrew does not behave like English. 

The men stop talking and the guy with the yarmulka approaches our car. “Shalom, at medaberet ivrit?” he asks in Hebrew. He recognizes immediately that she is Israeli. Her strong accent is a clear giveaway.

“Of course I speak Hebrew,” she responds in Hebrew. 

The man reminds me of the Israeli types I used to see working in electronics stores in New York City in the early 80s. His belly hangs over his pants, and his light blue shirt looks frumpy. I am sure he’s not a local who learned Hebrew in Sunday school—if that even exists in Portugal. He’s probably here buying real estate and selling it to the Israelis who have been flocking to Portugal in the last decade. It’s not his fault I have a bad impression of him, but I have a knee-jerk reaction to men who sound Israeli and wear black yarmulkes. I might feel differently if he wore a colorful yarmulke and an oversized cotton shirt with intricate embroidery. But, Rita is unperturbed by black yarmulkes. She is happy to meet someone who speaks Hebrew and who might know the area. 

“Are you from Israel?” the man asks in Hebrew. He’s so excited that he forgets she asked for directions.

“Yes,” Rita says. In other circumstances, she would fall into a chirpy conversation, telling him she lives in America and what she does there. But right now, bonding with him is not a priority. She’s been driving all day and wants to get things done. Besides, Vera is next to her, ready to remind her to find a place to spend the night. “We are looking for Hotel See-Nai” she repeats. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes. Continue down this street,” he gestures in the direction we came from. “You will pass a park, then turn left. The hotel is right there, on the right side of the street.” 

I don’t mind asking people for directions when I am lost, but as soon as they say, “Go straight and then turn left or right at the stop sign and then…,” I go blank. My brain can remember only one detail. After that, I have to ask someone else about the next turn. I’m hopeless when it comes to retaining this type of information. But if the information does not include “turn right then left,” there is a small chance I will remember it. 

The best directions I’ve ever gotten were from my brother, who has interesting ideas about giving directions. I was driving with a friend to meet him in northern Italy and asked him for the address of his hotel. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t know the hotel’s name or even the street it was on, so the directions he gave me sounded like this: “When you approach the city, look for a large IKEA billboard and take the exit immediately after you see it. Then, get on the street and make sure the sun is at your back.” As outrageous as it sounded, we found him leaning on a street pole waiting for us in front of the nameless hotel. All I had to remember was IKEA and the sun in my back. That was easy.

But Rita has to remember a few more details.

“Is this your first time in Belmonte?” the man asks Rita, trying to prolong the conversation. I can't tell if he’s doing it because he is friendly, polite, nosy, or excited to meet another Israeli. I only hope he doesn’t try to sell us anything.

“Yes, someone recommended it to us,” Rita says.

“All the Israelis who come to Belmonte stay at Hotel See-Nai,” he says. 

“Many Israelis come here?” Rita asks. 

“Yes. Belmonte is very popular. Lots to see,” he promises.

“Yofi, toda. Shabbat Shalom,” Rita concludes as if she were talking to him on the street in Israel.

“Shabbat Shalom to you, too,” the man returns the greeting. His companion who has a large gold Star of David pendant on a chain around his neck offers us a Shabbat Shalom as if exchanging Shabbat greetings in some random Portuguese town is the most natural thing in the world.

And off we go down the street to look for a park and then turn right or left—I already forgot.