Back to Lisbon (62)

I’m trying to find words to describe what I feel after a week of bouncing from one place to another, barely understanding the context of each stop, sometimes overwhelmed, sometimes nearly offended. Probably relief mixed with gratitude that no catastrophe befell us. No one was injured, no one was robbed at knifepoint or poisoned by spoiled food. No coup or natural disaster caught us by surprise. We didn't get stuck in a snowstorm, or with an empty gas tank, or with a flat tire on a dark road. The worst that happened was hiring an impatient tuk-tuk driver and arguing with a frowny waiter. In short, nothing special to make this trip memorable or transformative, unless meeting the ghosts of Portugal’s persecuted Jews and clearing some built-up resentment toward clueless Rita count as successes.

I watch her driving from the backseat, as she navigates the car out of Tomar. This is where she feels most at home, with her foot on the gas pedal and the world flying by. I don’t know what goes on in her head when she sits at the wheel or what she got out of our week-long expedition. She didn’t show any interest in Portugal’s history, politics, or art. Maybe it’s the venturing into the unknown, discovering new places, meeting new people, and being constantly on the move that do it for her. 

“How far is Lisbon?” Vera asks.

“Not far,” Rita says, shrugging.

Their exchange makes me smile. After spending an entire week with the two of them, their conversations have become predictable. I can take comfort from knowing what to expect. No big surprises waiting for me. At least not until the next turn in the road, when out of nowhere, a perfect two-story aqueduct rises from the valley floor, not a single stone missing from its structure. 

People may not surprise me anymore, but Portugal still does.

Rita agrees to stop the car and let me get out to take a good look at this monumental engineering wonder. I haven’t seen many aqueducts in person, apart from those built by the Romans along the Mediterranean Coast in ancient Israel, not too far from where I spent my childhood. But most of the Roman aqueducts I’ve seen succumbed to the elements over the millennia and today provide only a glimpse of their past splendor. This one, however, still stands tall, its stone arches almost defiant in their perfection. 

I ask Vera if she wants to join me outside and get a better look at the aqueduct. I want to be nice to her. Compensate for the bad feelings I harbored after she dismissed my attachment to my phone charger when we were leaving Belmonte. I even offer to take a picture of her with it in the background, to show the grandkids, but she declines. She has seen enough aqueducts in her life, and this one, whether Roman or not, is no different. Her comment lands just right. She’s still who she is: dry, realistic, to the point. No beating around the bush. I relent before Rita intervenes.

I take a picture of the aqueduct against the gray skies to remind me of my last full day in Portugal. And like the good tourist that I am now, I take another picture with our car in the foreground.

Maybe to remember the comfort with which I traveled, maybe as a small statement about leaving the past behind and heading back to the present. Maybe to make the moment last a little longer, away from the city, where I can see only trees and grass around me, and enjoy the silence of the open road.

Convento de Cristo (61)

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. 

Come to think of it, the oldest structures in my small California town were built in a hurry, less than fifty years ago, without foresight or aesthetic considerations. When I step out of my house, I see a couple of three-star hotels and a parking lot that offer zero appreciation for beauty, only flat concrete and sharp angles that scare away the birds. Even the remnants of the military base, which brought thousands of soldiers to the area until 1994, leave no room for imagination—only a few dilapidated barracks covered in graffiti and an obstacle course swallowed by nature.

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.

On the Couch in Tomar (60)

I barely noticed what I ate after inflicting that mouth-numbing injury on myself, bad enough to make me almost regret going to the restaurant. Still, I’m glad we went. We did a favor for someone back home without sacrificing anything, and met Emilio, another Brazilian who’s trying to make a life in Portugal.  

 

It reminds me of when a friend asked me to put a note for her in the Western Wall after I told her I was traveling to Israel to visit my family. She wanted me to ask god to help her get pregnant after several failed pregnancies and IVF treatments. She wasn’t even Jewish. I agreed to do it, even though I hadn’t planned to travel to Jerusalem, let alone visit the Wall. I don’t believe in god, and I don’t put notes in walls asking for miracles. Then a childhood friend suggested we spend a day in Jerusalem. During a stop at the Western Wall, I wrote a note and posed for the camera, pushing it between the stones. I felt ridiculous, but I wanted to make her happy. And she got pregnant, though not by her husband, which made me think I should have been more specific. I didn’t take credit for the miracle, but it gave meaning to the trip and a reason to feel good about myself.

Rita, however, doesn’t feel good. As soon as Vera enters the bedroom and closes the door, she collapses on the couch in the walk-up Airbnb she found for us and throws her keys bundle toward the coffee table. It lands on the floor, and she lets it stay there. She stretches her legs over one armrest, her feet still inside her tattered boots, and jams her head against the other.

“Are you going to spend the night like this?” I ask. It’s too early to go to bed but she looks exhausted.

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “It depends.”

I don’t have to ask “on what?” We know the answer. Instead, I ask how she slept last night. I didn’t see the inside of the upstairs apartment in Belmonte, only the staircase, but I have a feeling she had to sleep in the same room as Vera. 

“So, so,” she says, pushing the boots off her feet. It’s the first time we’re alone since she walked into my room in Porto. She can let the cheerful mask fall, knowing she doesn’t have to perform when I’m the only audience. She can be herself: achy, listless, whiny, and frustrated.

“We should stay in a three-bedroom place tomorrow so you can get a good night’s sleep,” I say. She needs to sleep in a room of her own at least every other night to recover the hours she loses when she shares a room with Vera. She knew it from day one, but chose to ignore the consequences, or maybe she thought she could handle it when she obviously couldn’t. 

“I shouldn’t have eaten your fries,” she groans in response.

That too. She shouldn’t have, and it’s partly my fault. After I bit my tongue, I couldn’t eat and offered to share the fries, which she couldn’t resist. Now, she’s paying the price of gluttony, which Anna enjoyed watching and interpreted as a sign of happiness and love of life.

“I’ll make tea,” I say and head to the kitchen to boil water. 

 

Through the window above the sink, I see the Convent of Christ silhouetted against the darkening sky. Tomorrow we’ll walk up the hill to see it up close. It’ll be the last touristy thing we do on this trip. Hopefully, it’ll be worth it. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site, and those usually don’t disappoint.

 

When I return to the living room with the tea, I find Rita snoring quietly on the couch. I put the steaming cup on the coffee table in case she wakes up, and retire to my room to reflect on everything that happened today and how to proceed from here.

Alheira (59)

My moment of epiphany gives me hope. The weight I’ve carried since watching Rita waddle to the shorter security line at SFO evaporates. I don’t feel forgiveness; I just feel clarity and relief. So when Rita suggests we go to the restaurant where Simone’s nephew works, I’m all for it. I’m open to the experience even though I decided that I was done going to restaurants with her.

“Did you check if he’s there now?” Vera wants to know.

“He texted that his shift starts at four,” Rita says.

The dance they perform, Vera asking unnecessary questions and Rita answering without losing patience, is something they often do. Rita never snaps at Vera the way she does at her son back home. Nothing Vera says or does seems to irritate her, which still surprises me. Most of my girlfriends have tensions with their mothers, as did I when my mother was alive, but not Rita. She’s comfortable around her mother, never losing her cool. 

“How far is the restaurant?” Vera continues.

“Five minutes from here,” Rita says, looking at her phone.

I guess it’s good news because Vera seems satisfied. She could ask if it’s a big restaurant, how old Simone’s nephew is, or what his name is. But she doesn’t. 

The restaurant is larger and far nicer than the smoky dive I escaped last night. An ornate wooden bar faces the entrance, and small tables line the wall across from it. A friendly woman in a shiny green dress approaches us and leads us to a separate dining room that’s still empty. Cloth napkins and water glasses give it a respectable look. She hands us three large, one-page menus printed in English and Portuguese. 

“Is Emilio here?” Rita asks before the woman can recite the specials or offer to take our drinks order, or whatever they do in Tomar after seating guests.

“Emilio?” the woman asks with a slight tilt of her head, sounding confused. 

“Yes. He said he works here. Can you tell him his friends from America want to see him?” Rita persists. I hope she’s not getting him in trouble if he’s busy in the kitchen. Hopefully, they’re more relaxed here than the places I used to work in. Vera buries her face behind the menu. Maybe she’s uncomfortable, or trying to read, I can’t be sure. I’ve noticed that sometimes she removes herself from a scene as a way to camouflage her discomfort. She doesn’t criticize Rita when she acts pushy; she hides.

The woman pauses, then nods. “Emilio. Yes, he’s here. I’ll go look for him.”

“Obrigada,” Rita says, smiling, and grabs the menu to signal that she’s done.

The woman leaves to look for Emilio. Vera puts down the menu. I decide to stay pleasant and cooperative. This is Rita’s show, and I’m not interfering. 

“What are you going to order?” Vera asks, breaking the silence. After the breakfast she had for dinner last night, she probably wants something a little more satisfying and is unsure about what she sees on the menu. 

“I don't know. We can ask Emilio,” Rita shrugs and checks the backside of the menu.  

After a few minutes, Emilio enters the dining room, dressed in the quintessential black and white waiter’s uniform and a short black apron. He’s in his mid-twenties, tall, and good-looking in a way that doesn’t make you fall off your chair. When he sees Rita, he breaks into a wide smile.

“Oi, Rita, tudo bom? You made it.” 

If they were standing up, he would have kissed her on each cheek, but Rita is sitting down, and he can’t reach her. “Tudo bom, Emilio, yes. We made it. How are you?” Rita answers, sending him two air kisses. “Como vai?” she continues. 

“Very good,” Emilio says, nodding to Vera and me with “nice to meet you, nice to meet you,” before Rita explains to him who we are. 

After a round of questions and answers about our impression of Portugal and the places we’ve been to, Rita asks, “So how’s life in Tomar?”

He likes it, even though not much is happening here compared to Lisbon, especially for people his age. But it’s safe, and people are nice. He’s renting a room not far from the city center and goes to nursing school during the day. While he speaks, he leans on the chair next to Vera, the way tall waiters do when they want to create a casual atmosphere.

“When you decide to go to school? Simone know you going to school?” Rita asks. Her broken English usually bothers me because it feels lazy and performative, but now I’m not letting it bother me. 

“There are no good jobs around, and someone suggested I go to school, so I signed up and work here in the evenings,” he explains.  

“You like working here?” Vera interjects in a maternal voice.

“It’s a good job. Pays the rent and school,” he answers, like an American that he’s not.

“That’s great,” I add, to avoid looking antisocial.

A group of people enters the dining room and is led to a table by the woman in the green dress. They look local, which reassures me that we are not sitting in a tourist trap.

“Do you know what you want to order?” Emilio asks. His time is running out, and he knows it.

Rita and I know what we want, but Vera is not sure and asks for a recommendation. Rita takes a chance on the bacalhau despite her bad experience with this fish in Lisbon: shredded cod, cooked with onion, fried potatoes, and scrambled eggs, and, of course, a salad. I ask for the alheira de frango com batata frita, to pay homage to the Jews of Belmonte. During my visit to the museum, I learned that Jews stuffed sausages with bread and chicken instead of pork and hung them by the window, just like their neighbors. That’s how chicken sausage entered Portuguese cuisine. Vera is not tempted. After some back and forth with Emilio, she settles for a simpler version of Rita’s meal, skipping the fried sides and going for the boiled version.

Emilio scribbles our order on a small notepad he pulls from his apron pocket and heads toward the group that settled on the other side of the dining room. As he walks away, I watch him and feel a little twinge of envy. I came to Portugal to see if I could retire here, where the sun shines 300 days a year, the language is accessible, and real estate won’t bankrupt me. Instead, watching him wait tables and talk about his new life, I realize that I’d rather be young and starting over than settling into retirement. I’m sure he struggles like any other immigrant, even if for him, this move might be easier because he speaks the language. But Portugal is not Brazil, that much is clear to me.

“He made a good decision,” Vera says once he’s out of earshot. “He’ll be able to work anywhere.”

“I told Simone not to worry about him. I knew he’d be fine,” Rita says.

Their exchange reminds me that Rita took a nursing assistant course at a community college a few years ago, but realized it wasn’t right for her. She decided she could be making more money selling jewelry at street fairs without having to lift bedbound patients and bathe them. And this is how the healthcare profession lost a gifted nurse aide who knew how to cheer up a dying person without ever freaking out. While she was in training, I heard about her ability to sit with people as they drew their last breath and never doubted her, despite her tendency to embellish. I decide to say something nice to practice the new me. Focus on the positive and make her feel good.

“You would have been an excellent nurse,” I say. “I remember when you took the class.”

She raises her eyes from the phone. “I could, but I didn’t want to,” she shrugs and pretends to smile with her mouth, but not her eyes. 

Well, you can’t blame me for not trying. 

                                                    * * * 

Emilio brings our food and sets the plates in front of us. Everything looks good, especially my fries, which I’m happy to nibble and not share with anyone. The salad is unimpressive, more decoration than a real salad, but that’s okay. It’s still nice to see something green on the plate. The sausage pops when I take a bite, which I’ve learned is supposedly a sign of good quality.

There is not much conversation at our table. I think we’ve said everything that needed saying in these last few days, and I’m not racking my brain to find something to talk about. Let Rita do it, or Vera, if the silence bothers her. 

As I’m silently chewing fries, I bite my tongue. And it hurts terribly, making my eyes water. I’m mad at myself and that stupid fry. How could I do this? What’s wrong with me? I try to hide my pain from Vera and Rita and continue chewing as if nothing happened. I feel too stupid to confess, even though neither will faint at the sight of blood. I’m too embarrassed to cry in pain in front of them. But I can barely endure it. I want to spit out everything and storm out of the restaurant, but I can’t. I have to control myself. Let the pain subside. 

It feels like the universe hit me with a ten-pound sledgehammer, demanding I learn to shut up and stop judging others, and even myself. Or maybe I just bit my tongue. It happens to everyone. It could be the bridge the dentist put in recently that caused my mouth to go out of alignment.

But then again, maybe it’s a lesson I have to learn the hard way. 

Doce de Abóbora (58)

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, making our small group stand 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 abobora, which gives me an advantage over those who like pumpkin jam but can't 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.

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.