A Tuk Tuk Ride (7)

My unexpected communion with the divine is cut short when Rita and her mom show up and join me at the table. The falafel balls on their plates do not look fried enough and everything next to them is not especially alluring. For a moment before the two come out, I think that maybe I’m a bit too skeptical about the idea of eating Arab food prepared by Portuguese hands. Portugal, after all, was ruled by the North African Moors for several centuries and her indigenous people might have learned a thing or two from them about frying garbanzo beans. But the limp falafel balls that lie on the plates in front of me confirm my earlier hunch that no good falafel can come out of an improvised eatery connected to an enormous tourist complex in Lisbon.

“Have a falafel,” Rita intones with her mouth full of food, generous as always.

“It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

“Come on, have one,” she shoves a ball at me. It falls apart in my hand before ever reaching my mouth. It’s crumbly and soggy.

Vera is not super impressed with the food but she is hungry and she doesn’t care much about how it tastes. Her expression denotes resignation to a tough reality mixed with determination not to complain about it.

“How is it?” I ask her.

 

“It’s good, it’s good,” she says unconvincingly. Vera is the quintessential Polish mother. She is not going to complain, no matter how much she dislikes the situation. But the way she says it lets you know that things are not optimal. I don’t know for whom she is trying to be a good sport or why she bothers. Probably out of a habit.

I started noticing that Vera was working hard on being agreeable as soon as we left the airport. During the drive into the city, she started telling me about one of her trips to New York, in which a limo driver was waiting for her at Kennedy Airport. Apparently, a family friend paid for the limo but she didn’t know that until she wanted to pay the driver. I had no idea why she thought I needed to hear that story, but etiquette required that I listen and express disbelief or something of that sort. While she was telling me the story, Rita was arguing with the Uber driver, who was insisting that the address she had given him was wrong, so immediate relief was unavailable. I knew that Vera was only trying to be friendly, but I really wanted her to stop. I also realized that I would probably be subjected to more stories of this genre over the next few days.

Anna’s reappearance on the scene puts me back on track. She went strolling down the street and came back to report on her findings. Rita knows that we have to decide what we are going to do next. There are still several hours of daylight to explore the city, but how we should do it is unclear.

The dilemma appears to have a tentative solution when Rita’s attention moves to a line of funky-looking tuk-tuks parked by the sidewalk not too far from us. She takes off to negotiate with one of the drivers of these motorized rickshaw look-alikes.

“The most famous bakery in Lisbon is only a few doors from here,” Anna informs me quietly. “It looks like from another century. And there’s a long line in front of it.”

“Did you go in?” I wonder aloud. Maybe she had one of those cholesterol and sugar-laden pastels de natas over there. 

“No, but we should have gone there instead of that dirty falafel place,” she says. “It’s a historical place and it’s really nice inside.”

Do I detect a subversive tinge in Anna’s voice? Maybe I can commiserate with her about our predicament as the accidental hostages in Rita’s traveling band. There is no time to find out, though, because Rita approaches us with an offer. “He agreed to take us to see the city for 140 euros.” That’s 35 euros per person.

 

I have a strong feeling that the idea of paying so much money to travel in one of those noisy, rickety tuk-tuks won’t sit well with Anna’s ecological sensitivities or her budget. Vera is standing several feet behind us, surveying the scene as if she has no stake in the outcome of the proceedings. Maybe she knows that Rita’s boyfriend will pay her share.

“Mom, what do you think?” Rita asks.

“Whatever you decide,” she shrugs, meaning you as in all of us.

“Anna?” Rita checks the next in line.

 

“I can’t pay that much,” Anna says. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

 

Of course she doesn’t. She’s planning to boil potatoes and carrots for dinner, so why would she sink 35 euros into a tuk-tuk ride when she can take a bus for a few euros and see the same sites? Now I have to think on my feet and fast because knowing Rita, she will suggest that we pay Anna’s share. I can see her wheels turning and I am not open to doing it. Sorry. I told her weeks ago that if Anna was unemployed and poor, she should not come. I refuse to be manipulated into picking up the slack. I also think that it would set a bad precedent. It’s only our second day in Portugal and if I start chipping in for Anna so early on, I might go over my budget in a couple of days. There is only one way out of the situation. Stick with Anna. Only a few minutes ago she hinted that she would have liked to go with another flow, not necessarily Rita’s, so I have something to work with.

“I don’t want to pay this much either,” I say. I also want to provide cover for Anna and show solidarity with the financially disadvantaged.

 

Looking at Rita’s expression, I don’t think she expected me to stand up to her. She has to re-evaluate the situation. She really wants to ride that tuk-tuk. She goes back to the man and tries to negotiate him down. But he does not relent. I approach the two. 

 

“How long does this tour last?” I ask in Portuguese. I want the man to understand that we are not the typical gullible female tourists; we speak the language. 

 

“Two hours,” he responds in Portuguese. He starts listing the names of places he plans to show us. I don’t recognize any name, since I know nothing about the city. Then he explains that we won’t be able to walk up the hills because they are too steep and too far from where we are. I translate what he says into Hebrew for Rita.

“What language do you want to speak?” he asks Rita, irritated. “English? Portuguese?” I can feel his hostility. I thought he would be pleased that I speak his language, even though I sound Brazilian rather than Portuguese. But it looks like I misjudged.

“Speak English,” Rita responds. “English, English.” She knows she has to appease him if she hopes to bring down the price, and his hostility toward me is obvious. Maybe he understands my game.

“Where are you from?” he wants to know.

 

“Israel,” Rita says. It feels weird to hear that I am from Israel, but that’s where I am from, I guess. At least one of us lives in Israel, and all of us have Israeli passports whether we live there or not.

“I can do a Jewish tour,” he lights up. “I get lots of tourists from Israel. We have Jewish tours and general tours, so you can choose.”

We find out that he’s an “expert” in Jewish history. He’s a certified tour guide, not only a tuk-tuk operator, he says, although there is no certificate to prove it. He suggests we travel to a city I’ve never heard of, where we can visit a museum of Jewish artifacts from way back when Jews thrived in Portugal.

I am positively floored. Tuk-tuk operators cater to Israelis who do Jewish roots trips. They are really bending over backward to make up for their sins of the past. But I am not interested in learning about the atrocities inflicted on my forefathers and mothers in Portugal five hundred years ago. If I wanted to be traumatized and see places where Jews were murdered en masse I would go to Auschwitz or Treblinka, not Lisbon. I don’t need grim reminders of my precarious existence, especially considering that my trip was meant to be a pre-retirement expedition.

 

Rita seems to read my mind. “I want the general tour,” she says looking at me and chuckles. She finds the idea of a Jewish tour funny, not awkward or mildly offensive as I do. Just because we are from Israel he assumes we are Jewish and want to see the Jewish menu. 

“So how about 120 euros?” Rita tries one last time. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrenders and gives her a little break. “120.”

Rita turns to Anna again. “You sure you don’t want to take the tour? We’re not going to be able to see everything on our own,” she tries to reason. But Anna remains firm. She can’t spend that money. 

 

“I don’t want to pay that much, either,” I say, in Hebrew, so that the driver will not understand.

“Okay, I’ll pay it,” Rita announces after a short pause. She’s tired of arguing and she needs to move again. She takes her wallet out and hands the tuk-tuk guy several bills. Anna does not protest, and neither does Vera. Rita’s act is so sudden and unexpected that it makes me feel uncomfortable rather than grateful. But I stick with my original plan to go with the flow and not make waves. Be the unofficial blob. It’s either all of us paying or nobody, by which it appears that Freddy is paying.

Now that the deal is finalized, we climb up the tuk-tuk and settle on the hard benches behind the driver. Rita and her mom take the front bench, and Anna and I are in the back. I have to leave a part of me on the sidewalk because the situation is beyond uncomfortable for me. But Rita is happy again. Her mission is accomplished. We’re going on an adventure in an exotic mode of transportation, usually found in the Philippines, India, or Thailand, not Western Europe.  

 

As we squeeze ourselves into the back of the tricycle, our dubiously certified tourist guide begins a lecture on Jewish history. I barged in to tell him that we know the Jews were expelled from Portugal in the 16th century.

 

“If you want to be the guide, maybe I shall let you do the tour,” he cuts me off.

 

Oy vey. I really pushed him too far this time. I didn’t mean to, honestly. I just don’t want him to think I am ignorant. I admit that my barging in was uncalled for and probably impolite, although done in the spirit of the student who wants to impress her teacher. I want him to understand that we are well-informed, intelligent people who don’t know the city too well but know some history. At least the history of the Jews. 

 

I decide to shut my mouth for the rest of the tour. I am not going to utter a syllable, in Hebrew, English, or Portuguese. Promise. I am going to let Rita do all the schmoozing from now on and accept my place in the back seat, literally and figuratively, as an unpaying but grateful hostage.