It would be so much nicer if my daughter were here. I love spending time with her. We get along when we explore new places even if we are not always interested in the same things. She can appreciate my little snarky observations and not interpret them as a sign of my flawed character or as a judgment of her inability to make similar observations herself. Sometimes she tells me to stop harping on something because she already gets my point, which I don’t mind. After all, knowing me, I probably said it more than once. Sometimes she ignores me, and sometimes she contributes her own perceptions, which I find educational. I like it when she shares what her generation cares about. Like when she explains to me how to talk to nonbinary people. I can’t always recognize people in transition, and it makes me feel terrible to mistake someone for the wrong gender. She says I should not worry about it because I am from the old generation and young people don’t expect us to know that. And then she tells me to just ask a person what pronoun to use, which might sound simple but is not so easy to do when you are me.
Here, though, I don’t have that luxury. I have to be careful not to offend anyone with my unfiltered remarks like the one I made about the chauvinistic monument in Lisbon. I have to listen patiently to Vera’s meandering stories, which I don’t find very interesting. I have to tiptoe around Anna’s energy-draining martyrdom and incomprehensible appreciation for Rita’s insatiable appetite for shopping, rich food, and attention. In short, I have to be someone that I am not. So, I leave the apartment with the three women, after they come back from breakfast, and we all walk down the street toward somewhere, not sure where to see what the city looks like in daylight.
The first thing that draws my attention is a small store window advertising home paraphernalia; door handles, towel rings, faucets, hanging mirrors, light bulbs, electrical outlet covers, and so forth. It catches me by surprise. In the United States, these things are found only in big chain stores where I usually get lost and have to ask for help to find what I am looking for. I also assume that these things are more expensive here. Even if they are made in China.
Unfortunately, I can’t go inside and find out how much things cost because this type of store is not a place that attracts tourists, especially not tourists like Rita. Per Rita’s stories, her parents used to own a neighborhood store that sold this type of stuff until they retired more than fifteen years ago. This is where Rita perfected her ability to sell stuff to innocent buyers. She herself told me that once, when she was still a kid, her mother left her to watch the store for a few minutes, and before her mother returned, she ended up selling a small electrical gadget to a woman who came in. When she told Vera about the sale, Vera was horrified to find out that Rita had charged the woman twice the price she was supposed to. Rita thought it was a hilarious story and was immensely proud of herself. I, for my part, felt sorry for the woman who was fleeced by an unscrupulous nine-year-old.
Because I know I can’t suggest entering this store, I let it go. One day, if I ever decide to retire in Portugal, I’ll come back and visit these family-owned stores to see how affordable they are and what kind of people work there. Until then, I will continue my journey as a clueless tourist in search of meaningless experiences.
Before I know it, Rita spots a jewelry store. It looks like any jewelry store I’ve seen in the United States. Through the window, I can see rows of necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and rings arranged in glass cases or on shelves. Nothing seems uniquely Portuguese to me, not that I know what Portuguese jewelry is supposed to look like. Rita enters the store and is followed by Vera. Anna hesitates for a moment before she follows the two inside. I take my chance and stay outside hoping that the gray clouds floating above will not decide to drop their load on my head while I wait for Rita to finish her business.
I am somewhat surprised that Rita decided to look at jewelry at this hour. This is definitely not a place that caters to tourists as far as I understand tourist traps. The store is called Pandora and its post-modernist design does not offer much comfort to shoppers with its minimalist décor and bright lights. Furthermore, the woman behind the counter looks more like a corporate type than the women selling the ceramic pendants in Lisbon. And the prices, I believe, are non-negotiable. So, what Rita is doing there is not exactly clear to me. But I can’t ask, so instead I check the new surroundings.
Across the street there are some clothing stores, a bank, and something that looks like a combination of a juice bar and a cafe. Farther ahead, the street is closed to traffic. It has the feel of an outdoor shopping mall offering a mix of souvenir shops and high-end boutiques that may attract locals with disposable income in addition to the hordes of tourists that come here during the hotter months. I’m tempted to go to the bank and pick up a few brochures. Years ago, when I taught Hebrew, I used to collect bank brochures in Israel and bring them to my students so they could see what real Hebrew looked like. Maybe I can do the same with the Portuguese brochures. I can either learn about how to open a bank account here or practice my Portuguese. But I’m not sure the bank is open yet, so I decide against it.
I go back to the jewelry store to check on my travel mates. Rita is leaning on the counter looking at a tray of tiny, shiny objects with not a worry in the world. Vera stands a few feet away, clutching her bag and looking bored. Anna is checking something on a shelve opposite the counter. Her sadness emanates from her shoulders and the small backpack that she carries everywhere.
“Let me see this one,” I hear Rita say to the saleswoman.
The woman puts a tray on the glass counter.
“Hey, mom, come see this one,” I hear Rita a moment later.
Vera turns to the counter and leans on it. I can see that she is itching to leave, but for the time being she is still cooperating.
“What do you think?” Rita asks.
“They’re all nice,” Vera says flatly. “Just pick one you like.”
“I saw this one in their store in Monterey,” Rita says.
“You want to get it?” Vera’s voice sounds somewhat pushy. I get the impression that she is trying to remind Rita that we all are waiting for her to decide what she wants to buy so we can continue our touristing.
“No, I want something different,” Rita says.
“Then get something different,” Vera sighs.
“They have a store like this in Monterey?” I hear myself ask Rita. I feel as if I have just woken up from a slumber. Stores like these have this strange effect on me. They put me to sleep no matter the hour of the day.
“You’ve never seen this store at the Del Monte Shopping Center? They have them all over the world,” Rita turns her head to face me. I surprised her with my ignorance.
“I used to have this one,” she points to a small pendant shaped like a puffy heart, “but I lost it and I want to get another one.”
I have no idea what she is talking about. I rarely go to shopping centers, and I never visit jewelry stores. My lifestyle does not call for these kinds of things. “Is there something inside the heart?” I ask.
“No, you put it on a bracelet,” Rita explains.
“Like on a friendship bracelet?” I thought these were things that little girls wear. My daughter had a bracelet with plastic Winnie the Pooh characters that someone gave her. I think it is buried somewhere in the garage with all her other childhood knickknacks.
“Yes,” Rita nods enthusiastically. “I like this one,” she says as she carefully picks up a silver pendant of the word LOVE and dangles it in front of my face. “What do you think?”
“Cute,” I say. What else should I say? That we didn’t come all the way to Portugal so that she could buy stuff she can buy in Monterey? That she needs to get a grip and not keep us hostages in this store for nearly an hour because she lost a piece of her bracelet back home? I mean, this is starting to get annoying. I don’t like watching Anna pretending she doesn’t notice how Rita spends money on frivolous stuff while she has to count her euros every time Rita decides she wants a cup of coffee and a pastry. How many times do I have to watch this scene unfold in front of me? I want to shake Vera out of her slump and ask her, how did you raise such an oblivious human being? Where were you all these years when she was growing up? But I can’t do it. It’s too late for them both. I have to swallow my indignation and continue as if I am living in a normal world where people are considerate of each other’s predicaments, and no one has to pretend that everything is great when it is not.
“I’ll take this one and the heart, and the silver ball too,” Rita tells the saleswoman and pulls out her credit card. Anna approaches the counter to see what Rita decided to buy and Vera marches to the door.
“Come,” she says to me, “Let’s wait for them outside.”
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