I spend the next couple of hours in a zombie-like state, disconnected from the group in spirit but not in body. I follow the women in and out of shops, congratulating myself for remembering to bring my umbrella even though the rain never materializes. Perhaps for this reason I am not tempted to buy an umbrella decorated with the ever-present white and blue azuleijo design that I spot in one of the touristy shops. Or maybe it’s because of the exorbitant price tag attached to it. Not sure. I am also somewhat happy that Rita is not in the mood to acquire more stuff. She is only going through the motions of rummaging through merchandise in stores, without actually buying anything. As she always tells me, “What is there to do? It’s always the same, you eat, drink, buy something, cross a river, visit a church, and after a while you can’t even tell the difference between all these places. I don’t even go to museums anymore. They’re all the same.”
Way to go, Ms. Tour Guide.
Before I can finish the thought, I see a church with external walls covered from top to bottom in magnificent white and blue tiles that depict religious scenes. I take a picture with my phone even though I am sure there are countless pictures of this church on the internet, and I don’t need one on my camera. But hey, it’s proof I’ve seen this church in person and that’s what counts. I also have a feeling that it’s a famous church even though I don’t know what it’s called or to which saint it might be dedicated. There’s a plaque near the front door that I am tempted to read, but I skip it. The last thing I want to do is keep the group waiting for me or give Rita an incentive to try reading the plaque just to prove to me that she can read English, even though I couldn’t care less if she can or not. She has this strange competitive side to her that shows up in the most unusual circumstances.
Because I grew up in Israel where churches, and Christianity, are in short supply (unless you go to Jerusalem or Nazareth), I am conditioned to appreciate churches only for their architectural design and their interior decorations such as statues, frescos, wood carvings, and painted-glass windows. Until I came to the United States, I didn’t even know that people who believed that Jesus was the son of God had a hierarchy of who is and who is not a real Christian, or more Christian than others. The first time some of my American students told me that Catholics were not Christians, my brain did a summersault. I’d never heard such a thing. I always thought that if someone believed that Jesus was the Messiah, they were Christians no matter how they practiced the faith. After that discovery, I began educating myself about the different branches of Christianity, but to this day the one I think I know about the most is the Catholic Church, because it inflicted the most suffering on my ancestors and many other indigenous populations around the world. But now we are in the forgiveness and redemption phase, in which everyone learns to respect diversity, so I am not going to let this thought cloud my appreciation for the gorgeous exterior of this church.
Our walking tour takes us to an enormous plaza surrounded by ornate apartment and office buildings. City hall rises on one end of the plaza. A small crew of men in hard hats is busy erecting a large Christmas tree in front of it. Unfortunately, we will not see the tree-lighting ceremony because we arrived a few days too early. We will not see the city lights up for Christmas, either. But that’s OK. I prepared myself not to see many other things I might have seen had I come here alone or in a different season.
After Rita takes the obligatory selfies and several photos of Vera posing stiffly by a giant blue “PORTO” sign and sticking her head through the O, she spots a yellow bus parked by the sidewalk. A colorful board next to the bus informs us that this is a hop-on hop-off bus that offers two-hour sightseeing tours of the city for 13 euros. The bus is equipped with headphones that provide commentary about the city in English and other languages for free. The good news is that even though the bus makes 30 stops, we can stay on it the entire time if we choose to, which I am sure we would if we decide to take it, considering the amount of walking we have already done.
A short conversation ensues about whether or not we should invest in the tour and see more of the city in comfort. I am tempted to remind the group that a bus is going to be so much better than that stupid, noisy tuk-tuk we took, with its hard bench and obnoxious operator who charged Rita 30 euros per passenger for the pleasure of smelling exhaust fumes and listening to horror stories about the annihilation of Lisbon’s thriving Jewish community five hundred years ago. It takes me a second to decide against mentioning it. No need to trigger Rita. Plus, I cannot conceive of her reaction since I have never seen her being taken for a ride by a real jerk. Pun intended.
Unexpectedly, this time Anna agrees to take the tour. I wish I could enter her brain and see what caused her to do it. Five minutes ago, she didn’t know she was going to spend her limited resources on a bus tour, and it’s not like her financial situation has changed all of a sudden. I am not sure what to make of it. Unless she had a change of heart after she saw Rita treating herself to mass-manufactured jewelry that no self-respecting artist would ever buy and decided that life was too short to deprive herself of this little treat.
I can speculate about it only because earlier, when Vera decided to enter a small sidewalk café and order a pastry and a cup of coffee and I asked Anna if she was going to wait outside, she told me that she could spend 3 euros occasionally when Rita and Vera wanted to eat something. But in general, she said that she preferred to buy her own food and eat at the apartment. Then, out of nowhere, she added, “I enjoy watching Rita eat. She’s such a free spirit, always full of positive energy and love for life. It’s great to be near her.”
Oh, well, maybe that’s why she agreed to splurge on this tour bus; to let some of Rita’s free spirit rub off on her. And Rita’s free spirit now wants to go on a bus ride and see the city through the windows. Because it’s winter, not too many tourists are around to reserve a seat ahead of time and the bus is nearly empty. The driver lets us hop on and wait for the next tour, which will start in about fifteen minutes.
Sometime during the tour, after we pass a hospital, a university, and a park with a statue of a man on a horse, I hear about Anna’s departure plan. Since she has already paid for both nights, she lets Rita persuade her to stay in Porto one more night and take the bus back to Malaga tomorrow afternoon. Or maybe she will take the train back to Lisbon and from there the red eye to Malaga.
“I will check the bus schedule on the internet when we get back to the apartment,” Rita offers, and Anna responds that she can do it too.
Great. Starting tomorrow, I will be the third squeaky wheel on this trip, not the fourth un-cooperating one. Whether or not that will be an improvement, I don’t know. Only time will tell.
In the meantime, I focus my gaze outside the window. I finally see the river that cuts through the city. The voice in my ear says it’s called the Douro River and recounts the story of a bridge. On the other side of the river, the bus passes through quaint neighborhoods whose names I fail to catch. Everything moves so fast that I can barely absorb what I am seeing. My Brazilian friends from the organic coffee farm I visited last year told me I must visit a neighborhood called Villa de Gaia or something like that, where all the fun stuff in Porto can be found, but I’m not sure on which side of the river it’s located and I’m not going to ask the driver. Maybe my headphones will tell me.
Eventually the bus returns to the spot where we first found it and we lower ourselves back to the pavement. There is one more place on the itinerary that we have to see, according to the Israeli travel blogger that Rita follows. It’s called the São Bento Railway Station, she says, and it is supposed to be beautiful. I think we are going to drop off Anna near that station tomorrow so she can take the bus back to Spain or Lisbon and rescue her dog and her daughter from certain starvation.
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