Frida wishes us a nice rest of the trip and suggests we visit the local Jewish museum.
“We can do that,” Rita says.
I don’t know if she means it. She stopped being a fan of museums after traveling across Europe more times than she can count, but who knows? Maybe her curiosity has been piqued after our synagogue excursion. We’ll see how things go tomorrow.
I thank Frida for helping me with the siddur and wish her luck with the rabbis.
“Thanks, I need it,” she says solemnly and wraps her shawl around her head. The skirt she’s wearing can’t keep her warm, even with thick wool tights underneath.
She leaves us in front of a small garden after pointing in the direction we should continue. Now it is only the three of us, again, exploring the town in the dark.
“Why does she need luck with the rabbis? What did she do?” Rita asks out of the blue.
“She’s trying to convert.”
“Every person and his trauma,” Rita says dryly, using the Hebrew slang word “scratch” instead of trauma, painting Frida as a person with mental issues. Usually, the way she uses Hebrew slang makes me laugh, but I am not in a laughing mood. My feet are turning into icicles inside my boots, and the topic is not funny enough. I kind of feel sorry for Frida. If you are not converting for love, then why bother?
“Why does she want to convert?” Vera asks, always practical.
“She found a Jewish ancestor who might have been expelled from Portugal during the Inquisition,” I offer the short version that might make Frida look less “scratched.”
“And this makes her want to be Jewish?” Vera asks in disbelief. It sounds more like a rhetorical question. I guess if I said she was marrying someone Jewish, it would make more sense.
“There are all kinds of people in the world,” Rita recites one of her favorite mantras— something she usually says when I ask her who buys the ugly stuff she sells at street fairs.
So she knows better than anyone what it’s like to convert. And Vera does, too, I am sure, so there is no need to dwell on this topic. Better to focus on finding a place to eat and getting away from this freezing wind.
“It looks like nothing is open,” Vera observes after a few minutes.
I’d be happy to turn around and go back to the Airbnb where the heater is on and I can thaw my toes, but they want to keep on walking. After walking another block, we see a lit venue further down with a small awning above the glass door. Rita decides to check it out. Maybe they serve food there.
We follow her inside. There are six bare wooden tables in the room. One table is occupied by three men who look like a combination of bodybuilders and construction workers, certainly not office dwellers or tourists. They are watching a soccer game on a flat TV hanging on the wall, drinking beer and smoking.
Not a promising scenario. But I’m not going to start an argument.
A young guy comes out from behind a counter and motions for us to sit at one of the tables. His arm is covered in indecipherable tattoos, and a green apron is tied around his waist. We sit at the table closest to the counter. He wipes the table with a wet rag before dropping three menus in front of us.
Vera opens one menu and purses her lips, her finger moving slowly from one item to the next. Rita holds the menu upright, hiding her face behind it. I pull the last menu in front of me, but I don’t open it. It’s only been a day since I decided to avoid going to restaurants with Rita. I don’t like eating according to Vera’s schedule. I don’t like hearing the chewing sounds Rita makes or watching her eat. And something about this place feels off. There is way too much cigarette smoke in the air, and I can feel the smell of fried food already clinging to my clothes.
“What are you going to order?” Rita asks Vera after a few minutes.
“I think I’m going to order scrambled eggs and toast,” Vera says.
I would have never guessed. This is not something people order for dinner, even in Israel.
“It’s too late to eat now,” she continues, as if she can hear my thoughts. “Everything on the menu has meat in it.”
I believe she means steak, hamburgers, and pork sausages.
Rita puts down the menu that has shielded her from the world until now and declares decisively, as if she put a lot of thought into it: “I’ll order eggs too.”
How can anyone eat eggs—or anything—off this sticky table? Or breathe? I can barely breathe in this smoky room that smells of burned oil. I don’t want to watch Rita eat. I want to get out of here. Now.
“Are you ready to order?” Vera asks me.
“I’m not going to order anything,” I hear myself say. “I’m going to walk back to the room,” my voice adds before I can stop the words from coming out.
I honestly don’t know where that came from. I’m supposed to think about how this might affect the rest of the trip. But something inside me decided without asking first.
“Are you sure?” Vera asks, surprised.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what came over me. I just want to get away. I don’t want to talk about it and create drama. I am not worried about finding my way back. I feel safe in this town, and I know it is only a short walk back to the old neighborhood. I assure her that I am fine.
Rita takes the menu that lies in front of me and puts it under her menu. “She’ll be fine,” she says to Vera.
I leave them in the bar and go out into the street. I am surprised by how dark it is outside, but it’s not scary. I am relieved to be by myself. I am happy I can breathe the cold air and be out of that suffocating, forsaken bar. The wind bites, but every step I take brings me closer to the warmth of the room I left a few hours ago. I can’t wait to be there again.