Since I arrived in Portugal, every morning had started with some unexpected drama. But today, I can simply open the door and step into the street without pretending, inviting, or watching a bizarre scene unfold before me. The neighborhood looks the same as it did last night, except that I now notice Umberto’s other properties. They have brass plaques by their doors with the names of Jews he wanted to immortalize, Don this, Dona that, with a brief description of who they were. The old quarter is so small that I can walk it in fifteen minutes. I snap a few photos of the alleys with the mountain range peeking between the houses, then turn back to my room to finish packing.
When I reach Casa Dona Branca, I see a woman in a pink robe standing at a doorway next to mine. She’s probably in her eighties and looks far less “widowy” than the woman I met yesterday. Her white hair is not covered by anything black, and her feet are secured in fluffy green slippers. In short, she looks cozy and comfortable, part of the scenery, unbothered by the cold air. I suddenly realize I hadn’t considered that people lived next door, which is silly. Of course, people live here, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t run into someone.
“Bom dia, senhora,” I say when I’m close enough for her to hear me. Behind her, a man’s voice on the radio drifts out, mingling with the clink of dishes.
The woman asks me if I spent the night next door. I tell her that I arrived yesterday and that I’m a friend of the owner, Umberto. “Do you know him?” I ask, excited that she understands my Portuguese and is open to talking.
Yes, she knows him, and more than that. The room I’m staying in, and the upstairs where Rita and Vera are staying, were part of her family home, and she was the one who sold them to him. Her older sister, who lives with her now, but is not feeling well, was against splitting the house and selling the rooms, but they needed the money.
I’m not sure how we got here, but I can’t believe my luck. I went out for a stroll and now I’m talking to a woman who can tell me things I’ll never find in a tourist brochure. It feels like an out-of-body experience. Part of me converses with her, part watches us from outside in disbelief, and another prays that Rita and Vera stay in bed and let me continue the conversation.
Her family lived in this house for generations, she says.
“I learned about Belmonte only recently,” I say.
She’s easy to talk to. I only have to nod or express curiosity, and she responds, volunteering details without trying to impress me or accuse anyone. Maybe my questions make her remember things she hasn't thought about in a long time. Maybe that’s why she’s so open.
She tells me that her family escaped to France during the dictatorship, and she spent many years away from Belmonte. She married in France, and her children stayed there. But she grew up here. She walked these alleys as a kid and played with the Jewish kids outside. There was no hostility towards them.
“They were just like us,” she reminisces. “They dressed like us, spoke like us. We knew them and their families until we left.” But no, she didn’t keep in touch with anyone.
I don’t ask her how she found the house when she returned. But she says that it was empty and many things needed repair. Umberto helped her paint the walls and fix a leaking faucet, and when she found out he was buying properties in the neighborhood and fixing them, she suggested splitting her home and selling part of it. Her sister was against it, but they didn’t need such a big house, she explains.
I have to focus on understanding everything she says. She speaks at a normal pace, not slowing down for me, with an unfamiliar accent and some words I don’t recognize. But I get the story, and I’m floored by this encounter. This is the most interesting moment in my whole trip. I couldn’t have planned or imagined anything even close to what I’m experiencing here. Her openness feels like a small miracle. This is exactly what inspires me when I travel. Meeting people and hearing their stories. Connecting without expecting anything in return. I don’t volunteer much, though. Her story is much more interesting.
I have many more questions for her. I was amazed when she said her family escaped or left during the dictatorship. My Portuguese colleague at work had the same experience. So I can imagine what she went through. Leaving everything behind and becoming a refugee in a foreign country. Working jobs no one wants to do. Starting over from the bottom. I want to ask her about her life in France, but our conversation is interrupted. A white van pulls up in front of us. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue apron, climbs down and greets us with a Bom Dia. He goes to the back of the van and opens the door. Inside, there are crates full of rolls and loaves of bread, some I recognize as pão de sal. Soft white bread that smells like heaven.
The last thing I expected. I thought he was a plumber or house painter, not a baker.
It takes me a moment to realize the woman had been waiting for the van all along. She selects some rolls and a loaf, puts them in a plastic bag, and hands the driver a few coins from a small purse tucked into her robe. I ask the driver if I can buy bread, too. Maybe because he realizes from my accent that I am not a local, he forgives my idiocy. Of course, I can buy bread. That’s why he’s here. He’s not running a delivery service; it’s a mobile bakery. I want to tell him I’ve never seen anything like it before. But I don’t. I wonder, do they sell ice blocks and deliver bottles of milk to your door here? Which century is this?
I step inside to get my wallet. By the time I return and pay him, Rita opens the door and joins us on the pavement.
And just like that, one of my best moments in Portugal comes to an end.
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