The Flight Back (64)

“We have to stop to get gas,” Rita says as she steers the car out of the parking garage. 

She considered filling up the tank yesterday, but decided it would be best to do it on the way to the airport, which made my brain twitch. Knowing her, I knew it would cause stress later on, but who am I to question her decision? I count on Vera to get her moving in the morning, and I do everything in my power to stay put. Rita, despite being an unapologetic procrastinator, is usually punctual for flights and doctor appointments, so I remain cautiously optimistic that we will not miss the flight.

On the way to the gas station, Rita reminisces about returning a car with only half a tank and the fight she had with the rental company after they billed her for a full one. Of course, she didn’t pay. She knows how to get out of tricky situations. I should learn from her, if only I had her personality.

My fragile peace of mind is rattled when Rita announces she missed the exit to the gas station. She chose the closest one to the airport and has little room for error, let alone time to search for another. She mutters that she doesn’t know what she did wrong, but that she’s going to fix it. She needs to make a large circle, take an underpass, and look for another exit. I take a deep breath. No reason to panic. She can do it. 

After circling the station a couple of times, she figures out how to get in. Vera, thankfully, keeps her mouth shut, and no argument ensues about whose fault it would be if we miss the flight. Hallelujah. I think Rita broke a few traffic laws, but who cares? She makes it to the pump without getting caught and fills the tank with Fred’s credit card. The cost will be divided equally among us later. 

After we drop the car at the parking lot, we arrive at security, where the agent tells me unceremoniously to take out the pumpkin jam and a bottle of port I bought for my brother and leave them on the counter. Liquids are not allowed on the plane. I try to resist, but he insists. Until that moment, I didn’t realize my ticket didn’t include checked luggage. On the flight to Lisbon, they checked in my luggage without saying anything. So how could I know? The agent suggests I pay an astronomical sum to check my luggage if I want to keep that stupid jam and wine, but I’m too stingy to do it. 

Rita, on the other hand, sails through security without incident. Her pumpkin jam goes under the radar without a bleep, and she gets to take it to Israel and show off her culinary knowledge of Portuguese confectionery. Jesus effing Christ, I can’t even curse Moses.

I can’t bring myself to toss the wine and jam into the trash. I offer them to the security guy. He promptly declines. Not allowed, he says. 

                                                       * * * 

The flight to Tel Aviv should take a little over five hours, and according to my boarding pass, I scored a window seat, again. When I reach my row, I have to squeeze past a man who looks like a university professor in his sixties: glasses, good hair, and a gray knitted sweater. Before I have a chance to say anything, he stands up to let me through and offers to help me lift my carry-on into the overhead bin. I really lucked out. Not only am I sharing the row with a considerate human, but the middle seat is empty. The universe is finally on my side.

I settle into my seat and turn to the window. The man in the aisle is absorbed in a thick book, signaling that there’s no need to express more gratitude. It lets me focus on the city below during takeoff and look for the Monument to the Discoveries, which I saw when we were landing in Lisbon, and had no idea what it was. When green hills and rivers come into view, I come to think that maybe I’ll return to Portugal another day, but not as a tourist or a retiree. The decision about my future has yet to be made, but at least I know a little more now than I did a week ago.  

The arrival of the beverage cart prompts a brief exchange and eye contact with my neighbor, leading to a conversation. I discover that he’s actually a tour guide on a preparatory mission to Israel. He takes groups of pilgrims to Christian sites and has been doing it for more than twenty years. He’s been to Israel many times and traveled all over the country, even to not-so-famous Christian sites like the Dead Sea and the Golan Heights. Or maybe they are famous? I don’t know. I ask him, and he’s happy to educate me about early Christian history, some of which I know but not in great detail. I mean, I heard somewhere that one of them lived in the Judean Desert and ate only dates, or was it something else? I can’t remember. He smiles at my ignorance.

“You're probably thinking about John the Baptist. He lived on locusts and honey.” 

I ask him if he’s a preacher. He smiles again. No, he’s not, but he works with many churches that send worshippers to the Holy Land, and he knows scriptures. 

“Aren’t people afraid to travel to Israel?” I ask. 
 
“I’m sure some people are scared, that’s one reason I go to Israel before every trip. To arrange for security,” he says. He pulls a wallet from his pocket, takes out a business card, and hands it to me. He points to the bottom of the card, “That’s the name of my company.”

“Prazer, Senhor Marques,” I say in my best Portuguese accent after seeing his name on the top. I don’t try to be formal with him, just acknowledge that I noticed it. 

“You speak Portuguese?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I smile.

At this moment, Rita appears. She was sitting with Vera two rows behind me, on the opposite side of the aisle. We didn’t plan to get together and stretch the way we did on the flight from San Francisco because five hours in the air is barely noticeable. A typical flight for me is at least ten hours, so this is nothing. Before I even get bored or achy, the plane lands. So I didn’t check on her or notice when she got up and came over. Now she leans over the man’s seat, pressing herself against his armrest. 

“Ma koreh? How are you?” she asks me over his head in her singsongy voice.

“All is well,” I say in English. 

Mr. Marques turns to look at her.

“We travel together,” she explains. “We were a week in Portugal.” 

“Where did you go?” he asks.

“Lisbon, Porto, many places,” she laughs.

“Your first time?” he asks.

“Yes, we love it,” she gushes. “It’s beautiful. You have business in Israel?” she pushes.

“A little bit,” he says, turning to her. “I bring people to Israel. Tourists,” he says. 

“You a tour guide,” she exclaims. “Me too. In America. Sometimes in Israel. But not a lot.”

“Very nice,” he says.

“Mind if I sit here?” she points to the middle seat.

Why am I not surprised that this is happening? It’s not even a real question.

I collect my coat from the empty seat and put it on my lap without waiting for him to respond. Last week, I would have blown an internal fuse at this invasion, but now it’s almost expected. 

Mr. Marques gets up to let her in. She squeezes her body through the narrow gap and drops onto the seat between us. She wants to know everything about him and tell him everything about herself. She also wants his card. She saw that he gave me one.

I know that for all she cares, I can evaporate into the ether while she bonds with her new catch. And that’s what I do. I lean back and disappear into the clouds outside the window. Let Rita do her thing one last time, oblivious as ever.

When we land in Israel, after passing immigration, Rita invites me to go with them to her sister’s apartment. She can drive me to my brother’s place later on, like last time. Vera is happy to be back and can’t wait to meet her other daughter, who is waiting for us outside the terminal. 

“Thanks, but I’m going to take the train,” I respond. I don’t even care if my brother will be home when I arrive. I just want to go back to normal and remember who I am. The train will get me there in no time. 

“Let’s plan a trip to Brazil when I get back to California,” Rita calls after me on the way to her sister’s car. 

“Shoot me first,” I want to say, but I don’t.

Almost Christmas (63)

Ah, Lisbon. We’re back. Not at Santos-o-Velho, through which I walked on my first night in Portugal, but at a stretch of tall buildings and wide avenues somewhere near the airport. And it’s not pretty, either. At least not around the three-level parking garage, where our car will spend the night.

We climb down a dusty concrete staircase to the street, pass a couple of storefronts, push through glass doors, and take the elevator to the ninth floor of a nondescript building. The interior resembles that of any hotel in any metropolitan area: a long hallway, unassuming carpet as far as the eye can see, and identical doors. Inside the apartment, the Brazilian host, who looks more like a surfer dude than a real estate agent, is waiting for us to pay the tourist tax and sign the necessary forms. When he draws the curtains to let the afternoon light enter, I realize that my first impression still holds. I’m spending my last night here away from the charming part of the city, in a soulless high-rise overlooking a highway and a cluster of yellow cranes instead of a pastel-colored building wrapped in azuleijos and wrought-iron balconies. 

The bedroom I choose is far from the other two, which means I will have a quiet night. I won't hear Vera’s screams, and Rita will be spared sleeping on the couch in the living room. The Brazilian wishes us a pleasant stay and takes off to meet another group somewhere else. Unlike our busy host from Porto, he does not have to clean anything; he only has to check that the apartment is stocked and nothing is broken. 

After he leaves, I settle in the living room in front of the TV. Maybe I’ll find something to watch and brush up on my continental Portuguese, which I barely got to practice this past week. I don’t think there’s much else to do around here. And besides, the sun has already set behind the horizon, and it’s starting to rain. A mean combination that erases what little sense of adventure I have left. The last thing I want to do is go outside and get wet.

Before I can finish the thought, Vera appears. “We’re going out soon,” she announces.

“Have fun,” I say, and slouch deeper into the couch.

“Really? You’re not going with us?” she scolds me in the voice of a dissatisfied teacher.

“I don’t want to get wet,” I say the obvious.

“Nuuu, come on, are you made of sugar?” she uses the old-fashioned, silly Hebrew expression to shame me into joining them.

While I’m not afraid I’ll dissolve in the rain, I don’t feel like getting soaked, and since I’m no longer twelve years old, I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.

“I’m fine here,” I try again. “I’m not in the mood to go out.”

But Vera is not ready to give in. She resorts to the same logic she used to get us out of the house on our first morning in Lisbon. “You didn’t come all the way here to sit on the couch and watch TV. Come on. Put your shoes on, and you can use my umbrella.”

After everything I have gone through on this trip, I should know better and summon my fighting spirit, but I cannot find it in me. I simply don’t see the merit of continuing this argument. I put my shoes on, but decline the generous offer to use her umbrella. I have one too. 

It's already dark outside, and the rain is coming down with full force. As I expected, before we even arrive at the first traffic light, my socks are swimming inside my shoes, and the intersection we are about to cross looks like a swelling lake. We have to weave around invisible deep spots and fast-moving streams that run along the sidewalk to maintain some measure of dryness.  

Vera, as usual, takes everything in stride as Rita leads us into a large, bustling shopping center, its entrance lit by a wall of cascading Christmas lights. Inside, it feels like we landed in a different world. Only a few hours ago, I was walking along the walls of a fifteenth-century Gothic cloister used as a laundry room for monks, and now I’m surrounded by stores selling famous brand-name beauty products and expensive fashion, bombarded by over-the-top Christmas kitsch. My cognitive dissonance is palpable.

Rita’s transition to modernity is quick and seamless. This is familiar territory for her. The English banners on storefronts, the cacophony of smells in the circulated air, the background music, and even the people on the escalators and walkways seem no different from anything seen before. I, on the other hand, need a little more time to reorient myself. I recognize some of the brand names, but the sight of so much merchandise makes me dizzy. I enter a deserted shoe store and plant myself in front of a display of boots. I don’t mean to buy anything; I just want to escape the mayhem for a moment. But the universe has other plans, and it sends a friendly saleswoman to offer help.

I want to tell her I don’t need help. I’m fine, just hiding from the crowds. But no one in their right mind would say such a thing, and she still stands there waiting. I point to a pair of stylish ankle-high boots and ask if I can try them on. Of course, I don’t need another pair, especially since I’m traveling light, but what else is there to do while Rita and Vera scour the jewelry store next door? I might as well sit here on the upholstered green bench and try on some boots.

The woman asks for my size and disappears into the back of the store. She returns with a box and hands me a pair of blue socks. Can she tell my socks are wet inside my shoes? I hope not. She offers to help me put them on. 

There is no way I’ll let her see my wet socks and unpainted toenails. My bare feet have not been seen in public in longer than I care to remember. Plus, I’m not a baby, and I can reach my feet, for crying out loud. I tell her I can do it on my own, and to my relief, she does not insist. At least she has the good sense to leave me alone. 

I put the dry socks on and hide the wet ones under the bench. If I stay here long enough, they might dry up, and if not, I can leave them there. Just don’t accuse me of theft and chase me to the nearest police station. But first, I have to see if the boots fit. I put them on and check the mirror. To my surprise, I like them, and my feet are happy.

The saleswoman appears from nowhere and tells me they look great on me. I feel stupid beyond words, but the trap is set, and I have nowhere to run. I have to buy these boots. I refuse to have a philosophical debate about consumerism, vanity, exploitative fashion, or any other topic that swirls in my brain every time I buy something I don’t absolutely need. I’ll just buy them and get it over with. I know I’ve already contributed enough to the local economy, but things happen. Sometimes I have to go with the flow. Live in the moment. I’m even getting dry socks to go with my new boots, so why not?

As with everything else on this trip, I can't celebrate my accomplishment for more than a second because, as soon as I hand my credit card to the saleswoman, Rita appears. She sees the new boots on my feet and decides she has to buy a pair too. Her old, tattered boots have done their job and need to be retired. Besides, if I can afford to buy a pair of boots, she can buy three pairs.

I support her wholeheartedly. I’ve learned my lesson. Her behavior has nothing to do with me. I’m not competing. I take it as a compliment. I’m growing by the minute. I’m practically a changed woman. I will not be annoyed if she gets a better deal, even if she brags about it.

I watch her admire the new purchase, chattering with the saleswoman who helped her find the best deal in the store, supposedly, and congratulate her. Vera’s reaction is muted, as always: Rita is happy, and that’s what matters. 

“Now let’s find a place to eat,” Vera breaks the spell. It’s already dinner time.

And so, my last full day in Portugal ends in a busy food court, in front

of a Chinese eatery surrounded by cheesy Christmas decorations and

kiosks selling smartphone accessories and sunglasses. It’s not exactly

what I had in mind, but it will do.

Back to Lisbon (62)

I’m trying to find words to describe what I feel after a week of bouncing from one place to another, barely understanding the context of each stop, sometimes overwhelmed, sometimes nearly offended. Probably relief mixed with gratitude that no catastrophe befell us. No one was injured, no one was robbed at knifepoint or poisoned by spoiled food. No coup or natural disaster caught us by surprise. We didn't get stuck in a snowstorm, or with an empty gas tank, or with a flat tire on a dark road. The worst that happened was hiring an impatient tuk-tuk driver and arguing with a frowny waiter. In short, nothing special to make this trip memorable or transformative, unless meeting the ghosts of Portugal’s persecuted Jews and clearing some built-up resentment toward clueless Rita count as successes.

I watch her driving from the backseat, as she navigates the car out of Tomar. This is where she feels most at home, with her foot on the gas pedal and the world flying by. I don’t know what goes on in her head when she sits at the wheel or what she got out of our week-long expedition. She didn’t show any interest in Portugal’s history, politics, or art. Maybe it’s the venturing into the unknown, discovering new places, meeting new people, and being constantly on the move that do it for her. 

“How far is Lisbon?” Vera asks.

“Not far,” Rita says, shrugging.

Their exchange makes me smile. After spending an entire week with the two of them, their conversations have become predictable. I can take comfort from knowing what to expect. No big surprises waiting for me. At least not until the next turn in the road, when out of nowhere, a perfect two-story aqueduct rises from the valley floor, not a single stone missing from its structure. 

People may not surprise me anymore, but Portugal still does.

Rita agrees to stop the car and let me get out to take a good look at this monumental engineering wonder. I haven’t seen many aqueducts in person, apart from those built by the Romans along the Mediterranean Coast in ancient Israel, not too far from where I spent my childhood. But most of the Roman aqueducts I’ve seen succumbed to the elements over the millennia and today provide only a glimpse of their past splendor. This one, however, still stands tall, its stone arches almost defiant in their perfection. 

I ask Vera if she wants to join me outside and get a better look at the aqueduct. I want to be nice to her. Compensate for the bad feelings I harbored after she dismissed my attachment to my phone charger when we were leaving Belmonte. I even offer to take a picture of her with it in the background, to show the grandkids, but she declines. She has seen enough aqueducts in her life, and this one, whether Roman or not, is no different. Her comment lands just right. She’s still who she is: dry, realistic, to the point. No beating around the bush. I relent before Rita intervenes.

I take a picture of the aqueduct against the gray skies to remind me of my last full day in Portugal. And like the good tourist that I am now, I take another picture with our car in the foreground.

Maybe to remember the comfort with which I traveled, maybe as a small statement about leaving the past behind and heading back to the present. Maybe to make the moment last a little longer, away from the city, where I can see only trees and grass around me, and enjoy the silence of the open road.

Convento de Cristo (61)

When I open my bedroom door, I see Rita sprawled on the couch in the same position I left her last night, sleeping under a blanket pulled over her midsection. The teacup I put on the table in front of her stands in the same spot, still full. She’s not much of a tea drinker, my brain notes before another thought occurs to me. She was too tired to be bothered, but not tired enough to sleep in her street clothes since she changed into her loose Minnie Mouse tunic before collapsing back on the couch.

“Good morning,” Vera greets me from her spot at the small table by the window. Like all the other mornings on this trip, she’s the first to rise and start the day. She probably already spoke to her husband and heard the latest family news, as well as whatever crisis is gripping the country.

“Did she sleep here all night?” I whisper, instead of responding with a good morning and asking Vera if she slept well, which would be the polite thing to do. The problem is that I can’t ignore what I see, a repeat of the mornings in Lisbon.

“I don’t know,” Vera says. “She was here when I got up.”

Fair enough. No reason to push further. I don’t want to sound invasive.

“Shall we wake her up?” I ask, feeling conspiratorial and guilty at the same time. Rita is not getting much sleep on this trip, and part of it might be my fault. I insisted on having a room for myself.

“I’m already awake,” Rita mumbles into the couch.

“Sigal wants to know what time we land tomorrow,” Vera says without missing a beat. Nothing surprises her, and if anything does, she doesn’t show it.

“I’ll text her later,” Rita says to the couch, her hand searching for the phone under the cushion. “I don’t remember now.”

Since I don’t need to hear what else Vera discussed with Sigal, and what Rita will say in response, I go to my room to prepare for departure. It’s our last full day in Portugal, and I hope it will be a good one. We made it through the week without a major crisis despite Anna’s doom and gloom and my super critical attitude. It turns out I can behave myself when I want to keep the peace, so I’m going to continue whatever I’m doing and enjoy whatever comes my way.

                                    * * * 

We cross the old part of town and the main square, again, this time heading toward the Convento de Cristo. We decide to walk up the hill because Rita prefers to leave the car, loaded with our stuff, in its shaded spot, and Vera is happy to comply. As always, she doesn’t ask for special considerations, not that I worried she would. The woman is a good sport and loves to prove it. Luckily, we don’t have to carry anything heavy, and the fifteen-minute walk on the moderately steep, winding trail doesn’t feel like much of a challenge, even for Vera. 

Like most places we have visited, I don’t know what to expect, but knowing that this castle, which began as a twelfth-century Templar fortress and evolved into a convent, is a UNESCO World Heritage site gives me hope that it will be a treat. And it doesn’t disappoint. The entrance is already promising. The place looks almost abandoned, with only a few visitors walking toward the gates, cameras at the ready. To top it off, there is no entrance fee. 

As soon as we enter, I’m bombarded by so much art and architecture that I can barely digest what’s in front of me: enclosed courtyards surrounded by arched hallways and granite pillars, magnificent stone carvings, and walls covered in white and blue tiles. Who would have thought such a treasure would hide behind these fortified walls?

Within minutes, I lose Rita and Vera, but I’m not worried. Though we didn’t set a place or time to regroup, I’m sure we'll cross paths somewhere, as we did in Óbidos. In the meantime, I walk around and appreciate the explosion of architectural styles, from Gothic to Renaissance to Baroque, and others I can’t name.

When I arrive at the most stunning part of the convent, the Rotunda, or Round Church, inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which I visited two years ago, I realize reluctantly that I have to shed some of my anti-tourism sentiments. If I weren’t a tourist, I wouldn’t be seeing this mind-boggling gem of a church. It’s too beautiful for words. I can’t stop taking pictures, even though I know I’m overreacting. I don’t recall having this reaction at the church in Jerusalem. I only remember standing behind hordes of people in front of something meaningful to Believers but unknown to me, and a priest swinging an incense burner back and forth in an empty hall. But here, I‘m by myself, surrounded by so much beauty, and it takes my breath away. So maybe not all tourism is bad, only the sites that become too popular and overcrowded. Since this place is not one of the Seven Wonders of the World, or the original spot where Jesus was crucified and buried, I can enjoy it without pushing my way through busloads of humanity or worrying about pickpockets or unscrupulous guides. 

As I stand under the canopy of paintings and frescoes, surrounded by biblical scenes and angels in shades of blue, gold, pink, and white, I can’t help but think about what it’s like to live near a place where history is constantly in your face, mostly intact or perfectly restored, not buried under mounds of dirt or left to crumble on a hilltop like in ancient Israel. Here, you step out of your house, and the moment you look up, you’re reminded of the men who lived, prayed, and prepared for war in the centuries that preceded you. Then you enter the castle, or fortress, or convent, or whatever you want to call it, and the beauty hits you from every corner, making you realize that even when they built protective walls, battlements, and towers, they still made sure everything would be pleasing to the eye. 

Come to think of it, the oldest structures in my small California town were built in a hurry, less than fifty years ago, without foresight or aesthetic considerations. When I step out of my house, I see a couple of three-star hotels and a parking lot that offer zero appreciation for beauty, only flat concrete and sharp angles that scare away the birds. Even the remnants of the military base, which brought thousands of soldiers to the area until 1994, leave no room for imagination—only a few dilapidated barracks covered in graffiti and an obstacle course swallowed by nature.

I have to force myself to leave the church and continue my expedition. If I ever feel an urge to be surrounded by this beauty, I’ll go online or review the photos I took on my phone despite my general rule not to take pictures of touristy sites. I already know that images of this convent can be found all over the internet, so there’s no reason to indulge my inner photographer in subjects that are obvious to anyone. I mean, how original can I be at such a highly photographed site? There are only so many angles from which I can take pictures of stonewalls covered in moss, or rows of Tuscan columns and arches, or red roofs. I like photos that tell a story, not just remind me that I went somewhere and saw something. 

On a wide balcony overlooking an interior courtyard, I run into Vera and Rita. Rita is itching to leave. She’s seen enough and wants to return to the car and head to Lisbon before it starts to rain. Vera is fine with whatever we decide to do, which means I’m not going to insist on spending more time here even though I'd love to continue exploring a little more. However, as the backseat passenger, I have to accept whatever the front seat dwellers prefer. I’m definitely not going to start an argument at this stage of the trip. We have made it this far without a crisis, and I'm committed to crossing the finish line in peace.