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.