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.
No comments:
Post a Comment