Not All Airbnbs are Alike (20)

“What’s the name of this town?” Vera asks, I assume more to break the silence than out of curiosity.

“Peniche,” Rita says after checking her phone.

From the little I can see outside the window, Peniche looks like a nondescript town somewhere on the coast of Portugal. The houses that line its narrow, deserted streets have none of the grandeur or charm of Lisbon and Óbidos. From some of the signs hanging on the buildings, it appears that this town is a popular surfers’ destination. There are signs for a surf school, a surf resort, a surf hostel, and a surf café and bar. All that’s missing are the surfers. I guess it’s either too late or too early in the season, or maybe it’s just too late in the day. 

“The house is a little bit out of town,” Rita clarifies. “About ten minutes from here.” 

I can almost hear the wheels in her head turning between the statements. She would have preferred to stay in a more central location, but she didn’t want to miss out on a good deal, and driving a few miles out of the way was never a problem for her.

I personally couldn't care less where the house is located. It’s not like I have any plans to go out and look for more things to see and do. I’ve seen enough for one day, and I am happy to find some privacy to unwind and reflect on the day’s events.

After crossing some more dark and forgettable parts of town, Rita parks the car on a dead-end street. The darkness that stretches beyond this street and the few clusters of flickering lights in the distance offer few clues as to what lies outside of town. We remove our luggage from the car and meet the host, who’s waiting for us on the sidewalk in front of a humble-looking two-story house. She punches a few numbers on a heavy lock attached to the handle, opens the front door, and lets us in. 

The wide granite staircase that appears behind the door is absolutely gorgeous and looks completely out of place in this ordinary house. The ornate design on the stained glass that decorates the top part of the front door definitely failed to alert me to what I was going to see upon stepping in, if that was its purpose. I feel my pulse accelerate as I climb the staircase, not because I am out of shape, but because I am excited about what’s to come. After spending two nights at a tiny apartment on the fourth floor of a creaky and musty apartment building in Lisbon, this place already feels like a little suburban palace. I can’t wait to see the rest of it.

Which is nothing like the glamorous opening act. 

Apart from the luxurious staircase, it is a simple family home with the basic ingredients that make a comfortable stay for short-term visitors.

We are ushered into a bedroom on the first floor, attached to a bright pink bathroom, then up the granite stairs to the second floor, where two more bedrooms are located. More stairs between the bedrooms lead to a large kitchen that includes a dining area and enough pots and pans, silverware, and dishes, all marked with Ikea symbols, to accommodate at least two families of avid surfers on vacation.

Vera voluntarily banishes herself to the first-floor bedroom, probably to spare Anna and me the nightly horror show, or maybe to spare herself the hassle of climbing and descending stairs while carrying a suitcase. Rita accepts her mother’s decision to sleep downstairs and drags her carry-on to an adjacent bedroom, which I don’t get to see. Vera’s insistence on occupying the smaller bedroom of the two is so compatible with the Polish martyr mother stereotype that it is almost comical.

I am more than happy with the situation. The upstairs bedroom in which I get to spend the night is spacious and sparsely furnished. There is a bed by the wall with a lone nightstand next to it, a quaint antique-looking armoire across from it with more than a dozen clothes hangers inside, and a cheesy painting of seagulls flying above crashing waves hanging by the door. The large window facing the dark end of town has no blinds or curtains. It makes me feel somewhat exposed since I can’t tell what anyone who’s standing outside can see when looking up. I take a blanket that I find in the armoire and hang it over the window. Hopefully, it will provide some privacy and block the sun in the morning. 

I share a full bathroom with Anna, which is an upgrade from the miniature closet that doubled as a bathroom in the previous Airbnb. Did I already mention that Freddy’s gigantic frame wouldn’t have fit inside the bathroom in Lisbon had he decided to join us? Luckily, he chose to stay in the comfort of his four-bedroom house and leave the search for adventures to Rita, who shares the downstairs bathroom with her mother. Each bathroom has a pile of clean towels and enough toilet paper for a family of five. Each bathroom is also decorated with colorful ceramic tiles, rather than the plastic walls and suspicious-looking floor I stepped on back in Lisbon. So life looks a little more promising in this town that I have already forgotten its name and have no clue where to look on the map. 

I think this is going to be my first quiet night since I left my brother’s place in Tel Aviv. Even though the bed feels unfamiliar and the water pressure in the shower is yet to be tested, I feel good in this big house. I can breathe here without anyone hearing me. I can go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and a slice of bread with cheese, exchange a few words with Vera who has already settled at the dining table, and soon retire to my room, knowing that I have survived another day as a tourist without offending anyone.

 

Bathroom Adventures (19)

Ah, the bathrooms again.

For a split second, the thought that I should look for the coveted bathrooms crosses my mind, but my vanity prevents me from doing it. Or maybe it is my habitual rebelliousness. I don’t want to be like other women who use the bathroom at every stop as a precaution, to avoid future emergencies. Go for the sake of going just in case... I decide to take the risk and, well, be different. 

Back at the car, I squeeze myself into the back seat next to Anna, but this time I’m carrying a shopping bag. Not that it’s that big. It contains only some bread, cheese, and vegetables. My cravings and ideas about what to eat are on strike when I am out of my routine and my familiar environment. So, I go back to basics and buy things I can make and eat on the move. 

We are on our way to the coast again, where a four-bedroom house awaits us. I don’t know the name of the town we’re headed to; I only know it’s not a long drive from where we are. It’s getting dark already and there is not much to see. The road is deserted, like most of the freeways we’ve been on. Maybe because there are no big cities nearby, or maybe people here don’t use their cars as much as in the States. 

Rita calls the Airbnb host on speakerphone to alert her that we are on our way. The host has to unlock the door for us and have us sign in. Rita asks her for the code on the lock but the woman says it is a special lock that only she can open. The call drops. Rita dials again. For some reason, she decides to arrange this whole thing while driving, which is so unlike her. It makes me nervous, but I say nothing. Let Vera do the dirty work or Anna, and if they don’t care that Rita is putting our lives in danger, well, then I will live with it and hope for the best. I don’t really expect Anna to say anything, though. She’s been silent for hours, preoccupied with something she is not sharing with us. Probably her daughter or her financial troubles. 

The Airbnb host answers the phone. She can’t meet us before seven o’clock, which means that we have to find something to do until then. The woman speaks pretty good English, even better than Rita. Strangely, I have not noticed that Rita speaks broken English until now. Because most of my interactions with her take place during our walks, I hear her speaking only Hebrew. Unless Fred calls to talk about nothing, which he seems to do every two hours because I can’t think of even one time that I walked with her and he didn’t call to ask “Where are you? What are you doing? How’s it going? What’s up? What are you going to do later?” over and over again. In return, she reports to him about where she’s been and what she’s done during the last couple of hours, even if it’s as mundane as going to the post office or getting gas. I used to think that she was speaking poor English on purpose, to sound girly and cute, to make him feel smart and manly, but now I realize that she really does speak English poorly, despite having lived in an English-speaking country for nearly twenty years and running a small business where she has to constantly negotiate with American customers.  

“Do you have the address for this house?” Vera asks the obvious. 

“Yes,” Rita says. “I think it’s on the edge of town.”

“Is it in a safe area?” Vera persists.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s safe. We’ll go look for the house and then check out this little town,” Rita reassures her while fumbling with her phone.

With this reassurance, the talking dies down. Rita chooses some music on her phone and lets it fill the car. I stare out the window, trying to figure out how I feel about my situation. I know I am not suffering or super annoyed with the way things are unfolding, but I am also not terribly happy either. I feel trapped sitting in this car, in the dark, listening to Israeli music and having no idea about where I am going and what to expect. Moreover, the heavy brooding emanating from Anna is beginning to affect me. I wonder if Rita and her mother can feel the gray cloud that hangs above her and spreads its tentacles onto the upholstery of the back seats. I want to say something to bring her out of the hole she’s in because soon it will swallow me too, but I am not sure I’m the right person to do it.

My gloomy stream of consciousness comes to an abrupt end when I suddenly feel pressure in my bladder. Damn it. I might have to ask Rita to stop for me somewhere. I don’t want to do it. I feel stupid and mad at my body. I trusted it; I was sure it wouldn’t give me any trouble. I felt so confident before we left the supermarket. Arrogant me. And now look where it got me. I’m forced to be like everyone else. I am not going to say anything. Not yet. I think I can hold it for a little while longer. Besides, there is nowhere to stop. I’ll wait. Not that I have much choice. 

I’m trying to ignore the awful sensation, but it’s almost impossible. Anyone who’s been in this situation knows it can quickly become unbearable. Maybe for men, it’s not as bad as it is for women. Their anatomy allows for improvisations. But for us women, there’s not much flexibility. Especially when we find ourselves in a foreign country, on a dark, unfamiliar road, and all we can see is… nothing. I find myself thinking about all the other times I found myself in this predicament, and how it never ended up with me getting arrested for public exposure. 

In Bolivia, I was once sitting in the back of a rickety bus that was heading to La Paz. The trip, I understood, was supposed to take about ten hours. After several hours of bumping from side to side on the unpaved roads, I began to wonder if I might have been the only passenger who needed to pee. Because I was the only foreigner on the bus, and quite young, I didn’t dare approach the bus driver and ask him to stop just for me. So, I waited, stared out the window, and did lots of breathing exercises. When the driver finally stopped, I followed the passengers outside and found myself standing in the middle of the Bolivian altiplano with not a single tree, rock, or bush for cover. From one end of the horizon to the other, three hundred and sixty degrees around me, all I could see was flat earth and blue sky, with absolutely nothing to disturb it.

I didn’t know what to do. I looked around to see what the indigenous people of the Bolivian highland do, and to my utter surprise, I noticed that the men stayed on one side of the bus, turned their backs, and did whatever men do. The women went to the other side, crouched down, and peed under their colorful and stiff traditional skirts, leaving a wet spot behind after they rose and walked back to the front of the bus as if what they had done was nothing out of the ordinary.

I was amazed at the simplicity of the solution, and admired the women’s practicality, but unlike these women, I was wearing pants and underwear. I had to quickly shed my learned modesty or suffer the consequences. I pulled down my pants and peed by the back wheel, hoping I would not become the talk of the town before I arrived in La Paz. To my relief, the women barely acknowledged my presence. I went back to my seat knowing that from that moment on, I would always, always wear a skirt when traveling.

I know that Portugal is not Bolivia, but I still travel wearing a skirt or a dress. This morning, when I got up, I put on black leggings and a long-sleeve tunic that comes down almost to my knees. I can pee under my tunic like I learned to do in Bolivia when my sense of adventure was a little sharper. Hopefully, I would not wet my leggings and tunic like I did in Bolivia, because that flowery skirt I wore afterwards was the flowy kind that stuck to my legs when I crouched down to pee.

I finally break down. “Rita, if you see a place you can stop, I really have to pee.” I have reached the point where I either have to swallow my pride or die a proud woman. The human body has little leeway when it needs to rid itself of certain elements and as a member of the human race, I have little choice in the matter. I don’t tell her, though, that I want her to pull over right now so I can pee on the side of the road under my tunic like the women from Bolivia. I’m not there yet.

“Okay,” she says, unfazed. I don’t expect to hear concern in her voice. I am definitely not the first woman to make this request of her. Last year, she took two eighty-year-old women on a road trip from California to Yellowstone and everything in between. I imagine she had to stop for them many more times than she will ever have to stop for me.  

The truth is, I really need her to stop right now, at this very second. We just crossed a small bridge above a narrow stream and it looks like there’s a field next to it. She can stop for me here, on the side of the road. I can disappear into the darkness and come back in no time. But I don’t want to make a scene and beg. I regret not saying anything earlier, because now it is already too late. I feel like jumping out of the moving car and putting an end to my misery. Just open the door and do it. Please stop please stop please stop. That’s all I can think.

I also panic because Rita seems to have forgotten that she needs to stop for me. We just passed a small industrial zone and entered a small town. There are apartment buildings on one side of the street and one-story houses on the other. I think I missed my chance to pee on the side of the deserted road. There is no one on the street. Only parked cars by the sidewalk. Maybe I can do it here, although I don’t think I can pee on the sidewalk. I am not a dog. And the people who live on the top floors would be able to see me and I don’t need to feel more humiliated than I already do.

The GPS sent us to a dead end and we turn back. Rita makes a U-turn, and before she accelerates, I ask her to let me out of the car. If I don’t pee now, I will succumb to my own poison. I imagine myself peeing by the car door like the seasoned traveler that I am. I’m surprised that Vera says nothing about my little drama. She sure has stories to share about this issue, but she chooses to remain silent. I bet that if she didn’t know me, she would have told me that I should have used the bathroom at the supermarket, but luckily, she knows better. Anna and Vera are absorbed in their own world. I would have expected women to show some female solidarity and commiserate about their past mishaps, but no sisterly empathy is offered. Today, it’s every woman for herself. 

I get out of the car and look around. Just as I start to pull my leggings down, I see a group of people coming out of a house at the end of the street, where we just made the U-turn. I pull the leggings back up. I need some privacy and I can’t take the risk. I get back in the car.

“I’ll find you a place,” Rita promises, her inner tour guide kicking in. I think she finally grasps the gravity of my situation.

Since I can barely breathe now, I stare out the window, trying to imagine how life will be after I pee. I promise myself that I will never skip a bathroom stop. I will be more aware of my limitations. I will be more compassionate to everyone. 

Again, we are driving through an industrial section of town. Rita parks outside a gas station. I enter and ask the attendant if there is a bathroom at the station. He points to a small shed standing in a dark field that begins where the gas station ends. The only thing that connects the shed to the gas station is a row of stepping stones—not even a paved walkway. If not for the small light above the door showing the universal symbol of women’s bathrooms, I would have assumed it was a tool shed. The shed is not locked and I don’t need a special code to open the door, I am told. 

The first thought that comes to my mind is that I should not go there. Someone might be hiding inside or behind the shed. I might be walking into a death trap for all I know. This place, I am sure, is not among Portugal’s most popular tourist hot spots. I have to decide what to do. There are three women in a car across the street waiting for me, and my body is screaming hell. Since the attendant does not give me any criminal vibes, I decide to take my chances. If someone decides to bludgeon me to death, he will not get much out of it. All my stuff is in the car, and I’m not wearing any jewelry, not even a watch. 

The bathroom is surprisingly not filthy or smelly and has running water. There is even toilet paper and soap by the sink, unlike some places I saw during my travels, like in… yes, Bolivia or Peru, where I once entered a dirt hut that was used as a unisex public toilet, if I can call it that. Inside, there were four holes in the ground with dividers between them, but no doors. These unisex toilets were present in Bolivia decades before transgender people made the use of gender-preferred bathrooms a topic of discussion, let alone a political fight. In my present condition, I would have welcomed gender-blind toilets without any problem.  

After my body returns to normal, I push the door open with my elbow and walk back to the car. When I ask if anyone wants to check out the bathroom before we take off, they all say no.

Portuguese Supermarket (18)

On our way back to the car, Rita tells me about another discovery she made in Óbidos: ginja in a small chocolate cup. “It was so yummy,” she adds. She often describes the food she eats in restaurants with “Ta’iiiiiiiiim,” using the Hebrew equivalent of “yummy” and stretching the second syllable to underscore her pleasure.  

“Uh, too sweet,” Vera interjects and shrugs. It’s hard to impress her when she’s in that mood. 

A shot of ginja in a chocolate cup is uniquely Portuguese. At Monterey’s Fisherman’s Wharf, which was only a block from where I used to live, waiters stand at the entrance to seafood restaurants offering passersby a tiny paper cup of steaming, thick clam chowder without a spoon, for free. Here, young women lure tourists into souvenir shops with sour cherry liqueur in small, dark chocolate cups for 5 euros a pop. I guess everyone has to make a living. I skip that little treat, as I skip most stuff that’s imposed upon me in touristy zones, not because I am stingy but because I just wasn’t into it at the moment.  

Back on the road again toward I don’t know where, Rita mentions that she received a text message from her Brazilian hairdresser, the one who attaches the blond braid extensions to her unruly short hair when she gets bored of living unnoticed. 

“What’s up with her?” I ask. I’ve never met Simoni, but I have heard about her and how much she loves Rita and wants her to fly to Brazil to meet her family.

“She wants us to meet her nephew, who lives somewhere in the mountains.”

“Do you know him?” Vera asks.

“I met him over the summer. He stayed with her for a few months, but he wasn’t making any money so he went to Portugal to study something, I don’t remember what.”

“What’s the name of the town he lives in?” I ask. 

“I don’t remember. She sent me several texts already. She’s been bugging me to visit him since I told her I was going to Portugal.”

“Do you want to meet him?” I ask again.

“I told her I’d try.” 

I am not sure I believe her, but it doesn’t really matter. 

“How far is this town?” Vera asks.

“She said a couple of hours from Lisbon,” Rita responds, her eyes thankfully glued to the road. No matter how much she loves her phone, she is not tempted to check the name or the location of the town the her nephew lives. She’s a good driver. She always pays attention, keeps a good distance from the car in front of her, and lets aggressive drivers pass her without getting competitive or angry. “We can stop and look for him on the way back to Lisbon,” she adds.

This little chat reminds me of Belmonte, a small town somewhere in the mountains, which I considered visiting. Not because I know much about it, but because I have a Brazilian friend who owns some Airbnb properties there. I used to share an apartment with him and another guy when I lived in Rio in my twenties. He was a tall, skinny guy with long curly hair and strong leftist views that all the Brazilians I knew espoused at that time. When I interviewed for the third bedroom in the apartment, he asked me who I voted for in the Israeli elections. Luckily, I gave the right answer. After I was accepted as a roommate with equal rights and responsibilities, he told me that had I voted for the right-wing Likud Party, I would have been thrown out the window. That would have landed me on a bunch of noisy chickens who lived in cages in the corner of the open-air market that was located four flights below and woke us up every day long before the market opened for business. When I found him on Facebook three decades later, he was already a grandfather and a widower. His long curly hair, now a bit grayer and thinner, was still gracing his shoulders. 

From the pictures that Umberto, my former Brazilian roommate, posted on Facebook, I learned that Jews who were expelled from the big cities over five hundred years ago (1496) and forced to convert, settled in Belmonte and left symbols on the stone walls of their houses to demonstrate to their neighbors that they were good Christians. I also saw pictures of the properties that Umberto bought and restored with the help of his two adult sons. I didn’t contact him to let him know that I was coming to Portugal because I was not sure where I was going to be and if Rita would be willing to stop in Belmonte. But now that it looks like we might go to the mountains in search of Simoni’s nephew, Rita might agree to stop there. I mean, it’s not every day that we travel to a country where we can spend a night at my ex-roommate's property. I might even run into him or get a good deal. Who knows? 

I don’t share my thoughts with Rita just yet. We can make decisions later on when we know where we are heading and how much time we have. In the meantime, Rita appears to have parked the car in front of a supermarket. A non-distinct, mundane-looking, neon-lit store, with rows and rows of packaged food items on shelves, large bins with fresh vegetables and fruits, and refrigerators full of stuff. What a relief. A welcome break from the exotic offerings of this lovely country. 

I have to say that strolling down this supermarket’s aisles by myself feels more satisfying than stepping into a medieval church in Lisbon or standing on the westernmost point of continental Europe. Finally, I get to see what life is like for those who live in Portugal. Discover what kinds of things are sold in supermarkets. Maybe see something I’ve never seen before. Like the humongous meat globs with a giant bone sticking out of them hanging on a pole in the cured meats and sausage section. They look like they were smoked or dried, and I have no idea what people do with them. I’ve never seen anything like this at my local supermarket. They are too in-your-face, too provocative for the refined American shopper who prefers to consume meat that does not look like it came from an animal. In Tel Aviv, they are nonexistent because I am sure they used to belong to pigs.

I can also say that food costs more in Portugal than where I live, especially the fresh stuff, because here I pay in euros, and those euros are worth more than my dollars on any given day. Not that I’m complaining. I know I have it easy in California. 

Interestingly, the shopping carts are much smaller than the American carts, and I wonder if they are intentionally not user-friendly. They are similar to the shopping baskets I use at home, but much deeper and with four wheels on the bottom. The long stick that is attached to one side of the basket lets me steer it up and down the aisles. So not only do I have to drag this thing behind me like a carry-on suitcase, but I also have to bend down to the floor to put the merchandise in it because the bottom is at the same level as my feet. What if I had knee problems? What if I had a weight problem like dear Freddy? I cannot imagine him using this so-called shopping cart. If the man bends down to put something in it, it will be the end of him. He will never be able to rise back up, and no one will be able to lift his extra 350 pounds to a standing position without a crane. It’s a doomed scenario. I think that whoever thought up this contraption should be tarred and feathered. 

Despite my poor opinion of the shopping basket, I buy a few things that would last me for a couple of days. Nothing extravagant that will require cooking or chopping. If I feel a need to indulge, I can always order something at a bakery, cafe, or restaurant that might attract Rita’s attention. This time, I see that she has already found a place inside the supermarket where she can order food. She is sitting at a small round table with Vera. They are enjoying a pastry, a sandwich, and coffee. I take a seat next to them after I order a small coffee and a croissant. I still don’t know how to order coffee with milk, so I get an espresso and ask for a little milk, which makes the guy behind the glass counter look at me funny.

When I ask about Anna’s whereabouts, Rita says that she went to look for the bathroom.

Sardines (17)

Just as I expected, I spot Rita and her mother inside a shop near the castle. This establishment offers only one product: sardines. Shelves upon shelves are covered with rows and rows of tins of Portuguese sardines. But these are not the typical tins you see in grocery stores in the United States, and ignore. In Óbidos, the display is so stunning that it seduces the visitor to approach those sardine tins, which are covered in colorful, vintage-looking wrappers and whimsical labels, and read about the unappetizing content. Rita might even buy a few tins as souvenirs, which is basically what they are, after acquainting herself with the variety of oils and herbs in which these little fish were preserved. 

On one of the walls, the tins are arranged according to the year printed on the label. Each year in a different color. I don’t think the years on the labels represent the time the sardines were caught or preserved because they go as far back as the 1940s. It reminds me of the displays of birthday cards in drug stores that print the birth years on the outside, and when you open them, they say something mean about how old you are. Here, though, the number is accompanied by a description of an important event that took place during that year. I appreciate the gimmick but I am still not persuaded to buy one. My daughter will definitely not appreciate a can of Portuguese sardines, and my hard-core vegetarian friends will only frown at me if I hand them a sardine tin, no matter how attractive the label. 

I know I should not look down on sardines. They are rich in omega-3 fatty acids and calcium and have been consumed by many people all over the world for thousands of years. I also know that the Portuguese eat fried and grilled sardines. I learned that when I worked in Half Moon Bay near San Francisco, which is home to a small Portuguese community. But I never wanted to try them. The smell was somewhat intimidating. But looking at faux vintage sardine tins and reading about the different flavors they come in feels safe enough, so I linger in the store and check the multi-lingual leaflet that recounts the history of the sardine industry in Portugal. There’s even a version in Hebrew as a testament to the large contingent of Israeli tourists that passes through this lovely town.   

Vera approaches me with three tins in her hand. “I’m going to buy these,” she says, somewhat apologetically, as if she expects me to frown at her. “I have to bring my husband and the children something,” she further explains even though I give her no reason to think I’m judging her.  

“You think the kids will like sardines?” I ask, rhetorically. I know the answer.

“It’s not sardines,” she says and shows me the labels on the tins. 

Good call, I think when I see the label up close. The sardines in the tin are made of chocolate, not the real thing. These smart Portuguese don’t give up on us gullible tourists. They know we can’t return home empty-handed, as Vera explained. I can see the displeasure on her face. She doesn’t really want to buy these tins, but she feels compelled to show her family that she cares. 

“Cute,” I say. “It will make them laugh.” I hope my answer is supportive enough to make her feel that she is not throwing her euros to the wind. Just getting here was expensive enough for her, and, unlike for her daughter, frivolous shopping is definitely not part of her genetic makeup.

She responds by making that typical Polish woman sound, a scratchy “ehhhh,” which conveys serious doubt and self-deprecation simultaneously.
I have to hand it to her. She is not one to hide her feelings, and I sympathize with her predicament. This obligation to buy something you don’t want or need only to give yourself peace of mind is like going to the doctor to verify that a weird mole you noticed on your back is not melanoma. You suspect it’s been there for years, but you still make that appointment and pay for the visit only to hear that everything is fine, so you can keep enjoying life without worrying that your days are numbered. Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t like simply because it makes life easier in the long run. And buying silly gifts while traveling in foreign countries is certainly one of those things.

She turns away from me and goes to pay for the chocolate sardines. Rita is already standing by the cash register with a few tins in her hand. I leave the store before she can call me to come and see her choice of tins.

A Wedding Gift to the Queen (16)

We are on the road again, with Rita at the wheel and Vera in the front seat next to her. Since it is still our first day in the car, I am not complaining about being stuck in the back seat. I let it slide even though it is not my nature to let things slide without saying anything. 

“I found a place with four bedrooms for tonight,” Rita announces when it becomes clear that no one else will start a conversation. “It’s a bit out of the way, but we’re not rushing to get anywhere.” 

“Whatever you decide is fine with us,” Vera asserts, without consulting Anna or me. She has a tendency to make decisions for all of us without asking first, but this one is completely acceptable.

Four bedrooms! What a great idea. Not that it matters much to me. At most, it will make me look less selfish when we settle in for the night because I don’t share a bedroom. Perhaps Rita realized that she needed a full night’s sleep if she wanted to continue leading our expedition and staying awake at the same time. Or maybe she feels sorry for Anna. I don’t know her reasons, but I do applaud the outcome. 

I have to admit that Rita’s ability to take care of all the necessary arrangements by herself, while on the road, is admirable. She knows how to find her way so easily in a foreign country, book affordable Airbnb places, and plan an itinerary. I was never good at these things. My travel philosophy never included planning ahead, not because I am such a spontaneous person, which to my detriment I am sometimes, but because I don’t know how to plan for the future. In fact, as far back as I can remember, I’ve never planned a trip. I just took off.

During my early twenties, my idea of travel preparations entailed borrowing a sleeping bag from a friend and buying a roll of film for my camera. Everything else was either too expensive or too overwhelming. Learning about a prospective travel destination did not even cross my mind. When I decided to travel to Bolivia and Peru after living in Rio for almost a year, I knew exactly nothing about those countries. I thought the only difference between them and Brazil was the language and I figured I’d learn to speak Spanish soon enough to help me get around. I didn’t realize that I would find myself in a place where it snowed and oxygen would be in short supply because of the altitude, for example, and that my chances of surviving in the Andes in a flowing cotton skirt and tennis shoes were not too high. 

Luckily, I met many good people on the road, foreigners and locals, who bestowed on me the appropriate clothes and information I needed during the months of my unplanned traveling. That’s what helped me to survive five days in the pouring rain on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu with a group of French hippies I met in a bar one night. They suggested I join them, and I accepted without giving it much thought. What kept me warm and somewhat dry during the toughest parts of the hike was the long wool coat I received from an elderly woman who lived in the retirement home for Holocaust survivors in La Paz, where I was staying for free, courtesy of the local Jewish community. A couple of months later, before I began another unfortunate hike in the Cordillera Blanca, believing that I was going to get some sun in the mountains, I bought myself an alpaca wool sweater in the market at the insistence of another backpacker I had met on the road. That sweater saved my life. Hiking in the snow above 5,000 ft in tennis shoes and a light windbreaker is not something I would recommend to anyone. 

Interestingly, I have learned little from these experiences. I still don’t plan my trips, even when, objectively speaking, I can—I have time, I have a computer, and I know how to read. Yet, I still just let things happen. And this trip to Portugal is no exception. 

I stop dwelling on my poor travel habits when a picturesque town enclosed by ancient stone walls appears on a hillside not too far from the highway. A gray fortress or a castle breaks through the town’s soft skyline, reminding onlookers that the current peaceful scenery might have been quite bloody in the past. As our car approaches the town, the sky darkens and rain begins to fall. Rita has to circle the narrow alleys outside the walled town a few times before finally finding a half-full parking lot. She quickly figured out how to pay for parking, something I wouldn’t know how to do even in California, and we set off to explore the town on foot. In front of the town’s gate, a small crew in yellow construction hats and vests is working on a crane around a giant Christmas tree, decorating it with huge white globes. The rain does not seem to bother them, just as it doesn’t bother the few tourists who form a line on the wood planks that cover the wet sidewalk leading to the main street.

For a moment I think that we have to pay to enter the enclosed town when I see a large sign in front of the gate, but upon closer inspection, I see that the sign greets visitors and advertises some restaurants and a few upcoming holiday events. In truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had to pay to enter this charming gem of a town. Everything about it screams “tourist trap.” I find it hard to believe that real people live here, and not just the occasional renters and vacationers. This collection of houses and alleyways is anything but ordinary. The whitewashed stone two-story houses decorated with wide yellow trims at the bottom and blue stripes at the corners, the blooming bougainvilleas that cover the sides of the houses all the way to the slanted red-tile roofs, the narrow cobblestone alleys and winding stairways, the small bowls of cat food next to closed doors, the old churches with their steeples, fountains, and colorful tiles—they are all so breathtakingly gorgeous, that they make the heartache for a forgotten world. Unfortunately, I already know that a place that makes me feel as if time stood still must hide some ugly truths I am better off not knowing. For example, that this town in its medieval heyday lacked underground sewage lines and centralized garbage collection. But why bother with these unsavory details when everything I see is so aesthetically pleasing and awe-inspiring?

Today, neither horse-drawn carriages nor cars roam the winding streets of Óbidos, as this little national treasure is called. Only people, most of whom are tourists, are to be seen walking the streets. And a few cats. As usual, I don’t plan to buy touristy stuff, so the moment Rita and Vera enter the first artisan shop on the main street, I separate from them and go to explore the town on my own. It’s too small to get lost in, and I am sure our paths will cross sooner than later. 

During my solitary stroll, undisturbed by other outsiders, I discover that sometime in the thirteenth century, Óbidos was given to the queen of Portugal as a wedding gift from the king. What a cool idea. I got a washing machine when I got married, but if you’re a Portuguese queen, you may get a little town on a hill, with a castle and a rampart thrown in for good measure.

The castle, which was originally built by the Moors twelve hundred years ago and changed hands many times over the centuries before eventually being converted into a hotel, is closed to the public at the moment due to construction work. Two pickup trucks parked by the stone wall and a pile of construction materials are a reminder that time has not completely stopped in Óbidos. I step onto an improvised plywood walkway that leads to a steep stone staircase. The stairs take me all the way to the top of the rampart, from where I can see the entire valley. As I expected, the view is spectacular. Beyond the town’s roofs and balconies, I can see orchards and vineyards dotted with windmills and a highway that cuts through them. By now, the rain has stopped, but the heavy rainclouds still hang above, adding depth to the scene, with the sun breaking through the gray clouds and patches of blue sky peering from above.

I want to stay and breathe in this beauty, relax, and imagine what it was like to live here centuries ago, even without indoor plumbing and electricity, but this is a privilege not available to a tourist. I have to rejoin my group and be reminded of my outsiderness. I don’t belong here. I am just a tourist. I come, I see, and I leave, hopefully, after I buy something I don’t need because the local economy depends on my generosity.

I don’t like being a tourist and rushing from place to place, but here I am, taking pictures of this beautiful little town and thinking about how this experience enriches me, changes me, or even improves the world. Would I be a different person had I never seen this place? 

I know the answer, but I am not going to deal with it now. I am going to descend this castle wall and go look for my travel mates. I will probably run into them in one of the many shops I avoided on my way up here.

Aqui Onde A Terra Se Acaba (15)

Eventually, we reach a parking lot. On a hill to the right of us, several buildings painted white are encircled by a white wall. A lighthouse stands tall inside the compound. The reddish roofs and the bright red top of the lighthouse lend the scenery a charming touch. I have no idea where we are. Rita circles the parking lot, looking for an empty spot, and stops near a building that looks like a visitor center. The number of coaches and tourists that walk the grounds gives me the impression that we have arrived at a well-known place. 

I can see the ocean at the end of a fenced walkway that leaves the parking lot. A tall stone monument overlooking the ocean far below rises at the end of the trail. To the left, narrow trails cut through invasive-type vegetation that covers the rocky landscape. Many previous visitors obviously ignored the signs to please stay on the marked walkways and stepped on the vegetation to explore the area on their own. I choose one of the unauthorized footpaths and head toward the monument to discover what it commemorates. 

The place is called Cabo da Roca. The stone plaque at the bottom of the phallic monument announces, “Aqui onde a terra se acaba e o mar começa,” easily translated to “Here is where the land ends and the sea begins.” A cross on the top of the monument lends it a seal of approval. Apparently, this is the westernmost point of Portugal and continental Europe. 

Unsurprisingly, knowing that I am standing on the very edge of Europe does not make me feel anything special. I think I once stood at the westernmost point of the coast of California, but I have no memory of feeling overwhelmed by the thought. In general, I am not one to be impressed by anything defined as “the most.” I will never try to conquer the summit of the highest mountain or the deepest cave of any continent so I can say I’ve been there. I don’t see any merit in activities that disturb the natural environment and endanger my life. I am more moved by nature’s beauty than by geographic curiosities. So, this Cabo da Roca can be anywhere in the world for all I care. And still be a beautiful place. Just like Big Sur, which I consider my weekend playground. A place where I go to see narrow, white sand beaches surrounded by tall granite cliffs that drop straight into the ocean; observe sea birds glide above me on the wind, motionless with their wings outstretched, and gray rock formations rise from the ocean’s depths to meet unforgiving waves. 

I walk to the edge of the cliff away from the crowds to feel the wind on my face, get my blood moving, and breathe the fresh salty air. I can see my travel mates walking slowly on the designated trail to the monument, where Rita takes pictures of her mother, who obediently poses in front of it. Anna keeps to herself again and veers away from the two of them to look at the spectacular view and take pictures. I take my time exploring the different trails away from the center of the attraction, where most of the tourists congregate. After a few days in the city, it’s refreshing to be out in nature where I can see all the way to the horizon and feel dirt instead of asphalt under my feet.

When I return to the monument to meet everyone, Rita is busy taking her quintessential selfies with the imposing rocks down below. She smiles at the cellphone screen, adjusts the angle of the phone, tilts her head to one side, then the other side, smiles again, and click, click, click. She loves taking selfies, especially since she has started getting Botox shots that erase even the most stubborn lines between her eyebrows. Selfies are her trademark. She has hundreds of them on her Facebook page. Wherever she goes in the world, she takes a closeup selfie with something small in the background as proof that she was there. She beckons me to pose next to her in one of her selfies. I acquiesce. Refusal might be seen as a repudiation, and I am not in the mood to advertise my subversive disposition. 

Now that we have proof that we’ve been to the westernmost point of the continent, we can look for the bathrooms and relax over a cup of coffee. I follow Rita and Vera into the building at the end of the parking lot. Inside, there is a gift shop with the typical tchotchkes Portugal offers to its tourists and a friendly attendant at the cash register. Since I am not inclined to buy anything, I proceed to the spiral staircase that leads me downstairs to an unassuming café with only a few patrons. Rita and her mother are still upstairs deciding whether to buy something or not, but Anna is already seated at one of the small tables by the window with a cup of coffee in front of her. She seems preoccupied with something, paying no attention to the beautiful view outside the windows. I wave to her and go to the counter to ask about the bathroom. The woman behind the counter tells me I have to pay to use the bathroom and also buy something. I order coffee and receive a card that will unlock the entrance to the restrooms. As usual, I skip the sugary pastries on display. 

The woman hands me an espresso. I ask her to add milk and join Anna by the window. “Did you try out the restrooms?” I ask Anna.

“Yes,” she says, putting down her cell phone. “But you have to pay to get in.” 

“The cashier gave me this,” I show her my card, and ask if the bathrooms are clean. 

Life has taught me that it’s always good to be prepared. In general, my experience with European bathrooms has not been completely positive. In addition to the questionable quality of the toilet paper and the unfamiliar flushing contraptions I encountered not too long ago in London and Vienna, I also had to pay to use a public restroom. In the United States, I’ve never been in a situation where I had to pay to use a public toilet, no matter where I found myself—a rest area in the middle of nowhere on Interstate 5 or the boardwalk in Monterey—but in Europe, it’s a common practice in some places. At least in Brazil, they don’t charge seniors to use public bathrooms. But in Portugal, they ask you to pay to use the bathroom at a restaurant. Live and learn. 

“They’re fine,” Anna shrugs off my question as irrelevant. I can feel she nurtures a hidden contempt for my attachment to the bourgeois notion of cleanliness.

When I finally leave for the bathroom, I find myself standing behind a man and his son who are trying to figure out how to insert their cards into the slot in a turnstile that blocks the entrance. I watch them closely because I’d hate to make an idiot of myself and have to ask them how to do it. Eventually, they pass through the turnstile, and I follow them. When I come out, Rita and Vera are on the other side of the turnstile with their cards.

“Just push it in here,” Rita shows her mother.

“I know, I know,” Vera says, grabbing the card from Rita’s hand.

“Good luck,” I say to them and join Anna, who is still sitting at the table by the window scrolling on her phone.

Later on, on the way out of the parking lot to the next unknown destination, I spot a line of women standing outside a grungy-looking door in another smaller and less attractive building. On the door, I can see a small square sign with the blue shape of a person in a skirt. It looks like in our rush to the gift shop, we missed the free toilets.

Is That The Sintra-plex Up There? (14)

“Who wants an apple?” Vera suddenly swings into action from the front passenger seat. She is probably tired of listening to us and wants to lighten up the atmosphere, which has become somewhat less cheery than desired. Being a Holocaust survivor, she is not one to dwell on the irreparable.

Rita puts her hand out and Vera gives her a wedge. A 50-year-old baby chick accepting food from her mommy bird. I have to keep from rolling my eyes. Stay positive, I think to myself. You’re in Portugal and you don’t have to drive or even look at a map.

“Do you want me to cut you a piece?” Vera asks me.

“Sure, thank you.” I don’t want to look ungrateful, and deep down, I welcome the interruption. My mission to get personal information from Anna has become a sad success. I got a lot more than I bargained for and I’m not sure what to do with it. One thing I can say for sure: Anna is definitely a woman in distress and this trip is a diversion she can barely afford. I can try to be nice to her, but that’s about all I can or want to do. I know my limits. I chew the crisp apple slowly and stare out the window. The road sign says that we are on our way to Sintra.  

I know nothing about Sintra except that it’s a city in Portugal. Rita read something about it in a travel blog before we left Israel and mentioned to me in passing that there was something to see there. A castle or a palace. She said we might stop there on the way to Porto, but she was not sure. I didn’t bother googling the city. I trust Rita’s assessment of its offerings. We might stop to see beautiful historical edifices.

We start climbing up a winding road. Through the thick foliage that covers the hills, I can see roofs and balconies of magnificent mansions poking through the greenery. Rita does not give any sign that she is planning to stop the car and take in the view. Should I ask her to stop? Do I want to get out of the car? I can’t decide. I expect one of my travel mates to say something, but no one comments on the changing landscape. 

As we climb higher and higher into the mountains, an enormous castle-like megaplex, punctuated by towers and domes that look like something out of Disneyland slowly comes into view. Each structure of this fairytale fortress is painted in a different bright color: red, yellow, orange, and gray. I have no idea what I am looking at. Maybe a theme park, maybe not. Rita says nothing. I decide to say nothing as well. I don’t want to start a conversation that might devolve into a debate. I can live without seeing a Disney version of a Portuguese palace, which might turn out to be an expensive and mindless tourist trap. In any case, my interest lies in living and speaking with humans, not in tourist attractions. I want to get to know Portugal through its people, not through its tourist offerings to outsiders who drive through the country from one end to the other and barely notice what it is like to actually live there.

After the colorful castle disappears behind us, I hear Rita’s cheerful voice from the driver’s seat. “Hi, Freddy. Boker tov.”

It’s early morning in California and she is calling to check on him. He’s probably awake already, preparing to go to work, and she is eager to report to him about her new adventure. Calling Freddy several times a day is Rita’s way of not feeling alone in the world. Every time I walk with her, she calls to ask him how he’s doing, even though she has nothing to say to him. It’s a routine they perform for an invisible audience to reassure one another that they are still there, somewhere, thinking of each other. When she finishes talking to Freddy, she usually calls her son, Ari, and goes through the same routine. Sometimes she calls her son first and Freddy second. Today, she calls Freddy first. Her teenage son may still be asleep.

“Good morning, how you doin’?” Her voice sounds more nasal when she speaks on the phone.  She stretches the words and emphasizes the final consonants.

“I’m Okay,” I hear Freddy from the other side of the world. 

“How are you?” she asks again in that nasal voice.

“Good,” he says.

“What’s going on?” she asks. It’s the same routine every time. Sometimes she asks him these questions in Hebrew. She has trained him to do this opening act of the phone call in Hebrew. It’s quite impressive to hear him responding correctly to her “ma koreh” which translates to “What’s happening?” with “hakol besder.” 

“You’re on speaker phone,” she lets him know, just in case he might say something we shouldn’t hear.

“Hi Vera,” he says. 

“Hi Freddy,” we all say in tandem. 

Now that the preliminaries are over, she tells him about the car and whatever she has been through since the last time they spoke. She concludes the call with a shameless “I love you,” which is an overstatement, although not a complete lie. She loves his money and the lifestyle it affords her. In return for that love, Freddy gets a lot of womanly attention, something he was seriously deprived of before he met her. I have nothing but admiration for her survival skills. Without him, I don’t want to speculate where she would have ended up after her divorce. At present, though, she is worried about him. He has been threatening to quit his job, and, because she is not sure where the money would come from, she keeps him on a short leash with phone calls, texts, and empty declarations of love. So, life is good, and on we go, to visit someplace not too far from where we are now.