Learning to Order Coffee (23)

I don’t know if Rita did some googling or just followed her tour guide's hunch, but after a short drive she parks near a cute café located at the end of a road on top of a small hill overlooking the ocean. On the patio in front of the café, there are a few round tables under beach umbrellas that advertise beer. Only one table is occupied, by two middle-aged women in pink sweaters whispering to each other. One of them is drinking a small cup of espresso, or maybe it’s regular coffee—I don’t know what they pour into those cups and I’m dying to know how not to order it. The other woman is drinking coffee with milk from a glass, which is what I want to learn how to order. A row of colorful surfboards leaning on a wall that faces the heaving ocean below us (really, it does) gives me the impression that this place is a popular hangout for the invisible surfers who must be hiding somewhere or still sleeping. 

We choose a table on the patio. I am not sure how long we will be able to sit here because the gray clouds look like they might decide to unload some of their cargo over our heads, but it looks like Rita, who sets the tone of what, where, and when we do everything, is prepared to take the chance. She puts the box of pastries she has just bought on the table and grabs a chair that faces the entrance to the café. My inner waitress cringes when I see how nonchalant she is about bringing outside food to a restaurant. I know that no owner accepts such behavior and I am not looking forward to seeing the Portuguese response to this provocation.  

I decide to go explore the place and maybe even order inside. I enter the empty café and approach what looks like a bar framed by shelves covered with cups, saucers, glasses, and a variety of beer and wine bottles. A couple of plants and nature photographs in bright frames brighten the dark ambiance. From looking at the menu that hangs on the wall, I realize that this beach café doubles as a bar and restaurant. A young woman standing behind the counter greets me and asks what she can get me.

Because I speak Portuguese, and because I noticed that people here think I am Brazilian, and because I really, really don’t like to come across as some type of a weird woman, I am somewhat embarrassed to ask her how to order coffee. This should be the simplest thing to do if you speak Portuguese, English, or most languages I can think of. I can even say ‘coffee’ in Japanese. But for the life of me, I still don’t know how to order coffee in Portugal.

It’s a good exercise in humility, I tell myself before I say in Portuguese, “I would like to order coffee with milk like the woman outside is drinking, but I don’t know how. Every time I ask for coffee, I get an espresso. Can you explain to me please how to order coffee with milk like that one?” I say, pointing outside.

The woman smiles and nods. She doesn’t think I am that weird. “You are Brazilian?” she asks, just as I expected.

“I’m not.” 

I am sure she has never been asked to give a class about how Portuguese people drink coffee, but she accepts the challenge like a pro. She takes a few cups and glasses from the shelf behind her and gives me a quick presentation. “The kind of coffee she is drinking is called galão,” she says. I already noticed that one of the coffee drinks they serve comes in a tall glass with a handle. And though galão means ‘a gallon’ as far as I understand Portuguese, the amount of fluid that is poured into this glass is far from a gallon. I think it’s about 1/16th of a gallon, or what we call ‘a cup’ in American cooking standards. It’s much, much smaller than the smallest Starbucks paper cup. European and Brazilian sizes are much smaller than American sizes, no matter what it is: drinks, sandwiches, food portions, beds, pillows, or cars. That’s why in America, we always complain about our weight. We eat and drink too much. “It’s coffee with milk,” she adds, “and you can ask for light or dark galão, depending on how much milk you want.” I guess it’s what we call a café latte back in the U.S. because the milk is steamed. I learn something new every day. 

One thing I am sure of—I will never dare to ask for a decaf galão with low-fat milk like I do sometimes in California, because that would land me somewhere I have no interest in exploring. Besides, I really don’t want people in Portugal to hate me.

After the galão, she puts in front of me an espresso cup in a saucer and says, “This is what we call bica, it’s just coffee. Some people call it café, some call it espresso.” Now I understand my mistake. The few times I ordered coffee, I was served those espressos. That’s why they looked at me funny when I asked for milk instead of telling me I should have ordered a galão.  

“You can also order meia de leite,” she says, showing me a large white ceramic cup that looks like a small mug. Like every hot drink in Europe, it is served with a saucer. As far as my Portuguese goes, this drink is an espresso shot with half the amount of milk I would get in a galão. I guess that’s why they call it meia, which means ‘half,’ but maybe not. 

By the time she mentions another type of coffee called garoto, Rita arrives on the scene. 

“What did you order?” she barges into the presentation in Hebrew after waiting for about a second at the counter.

“I haven’t ordered yet,” I say in Hebrew. “She’s teaching me how to order coffee.”

“Tudo bom? Tudo bom?” Rita cheerfully asks the woman and without waiting for an answer says in English. “Can I order coffee?”

“Yes,” the woman answers in English. 

“Two coffees, please,” Rita says, totally ignoring my presence. “With milk.”

The woman puts away the presentation cups and reaches for the espresso cups.

“I think she wants galão,” I say in Portuguese. Then I turn to Rita and explain to her in Hebrew what I have just learned. “You should ask for galão. That’s what they call a latte here.”

Rita burst out laughing. “Galaoh. Give me two galaoh, galaoh,” she giggles in English.

“I’ll have one galão, too,” I say in English, suddenly feeling out of place, since I can’t predict Rita’s next move, apart from knowing that she has to be center stage. “And thank you so much for the lesson,” I add in Portuguese. 

“De nada,” the woman says and lines up three glasses on the counter.

“Obrigada, obrigada,” Rita thanks the woman enthusiastically. She turns her head to take in the empty café and nods in appreciation.

“Nice place,” she says to me in Hebrew. She lifts her phone in front of her face, tilts her head, smiles to the camera, and takes a selfie with the decorated wall behind the counter in the background. Then she walks out. When she returns, she orders another galão, which I assume is for Anna. 

“You can sit, I bring the coffee outside,” the woman says to Rita.

“How much is it?” Rita asks.

The woman tells her that she can pay later, but Rita is already digging in her wallet and puts a few coins on the counter. The woman takes the money and asks Rita if she wants to order something to eat. 

“No, thank you. Obrigada,” Rita says only once this time. She collects the change the woman hands her and leaves.

“You travel together?” the woman asks me as she turns to the coffee machine.

Although she doesn’t sound judgmental, I feel a bit embarrassed to admit it. “Yes. We’re on our way to Porto,” I say, feeling grateful that she doesn’t try to make polite conversation about where we come from and where we’ve been, and so forth. I pay for the coffee and turn to join my travel mates.

Feeling Ungrateful (22)

We find Rita in the kitchen when we get back. She is sitting at the table with her bare feet up on a chair, reading something on her cell phone as always, a cup of instant coffee in front of her. She raises her eyes from the phone as soon as she hears us and asks, “Where were you?”

“We went for a walk,” Vera answers before I have a chance to say anything. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Did you hear the news? There was a rocket attack from Gaza.” Rita ignores Vera’s question and immediately answers her own. 

“Yes, I already talked to everyone,” Vera responds in a tone signaling she is not particularly interested in pursuing the topic. For my part, I assume that “everyone” refers to the immediate family back in Israel. 

“Sigal is mad. She’s stuck at home with the kids,” Rita tries to up the drama, but Vera is not taking the bait. “I know, I talked to her,” she says. “Now put some shoes on and let’s go.”

At this moment, Anna enters the kitchen. “Something happened?” she asks, sensing that the conversation is revolving around something more interesting than breakfast. The cloud that surrounded her yesterday seems to have lifted a bit. Maybe the situation with her daughter was resolved somehow.

“Hamas shot 200 Kassams this morning, and some fell not far from my parents’ apartment,” Rita reports and turns to her mom. “Dad said it sounded really close.” 

“Is he OK?” Anna asks. After living in Israel for nearly thirty years, she knows how to react to these events. Nothing is a big deal until it is.

“Yes, he’s OK, everyone’s OK,” Vera intervenes, a bit impatient. “Now put your shoes on and let’s go.”

“I’m going to get my stuff,” Rita gives up and rises from the chair. “You all packed?” she asks me. 

“Yes, she is,” Vera answers for me. “We already took everything downstairs. Give me the key so we can load the car,” she adds before I have a chance to say anything, again, which is perfectly fine with me. I don’t want to sound pushy or disinterested or anything in between. I am just tagging along, staying out of trouble. 

Rita hands her mother the car key, which hangs on a large ring. In addition to the other keys she brought from home, there are all kinds of tchotchkes hanging from this key chain, making it one of Rita’s most recognizable possessions. Just like her bejeweled cell phone, huge silver rings, long earrings, and several necklaces that always, always adorn her person.

“I want to find a place to have real coffee,” Rita calls after us as we descend the stairs.

“Okay, okay,” Vera says, more to herself than to her daughter.

Anna, who stayed behind to collect her food from the fridge, joins us at the bottom of the stairs and helps Vera load her stuff into the car. When Rita finally arrives with her bags, Vera mentions the little bakery we passed on our walk.

“We can go there and see if they have coffee,” she suggests after Rita locks the house, puts her carry-on in the trunk, and arranges all the other luggage around it.

“Let’s go check it out,” Rita decides, and we all march alongside her to the bakery. 

There are no tables and chairs inside the bakery, which means that we are going to have to look for a different place. Rita decides to buy some pastries anyway. Maybe she can eat them later in the car or wherever else she chooses. 

I go outside to wait for them on the sidewalk and realize I am having a WTF moment. I want to be positive and grateful that I am healthy, that I can afford a trip to Europe without having to worry about how I will pay rent afterward or keep my job, and that I don’t have to figure out how to get to places by myself or book a hotel room, but too many questions cloud my attempt to stay positive. How did I get myself into this? What am I doing here? Where am I, anyway? Why am I such a blob? In short, WTF?

After three days in Portugal, I feel like I’ve had enough of being a tourist and traveling with some women I barely know and don’t enjoy being around. I have seen castles and churches, statues of privileged men, azuleijos and sardine cans; I tasted cholesterol-laden pastries and traveled in a tuk-tuk operated by a Portuguese prick who called himself a tour guide because he memorized a few facts about the history of Lisbon and knew where he could park without getting a ticket. But all these experiences do not make me feel any different. Except for receiving the confirmation that yes, there is a world out there that looks, behaves, and speaks differently from where I come from. But my person has not been affected by the experience of witnessing this obvious fact.

I know I sound like an ungrateful bitch. But after a few days of traveling in a country I don’t know at all with a woman who calls herself a tour guide and works as one, I am more opposed than ever to this activity called tourism. Yes, it provides employment and income to many people, but what is tourism really? What does it do for the soul? Nothing. Tourists don’t go to a country to really learn about it. They don’t mix with the population, they don’t learn the language, they don’t participate in any activity that is meaningful to locals or even to themselves, like studying the history of the place, or its geography or geology or literature. It’s just another facet of modern consumerism. Consuming views and food and souvenirs, and getting little in return. Especially those tourists who get herded from one place to another in those large air-conditioned tour buses and then taken to hotels that most of the local population never set foot in. 

After all, what is the difference between remodeling a kitchen and being a tourist in a foreign country? In my opinion, there is none. It’s all about spending money on hotels, rental cars, restaurants, and admission to whatever the tourism ministry (or UNESCO in some cases) decided to turn into a coveted tourist site. It’s exploitative, voyeuristic, and patronizing to the local people. And it’s probably bad for the environment too, since tourists hog the limited resources of the places they visit.

I mean, why do tourists from all over the world crowd in front of the Mona Lisa, for example? There’s so much good art everywhere, but people pay thousands to stand in front of this painting so later they can tell themselves and others that they saw it in person. So what? What effect does it really have on them? Am I a better person because I saw the Mona Lisa in person (I didn’t) and not on YouTube? I don’t think so. It might even be better to see it in one of those fancy coffee table books than to travel all the way to France and be subjected to all kinds of scams and pickpockets and long lines and scabies-infested blankets and bedbugs and overly-priced restaurants, all for the privilege of pushing your way into a museum and taking a selfie with La Gioconda in the background.

Thinking about museums, last time I was in Rio I took the metro to the Museum of Tomorrow, which Cariocas (Rio natives) are so proud of because it’s so, well, futuristic. It was one of the few touristy things I agreed to do because my friend kept asking me every day what I was planning to do, and I didn’t want to appear lazy or incurious. One day, I said I’d go to the museum, hoping to make her happy and make me look like a good person, and maybe even profound. It was on a weekend, so I assumed that the line would be a little longer than on a regular day, but not demoralizing. When I got out of the metro, I noticed three women climbing the stairs behind me, and I knew, instinctively, that they would ask me how to get to the museum, because in Rio, the moment I stepped out onto the street, someone always asked me how to get somewhere. 

As soon as we all reached street level, they asked me in Spanish where the museum was. I showed them the directions to the museum, and we started talking. They found out that I was originally from Israel, and I found out that they were two sisters with their eighty-year-old mother on a trip to Brazil for her birthday. I also found out that they were Jewish, from Argentina, and that one of the sisters worked at the Jewish Community Center in Buenos Aires and taught Israeli folk dances, among other things. Without thinking twice, I started to sing (in Hebrew) and dance a simple folk tune that I still remember: “Od nashuva el nigun atik…” clap, clap, clap, right, clap, left “ve’hazemer yif ve-ye’e-rav.” One of the sisters joined me and we had a fabulous time dancing and singing, and talking about things common to us, four Jewish women meeting on the street in Rio. They practically adopted me. They even insisted that I go with them to a clean bathroom they had found, where there was no line. Needless to say, I did not visit the museum that day, and neither did they. The line to the museum was beyond catastrophic, and we decided that there were better things to do in life than standing in line for hours to see something. Especially when you were eighty.

Strangely enough, this is one of my fondest memories from Rio. Connecting with people. Laughing. Doing something unexpected and feeling almost stupid because of it. The museums can wait, and so can the churches, the palaces, and all the other places tourists flock to because this is what they are supposed to do.

Staying Calm in the Face of Adversity (21)

I wake up to the sound of birds chirping. I think I hear chickens, too, but maybe it’s my imagination. I get out of bed and move my improvised curtain from the window to see what’s out there. It looks like the Airbnb stands on the border of a working farm. There’s a small house at the end of a green field with some agricultural machinery, a horse, and a circle of trees next to it. I can tell that the ocean is out there somewhere behind the fields and the dunes, but I can’t see it. The air is crisp but not too cold, and the clouds give the impression that it will rain again soon.

If Lisbon is quiet in the morning, then Peniche is silent. Apart from the chickens and the birds. No one is going up and down the stairs. I cannot hear anyone flush a toilet or move chairs in the kitchen, either. It feels like I have just woken up at home on a weekend. 

With Vera and Rita sleeping downstairs, I am sure I will be spared the weirdness and the inappropriate giggles I witnessed in Lisbon. It’s also nice to wake up and know that I don’t have to feel guilty looking at Anna folding the blankets that she spread on the floor to sleep on. 

I kind of like this house even though I realize now it has no living room, only bedrooms, bathrooms, and a large kitchen. Maybe the guests are expected to spend their awake time around the kitchen table if they want to be together. Because we are not going to spend any time here, I decide that it is not really a problem that we have no place to slouch in front of a TV. 

I think I could stay here for a couple of days, even though the town did not look too promising last night. I can walk around, sit in a café for a while, and see what the locals eat—and not what they feed the tourists. I wish I could stay here by myself and stop chasing tourist sites. It’s not my style and never has been. I am happy doing nothing when I’m in another country. Just absorbing the smells, exploring the food markets, adjusting to the different pace of life, learning how to flush a toilet, and ordering the right thing on the menu. Museums and castles and churches and convents are okay, but they don’t tell me what to expect when I order a salad at a restaurant or even coffee. 

The last time I was in London, I was visiting a childhood friend who was living in an eleventh-floor apartment with her husband in Soho. On my first day there, after she dragged me to Buckingham Palace on foot, and from there to see Big Ben and then to a leisurely stroll along the Thames, I told her I had seen enough. All I wanted to do for the rest of my visit, I said, was sit on her balcony, talk about life, drink tea or beer or whatever, and look at the view, with the TV playing something British in the background. But she insisted on taking me to galleries and art museums and parks. I don’t regret seeing great art (Ai Weiwei is really one of my favorites) and posing in front of Karl Marx’s tomb at Highgate Cemetery. But I would have been just as happy sitting in a neighborhood café, ordering a cup of Earl Grey tea and a scone, and eavesdropping on people. As a matter of fact, seeing the piles of cigarette butts on the narrow sidewalks and trying to avoid people in business attire standing outside pubs in the freezing cold after dark with beer mugs in their hands taught me more about Londoners than all the fancy royal palaces I could have ever visited. I can visit palaces on YouTube anytime and get to know London on Google Street View. But sidewalks paved with cigarette butts were not something I could have seen unless I was stepping on them myself. And I found that quite interesting. 

But such unconventional behavior is not meant to be indulged in on this trip. I am here with a tour guide who is determined to see as many touristy places as she can cram into the few days we have here, and I dare not make a scene by announcing that I am going to stay behind. I wish I dared to do it, but I don’t. So, instead, I clean up, get dressed, pack my stuff, make the bed, and prepare to face the day, whatever mishap it conspires to inflict on me.

When I enter the kitchen, Vera is sitting at the table, by herself, in her street clothes, with a cup of coffee in front of her.  

“There’s hot water if you want to make tea,” she says. She rummages through her handbag and hands me several packets of sugar. She noticed that I used sugar in my tea when we were in Lisbon, and that this kitchen here is stocked only with dish soap and maybe salt if we are lucky. 

I make myself a cup of tea and prepare another one of those bread, cheese, and thinly sliced tomato sandwiches. Since that unappetizing dinner at the fado bar in Lisbon, that’s just about all I’ve been eating. Not that I crave anything else. I’m fine eating this stuff. I’m probably losing some weight without even trying, and that’s something I always welcome.

“I’m going to go out for a walk,” I tell Vera, who has barely looked up from her phone since I entered the kitchen.

“Can I join you?” she asks, and to drive the point home, she gets up from her chair and takes her coffee cup to the sink where she washes it and sets it on a small dish towel to dry.

“Sure, let’s go see what’s out there,” I say. I’m sure she didn’t expect me to turn her down.

Vera checks her watch. It’s not eight yet. Rita is probably still sleeping. I can tell that all the driving and planning exhaust her. “I’ll let her sleep a little longer, but she needs to wake up soon,” Vera says as if she can read my mind. “We didn’t come here to sit around,” she repeats her mantra. I don’t argue. I prefer to be outside rather than to wait in the kitchen for Rita to wake up. Maybe I don’t mind sitting around, but I didn’t sign up for the pleasure of waiting for Rita to wake up every morning.

We take our luggage downstairs and step outside. The street looks exactly as I imagined it last night. It doesn’t reveal any surprises that were hidden in the dark. The town probably started as a fortified port or a fishing village surrounded by vegetable plots and pristine beaches, and then grew into a surfers’ hub of some sort, none of which is apparent at the moment. We pass a deserted bakery and a neighborhood church. A man is standing at the entrance to a grocery store with his arms folded over his chest. He examines us from the other side of the street but makes no attempt to attract us inside or even acknowledge our presence.

“I’m glad I brought this jacket on the trip,” Vera says as she unzips her pinkish-orange hoodie. “I thought it would be much colder here, but I didn’t want to carry a coat.”

That’s not the conversation starter I was expecting, but I go along. “Let’s hope it stays like this,” I pay lip service. I mean, she is trying to be friendly, I have no reason to begrudge her that. She’s a good sport. Never complains about anything and knows how to keep her cool even when subjected to her daughter’s jarring outbursts. “I don’t mind the rain,” she continues. “As long as it doesn’t snow, I’m fine.”

The street leads to a roundabout, and we stop to decide whether to continue or return to the house. “It’s supposed to rain today,” I say. The weather app showed rain for today and tomorrow. 

“Better than a rain of Kassams,” she muses. I look at her. Since when did you become a comedian, I’m thinking, but then it occurs to me to ask, “Did something happen?”

“I talked to Shimshon right before you came into the kitchen,” she explains. “Hamas fired 200 rockets from Gaza this morning, and some reached Tel Aviv.” 

“How is he? And Sigal and the kids?” I am sure everyone is OK, but I still ask. I know I will not call my brother to ask if he is OK, because he would tell me that I am hysterical and to stop with the nonsense. I learned this the hard way. During one of my visits, I was at an art gallery not far from his neighborhood and heard about a horrible terror attack on a bus stop. When I called him in panic to see where he was and if he was OK, he said not to bother him with stupid questions if the attack took place more than 2 kilometers from his house. And that attack was probably 10 kilometers away or more, so I learned my lesson. I don’t ask him, but I ask other people. It’s the right thing to do.

“He said it was very noisy, but we’re used to it. It was early in the morning, and he was home. Nothing broke. The kids are home too because everything is closed now, everywhere. They’re happy they don’t have to go to school.”

“Any casualties?” I ask. I am so out of the loop, as if I am still in California. Although being in Portugal is too far to hop on a bus and get to Israel in a couple of hours, I feel as if I am nearby, maybe because I am around Israelis.  Or maybe because I was in Israel only three days ago and I’m still under the influence.

“Nobody was killed,” she reports. “A few people were injured when they ran to a bomb shelter, and one house was hit by a rocket in Sderot, but no one was home.” She really got all the details. I am tempted to ask how her husband manages without her for so long—the man is almost 80—but I don’t want to pry. Besides, she doesn’t seem too worried about him. 

“Let’s go back and see if Rita has woken up,” I say instead. 

“And if she hasn’t, I’ll wake her up,” Vera says flatly, looking at her watch again.

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.