Staying with Anna Theresa
We arrive in Sintra by mid-afternoon on a October Sunday. Clouds hover over the jagged outline of the Moorish Fortress high above this still lovely hillside town. The square fronted by the National Palace with its two curious sugarcone chimneys is still crawling with tourists. They are milling abut, taking pictures, eating ice cream cones, heading in and out of shops. They are packed into the overpriced sidewalk cafes sipping coffee or drinking wine. But just a block past the main drag the crowds disperse and become sparse. Old mansions, overgrown with vines hide alongside the narrow winding road some barely visible behind dense shrubbery, bringing back the days when Sintra was the romantic hang-out of royalty and upper crust Lisboners.
Our destination is Quinta Sao de Antonio our abode for the night and we have no clue where it’s at. The tourist office directs us past the posh Hotel Setais, then we are to take the first right. This we do. The road becomes even narrower as we negotiate the steep curves. The forest on each side is immense, lush, impenetrable. It had rained of and on all day and it is still sprinkling. But now the sun has come out out and turns the rain to golden droplets that fall like glittering pearls through a gossamer mist rising from the forest. It is all incredibly beautiful and enchanting only we can not find the right turn to Quinta de Sao de Antonio. When we arrive at the entrance to Monserate Gardens, we know we have gone to far. We u-turn and try again, and this time we find the turn-off. Several signs, partially hidden from view by shrubbery, direct us to the Quinta de Sao Antonio. As we descend down the hill the road becomes narrower and narrower and steeper and steeper until it is a mere gravel bed that leads straight down between crumbling stucco walls behind which other quintas hide. The Quinta de Sao Antonio is the very last house before the road becomes a rutted clay track that tumbles down a steep hill. Our clients, Muriel and Marvin must be wondering by now where we are taking them. Sintra, which only has two hotels and a few quintas, had been totally sold out that Saturday night, thus the Quinta de Sao Antonio was a sort of last resort. We have never stayed there before, but a travel associate of ours had given it a glowing report.
Jack turns into the parking lot across from the main building, probably relieved that we have arrived. The quinta is a white washed manor house with green painted shutters and a once red tile roof which age had turned gray and mossy. I suggest that I go first and look for someone to help us with the luggage to which everyone agrees. A large green gate across from the parking lot leads into the courtyard of the quinta. Inside a pool filled with stagnant black water mirrors a ray of sun. In the center of the courtyard a tall gnarled tree casts a sweet scent. I try what seems the main door but find it locked. In the side wing though a set of French doors stands open. When I enter I find myself in a cluttered, but intriguing large room filled with antiques and chairs and couches that have been sat in a few to many times. A cracked vase holds a large bouquet of fresh flowers and in an open window a spider has made its home. There are side boards and cupboards, and tables set with chipped knickknacks, silver and porcelain. I cross the room calling hello, hell-ooho! But the place seems deserted. At the end of the room I find a long corridor which leads past other small rooms to what seems to be the dining room. A large table with an immense bouquet of fresh flowers in the center is set with five place settings. I hello again, and this time a woman comes from a door beyond. "Fala Englès?" I ask. The woman shakes her head and calls for some one else. Another woman perhaps in her forties, in jeans and a gray T-shirt, her wiry salt and pepper hair cropped short, comes from a what seems to be the kitchen judging by the clanking of pots and pants. She speaks perfect English. From somewhere comes music and singing, loud, shrill singing, Spanish music. I explain that we have rooms for the night. "Ah yes, my mother is expecting you," she says. She introduces herself as Jean,the daughter of Anna Theresa Bedford, the owner of the Quinta. "My mother is still rehearsing," she explains, "I will fetch Peter to help you with the luggage."
She goes down the hall and after some minutes comes back with a young man, Peter obviously. He looks nondescript, pale brown hair, pale face, like a farm boy from Minnesota. He looks unhappy and nods a greeting, and goes with me to the car where Muriel and Marvin and Jack thought that I had run away, or been kidnaped, or had somehow mysteriously disappeared. Peter takes Muriel’s and Marvin’s bags and we schlepp ours across the road to the house. One of the rooms we are shown has a sitting room furnished with Indo-Portuguese furniture, the kind that was brought back from the Portuguese Colonies a couple hundred years ago. The room has a large window and a bedroom with a small double bed. Muriel says this one would not do for them, they needed twin beds. The adjacent room has twin beds. It is furnished with well worn antiques, yellow and orange floral bedspreads and curtains, and too many knick-knacks cluttering the dressers and bedside tables. A silver vanity set on the dresser still has the hairs of its long dead owner in its brush. Muriel loves the set the set, she says it to be magnificent, probably is an expensive antique if only the hairs would be removed. She likes the sunny, bright room. Marvin goes to the bathroom to inspect it. He says that he judges a hotel room by the bathroom, and he has a point, he says it is the first room he sees in the morning, and if it doesn’t measure up to expectation it can easily ruin the day. The bathroom, from my point of few, is a day ruiner. Marvin turns the shower on and waits for the hot water. It does not come, after five minutes he informs us that the room will not do, the water does not get hot. I go down and hunt for Jean. I find her in the kitchen as before and tell her about the water. "I get Peter," she says, "he will fix it." Peter comes, still looking unhappy. He follows me upstairs and looks at the shower. "I don’t think I can fix it," he saiys. "Something is wrong with it."
"We figured this out already," says Marvin. "But it needs to fixed. I’can’t shave with cold water." Peter shruggs as if it was not his problem.
"Can we look at another room? I ask. Peter nods and says that there are only three other rooms, but he would be happy to show them to us. He takes us down the hall to a small room with a double bed which, of course, does not work, the hot water though workds. The next room is even smaller with only one twin bed..
"Why does he show us a room with one bed?" says Muriel. Still Peter goes to the bathroom and turns on the faucet, the hot water works. The third and last room is large with pink floral spreads on the twin beds, pink floral curtains and pink shag carpeting. The sun falls in through the windows and casting a pink glow. "This one will work," says Muriel.
"We better check the bathroom," suggests Marvin. Peter goes into the bathroom and holds his hand under the faucet, it only dribbles. He tries the shower which seems straight out of Mash, it too only dribbled.
"This won’t do," says Marvin, "I can’t shave with the water only dripping." Peter suggests he might want to wait and shave when we get to Lisbon the next day. "I do have one more room," says Peter.
"Well," asks Muriel, " where is it.?"
"It is being painted and there is no furniture in it," says Peter to which Muriel rolls her eyes. We have no choice but to go back to the first room which Muriel thinks was still the best after all. Peter says he would fix the hot water later. When he leaves Jean Bedford comes up and says; "my mother invites you all to have tea with us in the big room downstairs." I think it to be a nice gesture, perhaps it will pacify Marvin who is not a happy camper. After some minutes getting settled we go down to big room with the antiques and the spider in the window. Jean, another young woman with two children, a man in his thirties looking as if he had just stepped out of the thirties, and Anna Theresa herself, slender and exotic in a bright red suit, long curly jet black hair falling to her shoulders, looking half the age of her daughter, were there. Anna Theresa greets us with flair, speaking with a distinct British accent and invites us to have a seat. We plummet down in the to-often-sat-in couches and we say a few niceties about how much we appreciate being invited to tea. A servant brings a tray of cucumber sandwiches and small chocolate cakes, another a large pot of tea. While we sip the tea and eat the sandwiches and pastries - I am famished and have to control myself - Anna Theresa tells us that she is a dancer and is rehearsing for a show. She pointed to the man from the thirties and explains that he is her partner. "In time," she says, "Jose will get it," You see, when you do Carmen one has to have fire," she throws her head back and flings her arms in a dramatic gesture above her head, her fingers extended. "He is still too green," she says, embarrassing Jose who says nothing. He is sipping his tea with his pinky extended and munches the cucumber sandwiches. "But we fortunately have a year, he should be able to be halfway into the role by then."
"Where will you perform?" I ask thinking of Lisbon or London, wanting to change the conversation to not further embarrass Jose.
"Back here." Anna Theresa points to the window with the spider. "By the pool."
"Oh," I say, "that would be a very dramatic setting, with Monserate as a backdrop and all," trying to sound enthusiastic, but to myself I think - all this for only a performance by the pool? After all, how grand a performance can one put on around the swimming pool?
After we finish with the tea, I suggested we drive up to Sintra to go eat while Peter fixes the hot water. It is, after all, October and night falls quickly. Everyone agrees and we head out to the car and drive up the creek bed road to go back to Sintra. Marvin suggests to have dinner in the posh five star Hotel Satais, he likes luxury hotels. When we enter the formal courtyard of the hotel it doesn’t look promising, I suggest that Muriel I go to see if they could get a table, the place seems busy, cars are jammed alongside the driveway with barely a space between the. At the entrance a doorman holds out his arm as if were party crashers and he has to stop us. He asks us if we are with the wedding party. I tell him no, we are not, but we want to make a reservation for dinner. To this he nods and lets us pass. Inside people mill everywhere, from the bottom of a stair case come sounds like that of so many chattering geese. The dining room looks as if a cyclone has hit it. It is nearly six thirty and they have not even started to clear the tables. "Let’s go," I say and Muriel agrees. From the looks of the place it will be morning before the dining room is put back in order. I suggest we all we all go to a little Tasca I know of above the square in Sintra. There are still a lot of tourists milling about the square and it is quietly raining. It is a good thing that the Tasca hads no real door, just a beaded curtain, and the sign for it off to the side on another building, thus people by-pass it. We find a table and have a fine meal of soup and warm bread and marinated olives.
It is still raining and pitch dark when we drive back to the Quinta. From the parking lot we negotiate our way to the gate in total darkness, fumbling with the key to open it. Inside the courtyard it is equally dark, the Quinta looming like a gray shadow. We fumble once more with the key to open the front door. Inside a candle in a wall niche casts a dim light. I try the light switch by the door - nothing! "Now they don’t have lights on top of no hot water," says Marvin. A glow of candles comes from the big room down the hall and we go there to ask why we have no lights. The room is mellow with half a dozen candles, looking romantic, but no one is in sight. After a few hello’s, Anna Theresa comes from a back room. She is a different woman, wrapped in an old chenille robe, her hair mussed, wearing shaggy dog slippers. She seems twice the age she had been earlier. I ask her about the lights. "They are out," she says, "they are always out in Sintra. I will call Peter, he can fix them." She dials a number on her cell phone and said something in Portuguese. "Peter is coming," she announces. I suggest we have a Port while we wait. Anna Theresa ambles to a little room of to the side of the hall, candle in hand. Jack follows her and helps her to bring us the Port. Anna Theresa plunges in a chair across from us. "It’s not so bad," she assures us while we sip the Port, "you have to think of it as romantic. Just think of Tosca. She killed her lover with a candle stick, in a room like this, with a candlestick such as this one," she gets up and picks up a heavy silver candle holder, the flame flickering as she lifts it to demonstrate how Tosca did away with her lover. At this point Peter comes in, he looks tired, as if he has been asleep. "Fix the lights Peter, they are out," says Anna Theresa, still holding the candlestick. Peter looks helpless and tells her to call the utilities company, there is nothing he can do. "This boy is useless," declares Anna Theresa "every time I need him he has an excuse!" She puts the candlestick down and dials her cell phone again, speaking English to someone. I wonder who would be at the utilities company at ten-thirty at night speaking English. "Someone is coming," she says, "they will fix the lights. I am going to bed. There is a box of candles on the side board over there. You can take what you need and go to bed too." With that she leaves. Peter leaves too, he says he would be back. We finish our Port and sit for a while. The whole situation is becoming a comedy. Jack suggests we have some more Port, he knows where it is kept. This we did. We sit for the better part of half an hour, not sure if we should laugh or be angry. I suggest that we may want to take some candles and go to bed, but Marvin says he can not shave by candle light, and what about the hot water? I volunteer to check the hot water in the rooms, I take a candle and go to Marvin and Muriel’s room. The water as hot, very hot.
When I come back to give the good news, a man has come and speaks in Portuguese with Peter. Peter says that the man is from the utility company, but lives just two houses up, in another quinta. There is nothing though that he can do. The lights are out and that is it. Marvin suggests we pack up and drive to Lisbon, but Jack says no, not in the rain, in the middle of the night. While Peter disassociates himself from the dilemma speaking with the man from the utility company, Anna Theresa comes dragging back. Obviously she was not at ease going to sleep while we dawdle in her living room. "There’s are candles out there" she nods toward the room where the Port is kept. She looks pale, drawn, her pink robe half undone revealing a pinker flannel nightgown. "We obviously can’t sit here all night," I say, " Let’s go to bed." Anna Theresa seems relieved. Marvin agrees reluctantly. Muriel begins to laugh and we arm ourselves with candle holders. I take the Tosca one since no one else wants it. Muriel says she is ill at ease going to sleep by candle light. Marvin thinks that is ridiculous since they candles will be out when they go to sleep. The problem, he says, is that he can’t see to shave. We bid the relieved Anna Theresa and Peter good night and go upstairs. In our room we light a dozen candles and sit in the Indo-Portuguese lounge chairs to finish our Port which we have taken with us. It is still raining and with the candlelight the rain makes little rivulets of gold on the windows. It is very romantic and lovely. Sometimes during the night I see a flash of light, but I disregarded it. It was the lights which had come on in the front room, but went out again momentarily. The next morning everything is normal, the lights are on, the water is hot, and Anna Theresa, smart in a navy and white suit, her face once more returned to younger than the daughter, is her charming, dramatic self again. What a night to remember!