Light on the Tiles: The Quiet Art of Moving Safely Alone

 

The darkening of the day turned the alley into a thick, dark liquid, and in this kind of dusk, every doorway was like a shadowy figure sharing a secret. I zigzagged my tiny suitcase over the paving stones in Lisbon, counted the tiles until I reached the one that should have been the blue door with the brass fish knocker. 

Before I could utter the slightest word, the woman at the reception stood up. “You came,” she said, almost as if touching was an essential step and the friendship would be created in a few seconds. She pointed to the kettle, the clementines, and the Wi-Fi code hidden under a small porcelain swallow in front of us. I loved the lobby being so lively, with fingerprints on the postcards, the ghost of the citrus-cleaning scent, and the sounds from the kitchen, where someone was quietly having a good laugh while cooking.

The lady at the reception took me to my room that night in Lisbon, demonstrated the deadbolt and the safe to me, and gave me a spare key just in case. My tension released a little. Just like always, I sent my sister a picture of the door number via text. The address, the host’s first name, and my way are all included in a ritual and a breadcrumb trail. After her reply with the same sticker she typically uses, which is two little hands making a heart, she told me to have water. 

My mind tries to write a thriller in the first hour of being in a new location. Through my answer, it is evident that my tactics were extremely boring: conducting a lock test, checking the battery, placing the spare card in a different pocket, downloading maps for offline use, using a prepared line to get rid of a sticky stranger, “Meeting a friend in ten minutes” and even practicing it in the local language. 

The next day, I became part of the street by imitating its speed. The scanning had taken place at a slow pace, and there was no telephone ringing like a lighthouse. I put the scanner in my pocket and continued walking at the same speed as if I were really late for something very mundane. 

In addition to no phone signaling like a lighthouse, there was no rush in the scanning process. After putting it in my pocket, I continued at the same speed as though I were running late for something quite ordinary. A man at the corner tried the ancient woven-bracelet scam; he grinned and grabbed for my wrist in a manner akin to bestowing a benediction, which would subsequently result in a charge. “No, thank you,” I said, continuing to move quickly. Besides any money belt, the most frequent way that five words have saved me—hello, please, thank you, no, and excuse me, has been through. The same has been true of the women. I am with those living nearby who go through the square instead of staying at the fountain. If they have one ear covered with headphones and their bags crossed over their bodies, I do the same. It is a kind of retreat to disappear into the rhythm.

A group of criminals was performing their act similar to that in other cities on Tram 28. One person creates a distraction, another assists, and the last one takes the wallet. An older woman in a flower-patterned dress noticed me and pointed at my bag’s zipper; I acknowledged her and took my position behind her. This is another silent trick: find the women, grandmothers, aunts, and market sellers, and take refuge with them.  Afterward, I was purchasing oranges from a stall managed by two sisters, and I inquired about the place they had their coffee. 

They took me to a very small place with scuffed tables and a barista who called me “dear,” and also gave me information about the cabs that were the most reliable, as well as those that sometimes “forget their meter.”

I used to believe that safety would resemble armor, like a phony wedding band or keys between my fingers. It truly appears as preparation and connection beneath my garments. After one night, I remain in places where people can still recognize my face. I ask the desk employee which streets are “loud in the wrong way” and which are noisy. Until I get to know the area, I eat my first meal early and close to home. I let the rideshare drivers know that my pal is already waiting inside. My primary motivation for keeping an eye on the door is not fear, which is why I sit with my back to the wall. There are a hundred tiny ways to communicate “I see you, and I am not the only one here” to the world.

More: https://peonymagazine.com/culture-trends/light-on-the-tiles-the-quiet-art/