Solitude in Solitaire

A couple is scream-laughing at the shore. I assume the scream is from the Atlantic Ocean’s icy bite, I assume the laughing is from sharing the cold shock with someone, and I assume the two people are a couple by the way they tenderly grasp each other’s waists, thighs, and arms to flee the freezing water.

The assumption forms in only a few seconds. They are the source of the interruption, from squinting at my phone over my sunglasses pinned uselessly to the end of my nose, to ask the internet: How do you play solitaire? The question was posted on the NoStupidQuestions page of a Reddit forum. Stretched out on my drenched sarong under the blaze of the July Portuguese sun, I cup my free hand to form a shadow over my device and read the thread. The first answer is from rhox65: “Alone.”

I roll over and push up into sphinx pose, and tilt my chin down to digest the discussion. No one in the chat has shared where, when, or why they play solitaire, and I wonder if anyone else was stupid or smart enough to try at the beach. The question asker, Local-Writing6420, opens with reassuring words:

“I gotta admit, I have been living 20 years of my life without knowing how exactly to play that game. I mean, it’s so confusing because for me it’s just a bunch of cards in a confusing order.”

For me, it’s almost 30, but, glad to know I’m not alone.

I trade my screen for a fresh deck of cards. I bought them yesterday at the only grocery store in Raposeira, the small village in Vila do Bispo where I’m staying, after two weeks at a friend’s in Lisbon, wearing down her two old decks to Rummy. My hair is still dripping from my own Atlantic dip. The wet locks graciously christen the joker cards with droplets as I siphon them back into the brand-new box. Each card is printed with the Portuguese flag and Galo de Barcelos—the tall black rooster, the unofficial national symbol of luck. Luckily, I bought the cards when I did. I walked to buy them for entertainment when the town’s electricity went out. A power outage in Raposeira also means the water stops running, but luckily the grocery store is only a three-minute walk away.

Yesterday, when I got the cards, the same woman who recommended the carob, almond, and chocolate tart on my first-day shopping trip was sat behind the counter. Her hair was still dripping from her post-sesta shower; she said it stopped midway through due to the power outage. We shrugged. I motioned toward the enormous plastic water bottles, the lucky _cards, and the carob tart, my sustenance until … she shrugged, _who knows when. She said she wouldn’t even give her cat the tap water, and that I should be drinking bottled water. See you tomorrow, she said. Obrigado, I said. All our interactions were like that, just the right amount of brief, thoughtful, and lucky.

The only other living thing I’d gotten close to is the orange cat with the half tail that reclines on the windowsill of my tiny bungalow, or on one of a pair of outdoor chairs. The empty chair next to the cat meant it wanted some company, I presumed. That evening, after the beach, with two trial rounds of solitaire under my belt, I decided to show the cat more of my cards. Eyeing each other from across my slatted tableau, the cat swished its stubby brush from its ledge. A disinterest I appreciated. Dusting the residual icing sugar from the carob tart off my hands, I dealt out the seven columns in increasing numbers, all face down, just as flauros23 taught me.

The table sits on the stairs, just above a narrow cobbled pathway that winds between even more small white houses, each colored with painted window and door frames. Most frames are green, a few blue; mine is a terracotta pink. My neighbor’s door, however, I don’t know. His entrance is tucked behind a curve at the top of the stairs. But I assume it’s always open, the sound of him sweeping is constant, and he talks loudly on speakerphone often. Tonight I hear him behind me, heating his grill on the stairs, but I choose not to turn around, preferring to wordlessly watch the sun sink below the mountains at the end of our stone lane, while I eat my second pastry and scratch my head to assess if I’ve cornered myself into no more moves. The cat yawns, and I readjust my feet on the second chair I use as a footrest. Thinking back to the woman at the grocery store, I wonder where this cat gets its safe water.

Having found my feet with solitaire on the beach, this game at the tableau is a breeze. I got lucky today, but I know a physical breeze could disrupt my columns, so the next morning, I pick my destination based on wind direction. Straddling the fully charged electric bike, I ride along the arid dirt paths that weave through the margins of the Algarve, Portugal’s southernmost region. The landscape is so sparse that each beach I’ve ridden to has riled suspense, a need to pull over and squint over my sunglasses again to analyze the map, taking time to observe the nature around me: clusters of snails that line fences and cling to shrubs.

There’s enough charge on my bike to get back to Raposeira, so I enjoy the drama of the ride there, where the ocean can offer my feet respite from the dry clay and stone that coat my sandals. I’m pedaling toward the grand reveal of the angular tar-colored cliffs of Praia do Castelejo. A wild, reaching coast that stomps like a prehistoric creature into my eyeline. No cellphone reception and a few surfers kept me on the fine sand, only going shin deep to rinse my collection of seashells and splash water on my face after a heated game of solitaire.

For my last night, I ride along the dusty road that passes the Menhir of Padrão, a monolithic stone so slight, you could miss it if you weren’t double-checking the route to Sebastião, a cash-only restaurant above Praia da Ingria with red plastic chairs, a gallery of family photos, and an owner who saw me pull out my copy of Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty last time I was there and said, “It’s a good day to read.” I wonder what he’ll say about my solitaire. But there are things I can assume, even regard as certainties, a guarantee gifted by solitude: That I’ll soon be diving into the Atlantic, where I’ll shake and squeal underwater, that I’ll then shut my eyes and drip dry on Sebastião’s plastic chairs, that I’ll order the grilled sardinhas and potatoes, and that while I wait for my food, I’ll spread all my cards out on the table, put my feet up on the second chair, and play another game of solitaire.