Where are the spices?.............yelled Vasco da Gama

I rushed out of my room on tiptoe; nobody should reach the dining room before I did. The beautifully laid out table, its crisp white linen tablecloth, the fine Vista Alegre crockery, blue stemmed glasses for juice, Dina worked hard. It was a beautiful sight.
Much like dogs mark out their territory, we too had settled our places at the breakfast table. Sadly, I never once had a chance to drink from a Vista Alegre cup. But did I deserve a Vista Alegre cup……. You see as soon as Dina brought in those warm loaves of bread, I would take one, dig my thumbs in and tear it open, spread butter and then two slices of fine presunto.
The first day I thought
‘Should I go in for three slices?’ ‘Tomorrow the presunto, may just not be there’
But then I looked at all those elegant people, slicing their rolls never a crumb on their plates, gently spreading the butter or the preserve, all this with an air of calm composure.
Tearing the loaves apart, three slices of presunto, you must be a ravenous country bumpkin, which sadly I was.
Another croissant for me, liberally spread with butter and preserve, a glass of juice, a cup of coffee and I was done till lunch. I did have to take these precautions, eating well was absolutely necessary; you see I sat right next to Profa. Rosa Faneca, and if she did hear my stomach growling she in her kind voice would surely say.
‘Sonia pode ir a cafetaria e comer algo’
Dying of mortification was not me. So well fed (greed, I just love presunto) we waited till 1.00 pm for lunch.
At the Lunch break the Cafeteria, spilled students; everyone was there, the queues were long, the people were hungry and we waited our turn. And then your turn came, a soup, a cooked meal, and salad that you yourself put together, fruit and yogurt.
Could you ask for more? Not at all.
We loved the soup, it was thick, full of greens, a loaf of bread it was sufficient. The meal however was another thing.
In my mind there was always the question ‘Where is the gravy’? ‘Ok. No gravy, but three weeks of no gravy.’ Said a tiny voice of the Indian used to gravies at every meal. The voice silenced; a bite of the bacalhau, a bite of the huge slab of meat and a louder voice of the Indian, yelled in my ear.
“Tell me why did Vasco da Gama come to India?”
“Why did he brave the Cabo de Tormentas”
‘For the spices’, said the brave voice of Sonia.
‘Then’ yelled the voice of the perennial Indian in Sonia
‘Where are the spices in this slab of meat?’
‘Where’ continued the merciless Indian, ‘is the coriander or the tangy ginger, or that refreshing pinch of turmeric?’
Sonia, after bravely ignoring those Indian voices, continued cutting and spearing tiny pieces of meat in her mouth. Overeating, that’s what everyone felt they were doing, don’t blame them, they were thin, svelte, and how would they fit in designer jeans? But I wonder now, could it be the lack of spices, so most dropped out in favour of other places.
In a queue, I asked Dona Aurora, how I loved those names that reminded me of my childhood. Dona Rosa, Dona Orquidia, Dona Maria, Dona Lira. How elegant, how charming!
I asked Dona Aurora, could I have a smaller piece of meat. She looked at me kindly and said ‘Não!’
Whilst everyone from the group migrated to other Cafeterias. I stood firm, I would never leave Dona Aurora’s kind face. Pssst, I loved the soup it was so filling, so satisfying, but at the same time huge slabs of meat, large fillets of bacalhau were going waste.
So with a heavy heart I bade Dona Aurora and the lovely, healthy, filling plate of soup a fond farewell.
The fruit was quite another thing, the trees in our garden at ‘Cinco Bicas’ had the loveliest yellow plums. Everyone shouted.
‘Sonia don’t pick the fruit from the ground” They looked at me in disgust, Dina’s dogs used the yard to well you know……But I did pick the fruit, you see I have a weakness for fruit ripened on trees. ‘Wash it at least’ they chorused, that I could.
Huge red plums, dripping juice, down your chin, not very ladylike, but who cares. Pears, huge and juicy, secreted out of the Cafetaria. Tee, hee, hee. Felt like a schoolgirl.
An evening spent sitting on a bench in a square, with plump pigeons, looking at you inquiringly, a huge paper bag full of fat, juicy cherries, so red, so very red that they looked black, juice staining your fingers, looking at people passing by. Another wonderful evening……..