Food for Thought

Viva o Santo António!
Viva o São João!
Viva o 10 de junho e a Restauração!

Portuguese folk song

On December 1st Portugal celebrates a national holiday, “Dia da Restauração (da Independência)”, that roughly translates to Restoration (of Independence) Day, the date when Castilian rule was overthrown and Portugal was, once again, an independent nation-country.

As a child, I didn’t really know all these historically details, and I found the holiday rather confusing, because in my head it was “Restauration Day”. Though I could easily recognize the significance of food in Portuguese culture and history – the Baker from Aljubarrota or the Siege of Porto - it seemed to me that to dedicate a whole day to the catering food industry – restaurants – was a bit over the top, even for Portuguese standards.

As I grew older, of course, I realized that it was Restoration rather than Restauration, but the confusion did not succumb to the evident mistake, it only grew bigger. My mind wondered what had indeed been restored then: was it a national heritage thing? Where we to remember how Lisboa was rebuilt after the 1775 earthquake? That made a whole lot more sense, for in Lisboa there is quite a huge square dedicated to “The Restorers” (Praça dos Restauradores), with an equally outstanding (and a bit phallic I may add) monument right in the middle.

Eventually, I focused less on semantics and more on the historical facts and realized that we were celebrating the 1640’s eviction of the Castilian monarchy. As it happens, the Praça dos Restauradores is part of my commuting route, when I walk from the office to the train station. I  stride through the square on which, on one side stands the beautiful Tourism Office and on the other side a huge Post Office building. So  the square is usually busy with curious tourists and helpful policemen.

Early this Summer, as I was passing by right in front of Palácio da Foz (the tourism office), I found a middle-aged Spanish couple, equipped with backpacks and digital cameras, inquiring relentlessly a helpless policeman what was the monument on the square, which bears a huge carving of 1640.

“So what is this monument? What happened on 1640?”.
“Well… bien esto es un monumento bélico… historical, big battle in 1640, muy importante para Portugal”.
The couple was not quite convinced.
“Ya señor, ya vemos que es bélico. Pero qué ocurrió? Por que es tan importante?!”
“Eeeer… pues… es histórico, una guerra, a long time ago, in the pasado…”

As I walked by and looked back, I could not help but laugh. The inquiring couple was determined to get an answer, and the policeman was adamant in dodging the question. Both parties were playing their role in their best: the tourists wanted to learn about local history and show interest for their host, and the host wanted to be warm and welcome, avoiding any kind of diplomatic incident.

The centennial rivalry seemed something of the past. Isn't that food for thought?!

The Naked Thruth

James Stewart in Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window

«Blinds!» I said in a half-scream. With his hand around the hips, holding the towel around the waist, he looked around and acknowledged the light coming from the wide opened window on the study. He said his scientifically learned “Aaah.”, that sounds something between “aaah interesting” and a mildly enthusiastic “aaah eureka!”, there was some eyebrow raising, that graphically completed the sentence designed on his forehead. Then he acknowledged the other curtainless window on the bedroom, that completed the “light tunnel” in the corridor. In a unconscious safety measure he tucked the towel tighter… I giggled at his nonchalant walk towards the bedroom, as he closed the blinds.

Later, as we were preparing our tea mugs in my wonderfully sunlit kitchen -  where the 3 meters large, 2 meters high windows, give a generous view of the small backyard with two palm trees and an array of windows from other people’s kitchens – the learned “Aaah.” returned, but a bit more emphatically. At this time, I knew he was going to share his view on his discovery, usually as plausible as laughable, and highly entertaining.

«You know, you should ask a percentage of the profit». I looked at him quizzically, encouraging him to go on with his theorising. «All these curtainless rooms, provide quite a view, I bet, to your aging neighbours. So, my guess is that property value has increased. You know, the better the view, the more expensive real estate is.». By now I was laughing hysterically. I confessed that when I first moved in, there were a couple of times I walked into the kitchen wrapped only in a towel. His eyebrows raised enthusiastically, as he realized he was on to something, «No-no… my bath towels are huge, so much so, that the word for them in Portuguese is bath sheets…». He was a bit disappointed but still wondered how I would manage to live in a curtains-free house, there were the blinds, of course, but still… «a lot of exposure».

I frowned and remembered all the good advice and words of wisdom I had got before moving in. Whenever I told people I was moving out from my parents into a tiny, comfortable flat in suburbia, people would often ask whether I was sharing the flat. As I would explain that I was moving out alone, then the words of wisdom would come. First the nostalgic sigh, then the looking at an invisible past and then the reassuring words «Good for you! You’re at the right age to move out alone, you’re still young and it’s good to leave the parent’s nest. And it's so nice to be on your own, you have your own privacy, nobody controlling your coming and going, more independence, you can walk around naked around the house, not a care in the world…».

Excuse me? Let’s rewind these words of advice “walking around the house naked, carefree…». Really? That’s the highlight of single living? I could not believe the number of people, young and old (especially the grandparents' generation), that would tell me of the marvels of living alone, in particular, walking around the house naked. As it seems, that is the no. 1 advantage of having a place of your own, it’s the naked rights. Living alone is a free pass to be naked in the privacy of one’s own home. Nine out of ten people would come up with the “naked argument”. That was not the advice I was expecting, but it sure was funny… everyone had the same nostalgic look and wishful sentiment in their words “not having to worry about walking naked…”. I wonder how often would they actually do it, and why they missed it so much.

Three years of mortgage later, my flat is still curtains-free, I really do not miss it all that much, except for the kitchen, where in lazy mornings, all that light can be a little too overwhelming. Curiously enough, the only room in the flat that is windowless is the bathroom. That probably explains why winter, spring, summer and fall I will be more or less clad, but always dressed.

And that’s the whole truth, the naked truth.

My favourite season

First and foremost, my apologies to whoever wrote and composed the song, but mostly to Ms. Andrews whose lovely voice has imprinted "My Favourite Things" on a whole generation's childhood. And I apologise too, for skipping a stanza, but there are a limited number of things I do like about this season.

Ready?

Roasted chestnuts on smoky street corners
Mapleleaf sidewalks and half-naked tree branches
Young college students in traditional robes
The tea kettle is whistling on the stove!

Orangy persimmons on the greengrocer’s stall
Opera and theatre premières pasted on walls
Eager young children on their 1st day of school
First craving for soft garments of wool!

When Winter comes, when Spring’s gone
When Summer’s sun's too hot
I simply remember
My favourite things
And long for Fall!