Asking for vegetarian food in Italy and France without an inkling of either language did not pose too much of a problem. In Italy one could pore over the menu, since every written word is phonetic, and always ask for pasta with red or white sauce (and ignore the composition of the sauce!) or the good old pizza, which incidentally, in the country of its origin, does not come in three convenient sizes, but only in daunting 12-inch orbs.

Ordering in France was not difficult, especially when we realised that most French do understand English though they pretend otherwise.

The Spanish, we concluded, were the friendliest in Europe, but getting across to them was tougher than facing the Inquisition! The major cities, Madrid and Barcelona, were not impossible, since given their keenness to please, the restaurant would summon at least one person who understood the language. It also worked to our disadvantage since a well-meaning (?) waitress at a roadside kiosk promised to whip up exotic veg sandwiches for the four of us and also served us abill of 91 Euros (1 Euro = Rs 56)!

Our acid test was still to come — when we reached the Marina d’Or resort in Oropesa (Valencia). We realised the effeteness of our communication, when after a long statement of requirements, we were asked if “beef was okay?” While we struggled on with our dumb charade, with motions of quack, quack, swim, four-legged — all no-nos, a weather-beaten sea-farer sitting on a bar stool near by came to our rescue and explained our need. We had found our messiah. We sat with him while he obligingly wrote down (since there was a world of difference between our enunciation and theirs) standard orders — paella de verduros (rice platter, vegetarian), pasta sin carne (pasta without meat), ensalada sin bonito (salad sans fish)de queso (with cheese) and a list of other acceptable dishes. He then wrote down his name and phone number saying, “Any time you have problem, ask the waiter to call me!”