During the year that I lived in Morocco, my husband was able to join me for three months, right in the middle of my time there. His mother joined us for a month of that time, enjoying living as a local in a country most of her friends visited on cruiseships and tours. While she was with us, we decided to travel north to Tangier and from there hop over to Spain and Portugal.

My mother-in-law was in her mid-eighties and had a stark crop of thick white hair that blazed like a mirror in sunshine anywhere she went. It was a fascinating passage through other peoples' and cultures' ideas of aging as my mother-in-law was visible miles away on approach. (In Morocco, many older women wear a head covering in public, and in Spain they tend to dye their hair all colors of red, blond, black, and brown.) What was wonderful was it revealed a deep respect for the elderly in these cultures and it was directed toward her. That respect benefited the three of us. For instance, in Tangier, a rough and tumble town in places, normally gruff men who loitered in the train station sweetly competed with each other to carry my mother-in-law's bags onto the train. Or, we had crowds part on packed and partying streets on the weekend in Seville. And then there was when we arrived in the little Atlantic town of Tavira in southern Portugal and were told that all hotels were full and we had no place to stay, until that is, a hotel owner looked behind us and saw my mother-in-law sitting and resting. He asked if she was with us. I nodded and he sudddenly decided to put us up in the new apartment he was building for his family. It was almost ready for moving into and had spartan decor but beds and working bathrooms. Had my mother-in-law not been with us, I am certain we would have been turned away from the inn.

In Tavira, we had the best time. We hired a salt-crusted fisherman to row us to a little island off the coast from Tavira. There we met a charming and warm Englishman, Terri, who was gathering odd natural and manmade things that had washed ashore the little island, explaining that he was a secondary school teacher and that it was for his students. When he returned home, he had explained, he would have his students pull an item blindfolded from the bag and guess what it was and then write about it before being allowed to see the item with his or her bare eyes.

The fisherman rowed the four of us back to Tavira and we decided to have lunch together. We went to a cafe where everyone ate lunch at great long communal tables and in good cheer. We ordered fresh fried fish, the house signature salad with onions, tomatoes, and fresh herbs, and refreshing blond Portuguese beer. Crusty chewy flat bread came with it all. We enjoyed each other's company so much that we all ate together at that place all the days we were there for lunch and dinner. Each time, the same waiter served us. Finally, one lunch I said to him, "Why are you always working?" (Por que esta sempre trabalhando?) He paused and looked at me with an impish grin and answered, "Because you are always eating!" (Por que esta sempre comendo!) The whole establishment flew into an uproar of belly-laughter.

Every time I make the signature salad we had at that place, what I now call The Tavira Salad, I think of that jovial waiter. I also think of Terri and his good cheer and his passion for teaching, not to mention the odd bag of stuff he carried onto his return flight home. And I think of the respect those three cultures showed my mother-in-law and how such respect for the elderly transformed our travels through those countries.

Arrange the tomato slices along the bottom of a shallow serving dish, overlapping layers to create a pretty fan-like design. Layer the onions over the tomatoes. Sprinkle the oregano and tarragon on top. Drizzle the olive oil and red wine vinegar over the salad and then season with salt and pepper to taste. Crusty bread and a bowl of Alentejan garlic soup with a cold beer are perfect with this salad.