Food is my Mother Tongue

 

I introduced my family to a catchy, and oh so annoying children's song so they could learn to greet my family in South Africa. They sang it endlessly for three solid weeks. Even after we moved from a Sotho area to a Zulu one where the greetings changed. They sing it to this day at the slightest provocation.

“Thobela. Thobela. Thobela. Le ki. Le ki. Le ki. Regona recaralina. Regona recaralina.” I can still hear them in my head. But I can’t blame them. My aptitude for SeSotho was less than marginal on my best days so I didn’t have much else (language-wise) to teach them.

Despite my near obsession with travel, language is not one of my super powers. I learn the basics of course. Hello, goodbye, thank you. Such simple gestures, despite being basic decency, go so far in conveying goodwill on my part and receiving it from others. But unlike my friend who speaks seven languages fluently (and at least three additional one passably) or the average South African adult living in my old village who speak at least three, and my original host-dad who spoke all 11 official South African languages, I’m mostly a stereotypical monolingual American. A little Spanish to get by...not much more.

I do speak food though.

I don’t mean I know the names of things. Although I do my best to be familiar with dishes and the regions they are from, key ingredients and local variations on a theme. But when I say I speak food I really mean I am all in and want to try local food the way the folks in that place eat it.

Many people look up tourist hot-spots or historical monuments when they go someplace new. I research local delicacies. What do you eat and how do you eat it?

In Japan that involved discovering many folks take their plum wine with ice or water. In Vietnam I ended up eating strawberries with chili salt and nuoc cham (in Dalat) and toasting “yo” every time the family that invited me into their home for a party, filled my shot glass with local brew. I amused my village in South Africa when I first arrived because at a community function where everyone was eating with their hands they handed me a spoon (for some reason everyone in my village assumed Americans eat everything with spoons) and I instead followed their lead and dug in with my hand.

It doesn’t mean I love everything I'm offered, just that more times than not, I’m gonna eat what you give me and I gonna look for what you (person in a place I’m not from) eat.

Of course that bleeds over into my cooking. Experiencing a taste of something different often leaves me wanting more of it. But depending on where you are in America, you may not find what you are looking for.

I’m lucky, Houston is one of the most diverse places in America. I can find most things here without much effort. But even so, sometimes you have to know where to look. Pre-COVID my sister took me to a Vietnamese buffet spot. Fresh from my trip to Vietnam at the time I was expecting the usual fare. Instead I found dishes I had in the Mekong Delta- dishes I’d never seen on Vietnamese menus (in America) before. I was glee-filled, immediately transported back to buying fresh fruit from a floating market and watching the sun sink into the river at dusk.

I’ve loved dim sum for decades now. Ever since friends in Dallas introduced it to me. I’m pretty adept and can handle my own with a crush of carts and the soft tofu lady drilling daggers into me hoping I’ll capitulate and order some. But once I went with a friend of a friend. Luther, had lived in China for some years. So when the carts came around with something he wanted and he was offered the top steaming basket he smiled and shook his head no and pointed at the one below it. The next round of food he repeated this. By the third round there was no reason, the server smiled at him knowingly and reached for a lower (hotter) basket and placed it on our table with a knowing smile. Luther spoke food.

Like greeting someone in their mother tongue instead of expecting them to greet you in yours, knowing and loving someone’s food is a way to convey not only that “I see you” but that “I honor you and yours” too.

A Hippie and Her Food

 

My quest is a smaller footprint. Less waste. Less harm. My desire is to tread lightly in this space I’m borrowing from future generations. Oakland, California made that a touch easier. I drove less. The produce at my grocery store was local )less than 100 miles). Compostable and recyclable materials were so normalized that doing anything else was scandal.

I’m still shocked that Whataburger, a Texas institution, uses styrofoam cups for no discernible reason.

My nieces call me a hippie. They swear they don’t but my sister assures me they hippie do. I’m not offended. Even if the term doesn’t resonate with me, the sentiment it conveys does. I'm pro-tree hugging. Even as I know that individual choices have little bearing against a great tide of industrial waste and pollution I try anyway.

Some days there are compostable successes and other days there are plastic setbacks.

My apartment has a tumbler compost bin; of no interest to many but a definitive selling point for me. I keep a small bowl in my freezer and dump my organic waste into it until it is full and I can (bring it to room temperature to not disrupt the decomposition cycle) add it to the tumbler. It feels...complete. The missing link in a cycle of planting and eating and starting all over again.

Before I get to the compost bin though, I am trying mightily to avoid wasting food.

I cook. A lot.

If I’m in my apartment I’m more likely to cook than grabbing a quick bite from one of a dozen places within 5 minutes of my house. Something about the magic of pulling a meal together without having to put on shoes is so gratifying.

All that cooking leaves my produce bin flush with an array of vegetables and herbs. Right now I have fresh broccoli, cauliflower, kale, zucchini, sweet peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms, mint, parsley, and dill in my house. Oh, and cilantro. But I’ll get to the cilantro in a moment.

My newest cooking challenge is to juggle the things in my fridge in such a way that I don’t have to throw anything out. Sometimes that means cooking something I hadn’t planned on cooking, like roasted Japanese eggplant to go with my zucchini lentil fritters. Sometimes it means getting creative with a meal I’d already planned, like using the increasingly sad looking leek staring at me from the recesses of my fridge in my black beans (leeks are in the onion family so why the hell not). In those moments I proclaim victory over my compost bin.

Of course tonight, when I pulled out the cilantro I bought a few days ago, I was reminded that I should

have rinsed and dried it, possibly put it in a glass of water or at least wrapped it loosely in a towel. Instead I tossed it into the crisper still bound at the stems and a little moist. The slimy mess I retrieved when preparing the garnish for my dinner was...disheartening.

A single plantain mocked me from the counter-top. Pitch black, I couldn’t tell if it had gone the way of the cilantro or the leek. Not too soft, not oozy, it would be perfect or it would be disgusting there would be no middle ground. Luckily it aged, not like an avocado but like Ciciley Tyson, and was the final complement to my meal.

Sometimes the rotting of food is a slap to the wallet, specialty items returned to the earth prematurely. But these days, the price isn’t the point. One dollar’s worth of cilantro, a single plantain, won’t break my budget but the waste is no less salient...this was grown, watered, fertilized. Somebody picked this, exposed to the elements, at risk for COVID.

I purchase food to eat. I should eat it.

Stranger Dinner

The tea it started with.

It started with tea.

No, it started with rain.

It started with rain and ended with dinner.

No Grab driver would accept my ride request, I suspect because of what was about to happen. I began walking down from the beautiful grounds of the King Palace Din 1 Da Lat and felt a few wayward raindrops on my hand. Further down the winding hill, the rain intensified. It spattered the longs sleeved shirt I’d put on in anticipation of the early evening ride to dinner, which in Dalat, promises a chill.

Two hundred meters later and the sky opened up. I scanned the street for shelter and my gaze landed on a storefront hosting a few motorbikes and an older man standing in the open doorway. I smiled sheepishly as I approached and he nodded his head, no smile but no furrowed brow. Two men sitting at a table just inside smiled vaguely in my direction and went back to smoking their cigarettes and drinking whatever brown liquid was in the clear bottle on the table.

A few seconds passed and the man at the door gestured me inside and pulled out a chair. I sat, grateful for a resting spot while I watched, with dawning realization that the rain would not be stopping anytime soon.

A woman appeared with a small glass of warm tea which I drank thankfully. My glass was refilled and people began to ask me questions: where are you from? How long have you been here? Do you like Vietnam?

Coincidences arose...the family so graciously hosting me was headed to Californian tomorrow. More than that, they were having a party to celebrate their travels. Lam, the man who had been standing at the door, held up the translation “Please stay for dinner,” on his phone.

So I stayed.

Never mind there was little shared language between us, this was a party and I was now a guest. People began to arrive and I followed everyone into a room. There was food laid out for at least 20 people. Rows of stools corresponded with sets of chopsticks and bowls. In the middle of the table were heaps of herbs, peanut dipping sauce, pork, and all the fixings for a type of spring roll you roll yourself – dropping in herb and vegetables and noodles and pork and something crunchy that I don’t know what it is but adds so much satisfaction when you bit into your roll.

I ate. People encouraged me whenever I slowed down. The homemade rice wine came out. My glass was filled and filled and filled no matter my protestations. I was full. And thankful.

Only, that was just the beginning. The thing to start us off. A hot pot soup came out, complete with sterno burners beneath them to keep them bubbling hot. The soup pot was set down with a plate of vegetables and mushrooms and one of the older men at my table took expert control, using the unused ends of his chopsticks to monitor the soup and, when the time was right, drop in the vegetables. Once he was satisfied, he began scooping soup into small bowls.

I dropped in some noodles and began to much away. More than anything, I loved the small rice paddy crabs, slightly larger than doughnut holes, stuffed with pork.

More drink, a new bottle emerged, stronger than the first batch, and everyone laughed at my response.

Then came fruit. Ice-cream. Chocolate.

As the group began to thin, someone insisted that “uncle” give me a ride back to my hotel. And just like that I was on the back of his bike riding through the cool night air.

Homemade lunch.

It is a specific kind of generosity. One I am often gifted with when I travel. Like the woman working at my hotel who took time out of her day and money out of her pocket to cook lunch for me. She seemed genuinely excited to share this experience with me and I felt honored. Or the parents of a friend’s friend who spent three days showing me the wonders of Kuala Lumpur and even saw me off the morning of my departure. They continue to check in on me- on my travels. The kindness overflows.

In moments like these I am lost. The Southern in me (and apparently something innate in humans) makes me want to reciprocate. Back home I would have baked something or at least brought something to drink. But out of my cultural element, I don’t know the best way to show my appreciation. I don’t want to monetize a sincere interaction with someone. Neither do I want to take whatever kindness they've shared with me for granted.

For now that leaves me with nothing more than the sincerest appreciation for people who open their hearts and homes to me. Appreciation for the time I have been gifted. I hope to be able to return the gift, because it is precious and I am forever grateful.

Fried Kindness

I wonder about the kindness I find in other countries. Unasked for and unexpected. It makes me wonder if the absence of such generosities in America are the result of my attitude or the way I go

through the world. I wonder because, all over the world people have shown me kindnesses that inspire me, at least for a little while, to be better.

Tonight, walking from dinner and still peckish, I stopped at street vendor to inspect her wares. Mostly drinks I eyed one of the small tables behind her stall with an elderly man sitting in front of it and noticed a plate full of fried...something. I pointed and she smiled and nodded her head.

“What is it?”

she didn’t answer, language a barrier between us, but she fished through the brown discs on the plate and handed me one, knocking one to the ground as she searched. She smiled as I tasted.

I still don’t know what it was. Sweetened glutinous rice-flour deep fried?

I shook my head excitedly trying to indicate, “yes, I want that.” and then I sat down at the tiny table and share, resting my day pack on me knees which in turn butted into my chest in my crouched position.

To my surprise she didn’t go back to the small skillet that rested to the side of her stall, instead she grabbed a plate and squirted a red substance and a white substance and then headed back to the plate she’d plundered earlier. She inspected the pieces and picked up two, dropped them on the plate and then handed the plate to me.

Flush in my travel mindset, I accepted the plate without question, set it on my table, and began to eat. The discs were greasy and lukewarm...and they were delicious. I played with them, wondering at the extent of the stretch.

I ignored the condiments until the lat half of my serving, assuming ketchup and mayonnaise – confused how ketchup would complement the dish and vehemently opposed to mayonnaise). Something made me tentatively dip the slightest edge of my mystery cake into the red blob and when I put it in my mouth I was pleasantly surprised. It tasted a hint of fish sauce, a bit of tang to accent the sweet. Unsure of what any of it was it worked, so I dipped conservatively and enjoyed the last bites

Read to move on, I motioned to the woman that I wanted to pay. She simply smiled and shook her head. When I pushed, she managed the word “free” and smiled again.

So I left, decidedly less peckish and thrilled to have experienced yet another treat. More than that, appreciative of the niceties people of the world offer up just because...

Wet Naps Mean I'm Special

Mui Ne, Vietnam

“You are special,” said the woman sitting across from me.

I held up the wet wipe and responded with a smile, “I know.”

There was no sarcasm. In a country where some restaurants don’t supply napkins and others slip a small package of wet wipes at your place setting before you meal and then charge you for them once they’d been used, I knew my treatment was not the usual.

It started with my nosy gaze falling on the vendor’s small station, she cooked over a coal pot and as always I wanted to know what it was. Before I had an answer she motioned for me sit and have one and so I sat on the tiny plastic stools in front of her.

When she handed me the bahn trang it was wrapped in paper. More specifically, it was wrapped in used notebook paper. I smiled immediately upon recognition because the packaging was familiar. When I lived in rural South Africa it wasn’t uncommon for me to get a fat-cake (an appropriate name for deep fried dough) or curry-fish (which might have had a hint of curry but definitely had no fish) I similar wrapping.

Faster than I anticipated I attempted to hold the cylindrical dish and rummage for my money- about 35 cents- to no success. In that moment I was reminded that I would not be pressed for money until I motioned that I was ready to go. With that, I settled into my food.

Crunchy and chewy, savory and sweet, I picked up hints of cinnamon which seems bizarre from what I know of the flavor palate of Vietnam (of course that is limited but growing daily). Halfway through, I realized I was dripping oil down my leg (I never saw her add oil t the dish) and attempted to wipe it off with my hand. That is when the vthe woman across from me reached for another piece of used notebook paper from the vendor ad handed it to me. As I cleaned myself up the vendor smiled as she handed me the wet nap.

And I smiled in return. Because beyond a courtesy of vendor to patron, I know that wetnaps are a luxury

Beer with Strangers

She waved me down with a small crab in her hand. I thought she was trying to sell me something so I smiled and waved know. She waved harder, insistent, this time she offered beer. I smiled and shook my head again. Finally she reached fort the watermelon sitting in over-sized pieces on a plate.

The watermelon I took, the sweetness bursting in my mouth.

The only photo I got (after I left)

She smiled and handed me the crab – the size of the palm of my hand, pink shell and white underbelly. I stared at it, unsure of what she expected me to do. She pantomimed cracking it in half. A little flustered, my phone in one hand and a small crab in the other, I looked around the table. There were six people assembled around the table with another two women sitting on separate seats but clearly a part of the group.

Everyone smiled as the crab woman gestured to her seat and then scooted over to make room for me.

I sat. my phone and backpack settled in my lap. And then I cracked the crab in two.

I looked for the meat, dug my fingers into crannies and pulled out bits of soft white flesh. She handed me a small bowl with a chili sauce and I dipped what meat I could find into the bowl.

Then came the beer.

Drunk people cannot be reasoned with, no matter the country- no matter their beverage of choice.

I watched her pour a beer from a bottle in to an ice-filled mug. She thrust it cheerfully in my hands and gestured for me to drink.

I demurred, as much as one can demure when I don’t speak Vietnamese and the group assembled doesn’t speak English.

Desperation to avoid drinking the beer encouraged me to use Google Translate- to no avail. Whatever I said was met with raucous laughter and inspired a side conversation in the group that I had now way to participate in.

so there was beer.

I drank a little and tried to put the mug down. She insisted I drink some more. I tried again. More drinking. The mug finally drained she smiled and gestured for another round...just for me.

The enthusiastic peer pressure reminded me of marula beer season in my village in South Africa. A small green fruit that ferments and notoriously gets elephants drunk, is also fermented on purpose in rural areas. The go-gos (grandmothers) would sit outside next to a frothy bucket of marula beer and insist I have some. “O nwa, Lerato, O nwa!”( Drink Lerato, Drink). Rather than face the wrath of a village go-go, I'd drink up and exaggerate how good it was.

Outside on the sidewalk next to the ocean in Vietnam, I reenacted my South Africa days.

As we continued to battle over the beer she began to hand me other things on the table. Squid (overcooked but still squid so I happily ate it). Everyone seemed surprised that I ate and presumably liked it. Next was a mystery...something pickled maybe. It tasted a little like cabbage but much thicker. Then more watermelon.

By now she was insistent that I have more beer and I was insistent that I not. The older woman sitting on my right, on a small stool next to me gestured for me to go. She pointed at the woman while she was supervising the beer and shook her head in the universal language of “my friend is drunk”, so I took her advice and departed.

Wasted Time

“Crap, I wasted the entire day,” I thought to myself as I wandered down the strip in front of Pantai Cenang beach. I’d anticipated getting to Lankgawi around 5pm but I didn't reach my hotel until almost 7. I watched the sun settle into the horizon from the back seat of my Grab.

Langkawi bakso

Still, it wasn’t a wasted day. I have to retrain my brain and stop thinking about my time transactionally.

Back in my working life the transactional approach made sense. Most of my days were spent doing wanted to do. It was a zero sum game...two hours of this meant I didn’t have two hours for that. Talking to a stranger meant less time to talk to friends.

things I was required to do; so the bit of free time I had I was intent on doing the things I

That isn’t my life at the moment. My life at the moment isn’t compressed into the hours between 5pm and 8am. My time is just...mine.

So the “wasted” day my brain initially registered was actually a day that introduced me to Sonia- a woman who a few years ago sold her house, quit her job, and traveled for two years. We talked about politics, shared travel suggestions, and commented on our observations from our time in Malaysia. We even shared a Grab.

I hardly call that a waste of time.

“I wasted the day,” was a fleeting thought. I excised it almost immediately after it slipped into my brain. And just like that I felt lighter. Instead of lamenting the time “lost” I reflected on the experience gained. I smiled as I walked down the busy street, the odor of durian drowning out the scent of coals burning the fat of satay filled my nostrils as I searched out dinner.

An order of bakso (a soup I know from Indonesia) allowed me to have a conversation with a family from Shanghai (they always eat the papaya in Malaysia because it is sweeter than the ones in China), they encouraged me to visit the Bund in Shanghai when I visit.

a plain rotiboy

A leisurely walk in the other direction led me into a Rotiboy- something I’d never heard of. A fancier shop than the usual hawker centers I frequent. I was met with a smile and an urging to try a rotiboy and for 75 cents, why not? It is a sweet bread, about the size of my hand, with a thin cavern of melted butter inside. It was at once new and familiar.

More interesting than the food was the man who offered me a seat at his table- not unusual but quite unnecessary as the shop was nearly empty. Still I sat down and we began to chat. DiDi was most delightful company. He asked me about America and my travels, he told me about his work and favorite foods. Inspired by my curiosity, he insisted he buy me a teh tarik (a sweet tea concoction made frothier by pouring it at a distance from one container into another).

DiDi at Rotiboy in Langkawi

We exchanged Instagram information before he had to leave.

DiDi was not a waste of time either.

I am retraining myself to be leisurely.

I want to bask in the reality that I have no particular place to be and no particular time to be there. This allows met the greatest of appointments, the ones I don’t have yet.

Noodles from heaven...or Xian

I whined. Just a little. But I definitely whined. 

We dove in before the picture...couldn't wait!

Yuji wanted to try a new noodle spot and I had my mouth set on Indian (my last bout with Indian was less than stellar and I was intent on scrubbing the experience from my palate).

Somehow, in mid-whine, I had a change of heart. I love food and he was so excited. Why the heck not. 

Except we pulled up into a strip mall and the sign read, “OKNoodle”.

The strip mall part was fine. Living in Oakland for a while I still haven’t forgotten all the mom and pop shops the line the strip malls of Houston. Cookie cutter layout and often cheap interior but who cares if the food is good. So I took a deep breath and walked in ahead of Yuji.

By the time he’d followed me in my head was turned toward him and I reached out to thump him on the arm with a huge grin on my face. The place looked promising. Almost full to capacity with people immersed in their plates, the waiter and maybe owner waived us to a far corner and handed us menus. 

I skimmed with little registering. 

While there are English translations under the Chinese, the descriptions weren’t always clear enough to paint a picture of what to expect. Meanwhile, Yuji studied the menu, reading random kanji that overlap with Japanese and cross-referencing his selections with some site he’d found online- the site I think that led us to this place to begin with. 

When the waiter finally returned, tea unasked for but provided none the less, Yuji pointed at a picture on his phone instead of the menu. The man nodded and disappeared. 

the gluten up close

We gazed at steaming bowls and plates as they paraded past. Thick flat noodles on silver platters the size of hubcaps, long round noodles submerged in soup bobbing next to meat and veggies. We tried to reconcile each dish with a description we read but that proved futile, so instead we just leered hungrily as we waited for our meal. 

It didn’t take long.

We hadn’t realized our noodles were cold. 

My mind floated immediately to Mul Naengmyun (물냉면), a Korean cold noodle soup that I adore after a few hours at a Korean spa- emerging parched and hot, the broth cools and the Asian pear’s sweetness snaps in my mouth so pleasurably. 

This wasn’t Mul Naengmyun.

This was Liang Pita, my new love.

These sweet and sour cucumbers were amazing

While Mul Naengmyun is smooth in its flavor execution and the noodles thing and chewy, Liang Pita is a bit of a roller-coaster. There is a tinge of sweet, a lot of sour, a touch of heat. The chili oil floats on top of what I presume was vinegar, cilantro, and whatever heaven tastes like, and coats the wide flat noodles. And a spongy item we mistook for a type of tofu that, when I asked, was explained as “a Chinese thing made from starch.” A little research and I figured out that spongy thing that has deep crannies and nooks to soak up the sauce is called mianjin, homemade Chinese wheat gluten. 

The plate, smaller than I’d imagined since we’d been watching platters bigger than my face grace tables for a while, disappointed me. Yuji and I politely scooped noodles and sauce into our individual bowls, reaching back to pick up tiny pieces of torn noodle or strips of cucumber. And then it was gone.

Yuji asked the waiter for a bowl of rice to soak up the reaming sauce, a desire I could relate to even as I urged him not to ask for it.

“This is a noodle house,” the waiter looked a cross between amused and offended. As he turned to walk away I assured him, “That’s what I told him!”

Still, we had piece of cucumber so Yuji, ever determined to sop up whatever remained, swirled them about and delicately swept them, dripping with sauce, into his waiting mouth.

Yuji, ever the good sport and unending appetite!

Back in the car, barely able to restrain ourselves from ordering another bowl to take with us, I googled the name of the dish to no avail. It because a circular game of clicking on OK Noodle’s website, the only relevant entry for Liang Pita. And then I realized the trick was removing the “ita” from Pita. The common name is Liang Pi, or cold skin noodles, and they originate from Xian.

Now the world opens up for me. I found a myriad of recipes, variations in ingredients and execution. And my  hope is to try making them myself because…in a few weeks I won’t be here anymore and I won’t have a place to run down to when I’m in the mood to taste a little bit of heaven.

Of course, I plan to dip my toes back into China. I wasn’t planning to stick to the eastern coast but for a good bowl of noodles I might be persuaded to go inland!

Restless Soul

Ty dubbed me Flight Risk (his explanation for not pursuing the romantic me). I have to admit it resonated as much as it stung because I’ve never lived in a place longer than four years. Never.

My dad did a 20-year stint in the military, and while he retired by the time I was 10, my family continued to move for a few years after. I guess after his nomadic life, settling down took some settling into. 

Up until the age of 18 I can blame transience on my parents but after that…after that it was all me. I spent four years in college, and I spent every summer in a different place. Those moves were temporary, like training wheels; after graduation I set my sights on much more distant lands and coasted on my own.

Enter South Africa.

A Peace Corps volunteer with no electricity my first year and a lot of time on my hands, I started making lists. Lists gave me things to ponder and things to work toward. 

It started with things I wanted to do while I was living in South Africa and quickly morphed. I don’t remember everything on that list but seeing the big five and going to Victoria Falls were both there. My list became a mélange of things to see, places to go, activities to experience. Never static, I added new points of interest and crossed achieved ones off. 

I can't think of any substantive lists for myself now without thinking of those early lists scratched out on reused paper by the light of a paraffin lamp in my village.

One of my besties used to make a habit of sending me birthday gifts early. A big box would arrive a week or so before the actual day and she’d call to ask me, joy in her voice, if I’d opened it yet. It took her a few years to realize that the waiting didn’t bother me. In fact, it didn't bother me at all but my not opening it bothered her. 

She struggled to understand that I relished the anticipation. Like the days before an international trip- it hasn’t happened yet- the world is full of infinite possibilities. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love the actual traveling. I love the actual gift. But there is a beauty to the anticipation. My love of anticipation, however, does not extend to travel lists. I don't relish daydreaming about theoretical good times in lieu of actual good times. Although my temperament basks in the "could be" aspects of life, where country selection for travel is concerned, I'm a rip-the-wrapping-off-and-see-what's-inside kind of woman.

Turkey was on my "to visit" list, and Peru. Peru got crossed off last year and Turkey earlier this year. Ethiopia made tap danced on my desires and turned out to be so nice I had to visit twice. Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos are on my list at the moment, but all three of them are on my travel schedule for early next year. 

Cappadocia, Turkey last year.

I'd be lying if I said there are no lingering places that are growing dusty from lack of my attention. India pops up first. Time and resources never seem to align in a way that would allow me to experience India in the way I would like. When I moved back to the United States after living in Uganda for a year, that break appeared to be the perfect time to go, but I was looking for a job and unsure how soon that search might yield fruit and after stopping in a few other places (Ethiopia and Italy) it was close to Xmas and I missed my family.  More recently I’ve contemplated the trip, but with only three viable weeks of vacation in a year, it seems hardly feasible to work my way through even a single Indian state. 

Excuses excuses.

I don’t believe there will always be an opportunity to experience the things in life that I want to experience, so at some point in the near future I’ll have to suck it up and go, short stint in a single state or not. 

Another country that has been batting around in my head for years is Brazil, specifically, Bahia. The current deterrent is the Olympics, an event prone to upset Brazil's norms and increase the cost of pretty much everything…Brazil will have to wait until 2017. Then there’s Mali. The year I planned to go, just a few weeks out from what would have been my departure, there were a few kidnappings of Westerners. I often joke that no one would kidnap me but I’m not trying to test my theory. 

Random breakfast in Tokyo, Japan.

That list is only three places long, driven by food (India), fascination with the worldwide African diaspora (Brazil), and a feeling of mystery and uniqueness (Mali), is all I can conjure at the moment.  Of course there are a million places in the world I'd love to experience and would jump at the chance but those three are the ones that spring immediately to mind for reasons beyond, "why not?".

For all of the places that pique my interest there are others that I never think about. New Zealand is pristine and beautiful, it wasn’t remotely on my list of places to visit though. And while it isn’t my favorite country, I found friendship and love and an assortment of experiences there.

Guatemala snuck up on me as I wallowed in depression and desperation after evacuating and then doing recovery work in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. I met amazing people had one of the most exquisite meals I’ve ever had, and danced like a crazy person on its Caribbean coast.

Most recently that place I wasn’t interested in visiting was Japan.  Until I visited, I didn’t know how much I deeply adore Japanese food. I didn’t know how fascinating order (on trains, in lines, with food) could be. A friend invited me into his world in Japan and I was smitten.

Those were all places that never made it onto even the tail-end of my traveling lists and yet they were amazing for all of the reasons that visiting a new place and experiencing new things are amazing. I will never have a list of five places to visit. My curiosity and nomadic reality will continue to introduce me to places and, once visited and scratched off of whatever impermanent list I'm keeping, will be replaced with someplace new and probably unexpected.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post:The Wanderer.