Delicious Expeditions

For the first time in my traveling career, I broke down in tears—tears of fear and desperation. And even with this ultimate gesture, the man behind the desk couldn’t be persuaded to give me a room. Like Mary and Joseph before me, all I wanted was shelter.

“But there are men outside with machine guns. It’s 2am…and it’s pouring down rain,” I whimpered. “I can’t go back outside.”

As I mentioned in the previous post, I have shown up in foreign countries before without proper instructions…because, well…with all the excitement of a new destination, I don’t think about specifics. I just go.

Czech train

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I wasn’t home for more than a few weeks when my friend, Francoise, told me that she was going to Peru to study with a shaman. How interesting, I thought, and then went about my day.

I continued my routine of watching continuous episodes of Downton Abbey while fantasizing about Ivan and Victorian cookery and holding office hours at my cafe. This isn’t time allotted for bookkeeping or employee relations, rather it’s a series of sacred moments set aside for friends to stop by and gossip, drink bottomless cups of coffee and pop hot-from-the-oven cookies into their mouths. But, even with all these distractions, I couldn’t get the shaman out of my head.

Heritage Corn: Peru

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I had a crush on him before I met him. Not a heart thumping, weak at the knees kind of crush…because I didn’t even know what he looked like. It was more a crush of intellect and intrigue.

I first heard of Ivan Day from a friend of mine, a Cambridge historian, who raved about his cooking classes in England’s Lake District. He was one of her mentors, a true scholar, a man of quirky, obscure knowledge. I knew from her description of him that we were destined to meet.

My opportunity arose with the French airline workers’ strike. Semi-stranded, bidding my time in Paris, eating too many buttery croissants and sipping café au lait, I moved on to greener, and I mean much greener pastures. I hopped the Chunnel in anticipation of meeting my crush and indulging in a weekend of Victorian Cookery.

16th century kitchen

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I called out to Heathcliff, but he wasn’t there. Alone, walking through a pasture, dodging sheep pellets, in northern England, I thought of the famed character who once roamed this part of the world. You see, I was pretending to be Cathy, Heathcliff’s love and obsession, before her tragic demise. I was the beautiful, young Catherine, frolicking in the fields, surrounded by nature…and sheep, lots of sheep. I must admit they were handsome creatures, as in just shampooed and set, fluffy and seemingly clean.

If you remember in last week’s blog, I arrived to the Penrith train station and was whisked away by an eccentric stranger named Ivan, a scholar of culinary history and an advocate of Agnes B.’s patented ice cream machine. He drove me through the rolling, green hills of Cumbria, dazzling me with details of his jelly mold collection and then dropped me off at a desolate house on a large sheep farm. This is the part of the story I didn’t tell you before.

Crake Trees Manor

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The email arrived that morning: Your flight has been cancelled due to an airline workers strike. I was just about to leave my small hotel near the Marseille airport, but the message stopped me in my tracks.

After more than an hour on hold the airline representative gave me two choices: take the next available seat–a week from Tuesday, or receive a full refund.

“But I have to get to London in order to catch my flight home. I can’t wait until next week!” No one seemed to care, so I took the refund.

Perched Villages

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I had a companion in France, a co-pilot of sorts. We met in the rental car parking lot and parted ways three weeks later at the Marseilles airport. His name was Jean Claude. He was high strung and easily agitated–a drama queen, if truth be told. We drove though Provence together, following a trial of medieval castles and crystal clear rivers.

Jean Claude loved the open road, but parking lots made him nervous. He would screech if I came too close to another car, and was always on my back when I maneuvered into a tight spot. Watch the front bumper! No, the side door! He loved telling me what to do. I can’t say I liked it, but I learned to appreciate it. The one time I chose to ignore his rants I hit the wall of a building–no damage done.

Nyons with its Roman Bridge

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Most of you know by now that I’m a proud member of homeexchange.com. I often boast of my month in Prague living next door to the Prime Minister, my summer in Vermont lazing around a picturesque 18^th century farmhouse, and let’s not forget my posh apartment in Manhattan.  I don’t look for these experiences–they find me.

Wanted: a place in San Miguel in exchange for our home in Provence, or our beach house in Bali.

I’ve more than once sprained my finger hitting the reply button. (It’s a contest you know, getting to your fellow exchangees before anyone else does.)

I chose France, three weeks in the foothills of the Alps, near the Luberon, the region made famous by Peter Mayle and his book, “A Year in Provence.“ It’s home to the Cote du Rhone wine route as well as numerous lavender farms, ancient olive trees and quaint medieval villages.

Lavender Before The Bloom

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In June of my 17^th year I went to Germany on a summer exchange program. I lived with a family in a large house on Lake Constance, a picturesque body of water that borders Germany, Switzerland and Austria. My German father was a former movie director turned naturopath, my temporary mother an ex-movie star. The children slept in a separate wing of the house, connected by a kitchen that was the realm of a full-time cook who showered us with cakes and tortes, three-course lunches and late night snacks.

There was a pool and a sauna, as well as a patio and a garden that backed onto a French army barracks. It was a relic from World War II when the Allies divided the conquered country into zones. I loved waking to the sound of soldiers singing as they passed by on their morning run.

My German family usually gathered in the sauna after dinner and I joined them… once, excited and eager in my one-piece bathing suit. They were there waiting, as promised, but had forgotten to dress for the occasion. To say I was shocked by their naked bodies would be an understatement. After all I was a quiet, somewhat conservative girl from Texas who had never sat around naked with anyone before, much less my own family. It’s just not something we did. I remember looking at the ceiling as we discussed who killed JR. They assumed, as a Texan, I had all the answers.

I can’t show you my naked German family, so here’s some fresh garlic at a market in Provence instead.

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The term “bucket list” never appealed to me, instead I prefer to say that I’ve compiled a list of future experiences—a wish list that will take me around the world and allow me to discover new places and entertaining people. For the moment joining a rowing club in Venice is high on that list. Even though I’ve never been particularly athletic, I discuss going to the gym and even playing tennis like it’s actually going to happen. But I don’t do these things; I only talk about doing them over coffee and cake. So, when I learned Venetian rowing was more about eating and drinking than actual exercise I knew I had discovered my “sport.”

A Two Man Row Boat

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I heard angry murmurs of “lazy thieves” and “Why do we pay taxes?” as I waded in knee-deep water spilling over from Venice’s canals. My fellow pedestrians, with their legs individually tucked inside large trash bags, were not in the best of moods.

I knew something was up this morning when a friend handed me a pair of bright red rubber boots and said, “Take these.” I hesitated, thinking she was being overly cautious. I mean, red boots really aren’t my thing. I’m not very good with bright colors, preferring to blend in with blacks and browns instead.

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