I’m not a foodie. I seldom watch the Food Channel. The one cookbook I
own came with my microwave. I only go to Williams-Sonoma to get a gift
for someone else. So I’m surprised that some of the best memories of
my bicycle trip in France last summer are of food.
I was the only American in our group of 14, the rest were Irish or
British. Every day we biked 20 to 35 miles through the beautiful
Provençal countryside and every evening we had dinner at one of the
many restaurants in the village where we stayed. Even the smallest
towns had dozens to choose from. Sometimes we were the only ones in
the place.
Dinner was our evening’s entertainment. The group would meet in the
hotel lobby, then wander the narrow streets checking out menus in
restaurant windows until we reached a consensus. Usually, the only
dissenter was a snooty vegan, a London financial planner studying to be
a yoga instructor. She would frown as she studied a menu. “Can’t eat
that. Won’t eat that. Ugh, no way.” Then she would drag her poor
husband off for a salad somewhere. Once, I offered her some of my
sunscreen. “I don’t put chemicals on my body,” she told me. She came
back at the end of the day with a spectacular sunburn.
After growing up in Western Massachusetts, it didn’t take me long to
become spoiled living in Los Angeles. Not only do we constantly have
fresh produce from around the world, but delicacies from every nation
are well-represented. Mexican food didn’t reach my hometown until I
was in college and even then it was either Chi-Chi’s or Taco Bell,
neither of which is very authentic or culinary genius. Regardless of
quality, the food was something completely new and I was immediately
hooked on guacamole, chips, salsa and greasy crispy tacos. Once I
landed here – and got a taste of the real thing – there was no
stopping my cravings for all things “South of the Border.“ L.A. is the
crossroads of the world when it comes to food and I never realized how
lucky I was to live here until I went to Europe for a month.
I have been a news junkie since I was a child, probably because we only
had one TV with rabbit ears. Every night after supper, I sat with my
dad and watched the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.
Google Maps will tell you that "we could not understand" the location of Las Aradas, Honduras. Weather.com advises to check your spelling. My trip coordinator suggested looking up the "nearest town over" which was a two and half hour drive away. Packing for a trip like this was a bit of a moving target. Las Aradas is a mountain village, six hours out of San Pedro Sula. For those of you who haven't been browsing the State Department's travel warnings lately--Honduras is not a stable country. The PeaceCorps pulled their volunteers out last year.
An excerpt from "Around the World in 80 Dinners"
