Whenever I go somewhere new, I try to buy it and take it home. I am not alone in this, however. In fact, America, land of the doggie bag and the free gift with purchase, rears its young to believe that we can take our experiences with us. When on vacation, that can mean anything from attempting to photograph every memorable moment, to taking home ceramic replicas of the major monuments of a city, to broadcasting to every stranger on the street via ubiquitous, souvenir T-shirt, “Ciao Bella!”, “Czech me out” or that “I (heart) Barcelona”. While these physical representatives sit dusty on shelves or remain for years in the closet as proof of our journeys and experiences, when I’m abroad, I make sure to budget for all my senses, spending most on something that won’t last a moment after it’s purchased, at least not at the speed I eat. Physical mementos might help us share our experiences with others back home, but when is comes to reliving the feel of a place: its character, its atmosphere, its history, the memory of our palate can bring it back with crystal clear clarity in a way that a postcard or a t-shirt just can’t. For instance, Venice for me will always mean gelato.
The water-bound city is not by any means the most renowned location in Italy to procure the creamy delight, but it was summer, and it was HOT, and I had measles. The very air we breathed, heavy with steamy humidity, would not allow much more activity at midday than lying on the bed sweating and itching, my clothes clinging to my overheated, eight-year-old body. I was in this tiny, oppressive, air-conditionless hotel room because my dad thought it a fun idea to go and meet the cruise ship on which the rest of my family was traveling, and off which I had been kicked earlier that month when the red marks started appearing. In theory the trip was a good idea, but as a colony of mangy alley cats sang us to sleep each night, we had to reflect on the absurdity of our situation. To make up for it, my father brought me gelato everyday, always the same chocolate chunk and cream flavor, still my favorite, straciatella, which I would triumphantly consume in front of the cranky stray cats outside my window. The smooth, icy cool emulsion was an oasis, like tumbling into a miraculous chocolate-flecked snowdrift in the middle of the Sahara. The blessed relief of the sweet cream comes flooding back every time I recall its flavor, and with it all the things that can’t be captured on film: the heat, the hotel room, the cats, the street vendors, winding nighttime walks and, above all, my father’s loving commitment to making up for the trip we both missed. I don’t remember the Venice in the tour books: the gilded ceiling of S. Marco, gondola rides and glass. I remember gelato and through it, my experience.
When we travel, we pack our days full, trying to appreciate as much of the foreign culture as we can, but it is the culture we introduce into ourselves that often has the most impact on us. So on your next trip abroad, or around the corner, indulge yourself in the souvenirs you can’t take home. Splurge on the food, and let your taste memory bring you back.
Published in the Fall/Winter 2008 Edition of the Culinary Arts Review, the semiannual newsletter of the Culinary Arts Museum of Johnson & Wales
