I laid in the bath this morning for half an hour speaking French to myself. Had anyone else been there, it might have been a committable offense. But, man, it was nice for a little while to let that different sound roll out of my mouth, however stilted and no doubt incoherent it must have been.
I went to France twice not long after college — one quick trip just there, and another that included Italy on the itinerary. It’s frankly odd to remember those vacations now, from a time of my life that was soooo different. No kids. No house. I was in my early 20s with my first (horrible) job, and while the immediate future was unknown, the larger trajectory looked pretty optimistic. Not to knock where I am now, but it’s funny how things like that can reverse — I feel certain that I know what I’ll be doing next month, but a year from now looks rather mysterious.
Today, though, I’m positively drooling over the idea of being immersed again in the sights, smells, and tastes of somewhere different. Working at home and catering generally to the pretty standard American preferences of my family, I miss the sensory experiences of being in Europe — new sounds everywhere, new stories, and every meal or farmers’ market a chance to savor something unexpected. I miss the taste of mushrooms I’ve never seen before, spices that blend together to make something amazing, wine that tastes like a daily lesson in just slowing down.
I’m American to the core — as my work hours demonstrate rather painfully — but I firmly believe that more hedonistic cultures have something desperately important to teach us about the value and place of pleasure. Some day, I hope to bump homemade mac and cheese (however good) off the menu in favor of gnocchi, pot au feu, or even real Neapolitan pizza. Something experimental. Something different. I may never travel again as lightly as I did in my 20s, but it will be nice when my cooking can skip around the globe on my behalf.
