It is summer of 2012. From a tiny blue kayak, I reach my hand through the crystal clear surface of crisp ocean water, elbow-deep and digging down into the sand. Smiling and laughing as we lift up our hands and open our palms to show the ocean-fruits of our efforts, we wash down the sweet and sea-salty taste of fresh, raw bay clams and mussels with a local, light beer, reveling in the afternoon sun of New Zealand, not minding the crunch of the sand we know we cannot escape when eating straight out of the sea. Thankful to the plentiful shoreline for our catch, we bring whatever we don’t eat on the island back to a beach home perched atop a hill as the setting sun’s pink reflection summons the evening. The taste of beurre blanc with a kiwi-land twist stays vividly on my tongue, even 2 years later. The velvet textures of the fresh white fish & clams atop fettuccine reminds me of a giant trout I feasted upon after a kayak across Lake Titicaca in Peru in 2008, cooked to perfection, seasoned frugally with a mere dash of salt and a lemon wedge. That meal in New Zealand will live forever in my mind as a “spectacular feed”, as my friend Garret says.
Fast forward to 2013. I listen to the incessant pressure of the monsoon rains on a tin roof in Pharping, Nepal as I contemplate the curried green beans, cauliflower and carrots that adorn my plastic dinner plate. They taste almost exactly like those meals I ate in the village of Olokii in 2009 while on a service trip to Tanzania. This Nepalese dish serves as a fragrant reminder of the similarities of cuisine across the globe, subsequently highlighting the commonality of humanity that continues to prove itself to me the more and more that I am fortunate enough to explore the world.
A few months later, I find myself in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the neighborhood of Chabbahil, practicing my Nepali and experiencing my first tongba with a new friend from France who speaks the native language fluently. I take my queues from the others in the restaurant, laughing with the group and basking in the spirit of their presence and the scents wafting in from the outdoor kitchen. We surpass the language barrier through the mutual savoring of beaten rice and chana masala. This meal was precluded not far from here by a small snack of artisan cheese that my friend makes in the countryside of Nepal, the first of its kind popular amongst travelers and locals alike, known as “Himalayan French Cheese”.
About a month prior to this I was in Dharmsala, India, walking alone through the steep, winding streets near the happy home of my host family. A sharply dressed man who is clearly Tibetan walks up to me with purpose and says “You look like an Avelino Girl” in a distinct Italian accent. I am almost speechless. I tell him my Nona is indeed from Avelino, the countryside of Italy. He tells me he taught Philosophy of Dante at a university in Milano for over 20 years; he is a Tibetan refugee and claims his son was the first Tibetan ever born in Italy. What follows is a lopsided dance shared between my broken Italian and his graceful fluency. He is suave, at least 30 years my senior. He flirts with me. With an exaggerated sigh he jokes “I could have married an Italian girl”. I ask him why he didn’t and he retorts with a wink “I was already married to a Tibetan one!”. The conversation ends with a friendly embrace and a kiss on the cheek. The Tibetan man from Italy and the second-generation American girl with Avelino-roots are off and on their way through the crooked streets of the Dalai Lama’s home-in-exile. i stop in to a café, Rogpa, to enjoy a cup of tea and a slice (or two) of chocolate cake, my first taste of real chocolate in months.
