A Pilgrimage Through History

Discovery in a Roman Market: My First Blood Orange

rachel_webb — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 12:20:00 GMT

I remember the first time I ever saw a blood orange. Several years ago, I visited Rome with a good friend and we spent a delightful few days wandering through cobbled streets, searching out storied landmarks, losing ourselves in serpentine alleys and just generally discovering the beauty of antiquity. We sipped creamy hazelnut cappuccinos, feasted on Roman delicacies and walked until our feet throbbed with the effort of exploration.

It was after a long morning of just such wandering and discovery that we stumbled upon a local market tucked into the confines of an ancient square. We had already taken in the famous market at the Campo dei Fiori, with its bags of tri-color pasta and tiny, kitschy flasks of limoncello, but this was something entirely different. There were no signs to directs us, no unending streams of tourists to follow blindly - just empty, sun-tinted alleys and, suddenly, a colorful burst of life.

The square reeked with the presence of a fishmonger and rang with the back-and-forth, sing-song patois of commerce. Wizened men, wrapped round in canvas aprons, stood behind haphazard pyramids of produce affecting nonchalance, but every now and then tenderly catching up a piece of fruit to polish it in an apron corner. Housewives gossiped and laughed under the awnings, still possessed of that uniquely Roman, stately self awareness, even in their daily errands. Bathed in the sort of ochre sunlight that one always imagines to be shining on Italy, the scene was awash with color and, for a moment, we felt as though we had stumbled upon a movie set or a secret society hidden in the labyrinthine backstreets of Rome.

We walked the narrow furrows between the grocers' carts, taking care not to brush the delicate piles of produce with a errant gesture or a careless elbow. We purchased some dried dates from a barrel and a cluster of grapes wrapped in paper. I found a few fat-looking figs and, envisioning fresh bread and a milk-white slab of rich goat cheese, purchased them for the next day's breakfast.

My canvas backpack was nearly full with a precious array of jewel-toned finds when I spotted the oranges. Shielded imperfectly by the yellow awning stretched overhead, I was drawn to a bright blush of red where a few fruits caught the late afternoon sun. At first I thought I was mistaken, tricked by the light, but a closer inspection proved they were real. "Sanguigna," the man behind the cart smiled, proudly. Blood oranges. And it really did look as though each orange had been wounded, touched with blood that shone wetly in the light. I wanted to try one, but the weight of my backpack reminded me of our other treasures already purchased and the short time we would have to enjoy them before saying goodbye to Rome. " Bellissimo," I smiled back at the grocer and left the oranges behind.

But not forgotten.

So you can imagine my surprise when I saw a familiar blush of red amongst the rounded shapes of oranges at the grocery store last week. I'm not sure if they were a good price, but I knew I had to try one. Matt has grown accustomed to my attraction to unusual foods and he readily agreed. Of course, picking an orange from a bin at the local supermarket is not exactly like discovering one bathed in sunlight under the awning of an Italian grocer's cart, but such experiences are better had late than never at all. To recreate my Roman experience I took the orange into the sun outside and decided to make a sensory experience of eating it. I photographed it with a green silk scarf I bought on that long-ago trip to Rome and then found a spot on a sunlit bench to enjoy:

The skin is the color of a Mediterranean sunset, with bright oranges resolving into rich scarlet and dusky reds and browns. Slightly less than round, the fruit is pleasantly heavy with the promise of the rich ruby flesh inside. Lightly dimpled skin is firm and cool to the touch, yet yields easily to the knife which causes small, cold beads of blood-red juice to well up on the cut surface.

At first taste it's the sweetest orange, tangy and the slightest bit tart, but with a 'heavier' feel in the mouth. The flavor seems more weighty and mature, as if a blood orange were just an adult version of the oranges we commonly eat. Even the pith, usually inedible for me, is flavorful and delicious. A few seconds pass and the tangy notes dissipate, leaving a round sweetness that I can only describe as berry-like. Suddenly I taste raspberry lemonade and then I realize that what I am actually tasting is sangria, with it's dry, slightly acidic wine mingled with sugary fruit. The flesh, too, smells of sangria - less astringent than the normal smell of oranges. I am so caught up in the tasting and the long-awaited experience that soon this scent is all that remains of my orange, a sweet, clean smell on my fingertips.

It may have taken years for my first taste of this exotic winter fruit, but it was worth the wait. Sadly, now that my orange is gone I have the urge to look up blood orange recipes and figure out ways to get more of this unusual, grown-up flavor. I know I can use blood oranges anywhere that normal oranges are used, but I want recipes that showcase its unique flavor and magnificent color - do you know any? Perhaps that's a question for the grocer in the market, next time I'm in Rome.

For more tales of food and foreign adventures, visit my blog, The Traveling Spoon.

Spain at 5km per hour

rachel_webb — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 11:58:00 GMT

It may sound unusual, but there are few things I enjoy as much as walking. Quite apart from the everyday transit from 'A to B,' I love walking as a form of travel and exploration. I've traversed Germany by train, ridden a bus across Belgium, and even meandered through Botswana's Okavango Delta in a makoro, but many of my most memorable explorations have been fueled by nothing more than a sense of adventure and my own two feet; to borrow the words of the immortal Jane Austen, "I prefer walking."

The rapturously green French Pyrenees

My siblings and I used to walk ourselves to school growing up in England, and when I was sixteen, I spent a summer backpacking across the southern tip of Africa. At eighteen, I planned an end-to-end walk of Great Britain (from Land’s End in southern England to John O’ Groat’s at the northernmost part of Scotland) and only military orders prevented me from trying it. I’ve walked in the Yorkshire Dales, paced through the desert of southern Arizona and rambled through Bavarian forests. Even now, in dusty Oklahoma, I prefer two feet to four wheels for most distances under 10 miles. At 26 years old, I’ve never even owned a car.

It’s hardly surprising, then, that I jumped at the chance to walk over 500 miles across the entire width of Spain, following a medieval pilgrimage route known as the Camino de Santiago, the Way of St. James. This past summer, I had month of free time and the whole of Europe at my disposal, with my home in Germany as the starting point. My brother was the one who suggested the walk – he’d done it himself in 2001, while I was trekking across Africa – and it took only a few hours of research for me to make up my mind. Twelve days and many frantic hours of preparation packing later, I was on a flight to Pamplona armed with no more than the boots on my feet (not yet broken in!) and the bag on my back.

The rain-soaked streets of St Jean Pied de Port

From Pamplona, I caught a bus to the French Pyrenees and a little medieval town called St. Jean Pied de Port, where my real journey began. My first steps on those time-worn, cobbled streets were taken gingerly, and with great trepidation, but I could little know what adventures and life lessons awaited me in the weeks ahead.

A monastery in the Spanish countryside

Over the next month, I walked more than 600 miles in the company of some fascinating companions, I discovered new cultures, sampled new cuisines and even learned a few words of Spanish. I'm still writing up the journal of this wonderful walk and continually uncovering new lessons and making fresh discoveries as I go. One thing I know for sure is that sometimes the best trips are born of nothing more than a whim and the determination to see them through; this one was no exception.

Pulpo a la Gallega - yes, it's octopus and it was delicious

One of the best parts (for me at least!) is that this brief summary is just a foretaste of things to come - I plan to write more about my 'on-foot' adventures and also to showcase some of the fantastic foods that nourished me on my walk. This journey provided a perfect opportunity for me to enjoy some of the things I love best in life - interesting history, intriguing culture, good exercise, great fellowship and delicious food - so I'd certainly recommend it to anyone seeking a memorable and meaningful experience abroad. As evidenced by my extremely abbreviated preparations, it's also very easy to pull together on short notice and on limited funds. If you're interested in this or other distance walking opportunities, drop me a line and I'd be more than happy to tell you all about it! Alternatively, or for those who aren't able to jet off and start walking, just keep checking in and looking forward to the Spanish recipes and traveler's tales to come.

The staff and gourd - two symbols of the pilgrimage

This post is taken from my regular blog. For more traveler's tales, stories from the road and travel-inspired recipes visit me at The Traveling Spoon!

Photos: Camino de Santiago

rachel_webb — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 11:12:00 GMT

...pictures from the road

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Responsible Travel

rachel_webb — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 03:13:00 GMT

I wake to the sight of a vaulted ceiling stretched high overhead, brought to unwilling consciousness by the persistent cold that invades not only my sleeping bag, but the three layers of clothes in which I am tightly wrapped. In the pre-dawn light, some moments pass before I can recall exactly where I am and how I got here. A gentle, furtive rustling, the waking movements of fellow bunkmates, reminds me of the former, while the nagging pain of my carefully bandaged feet vividly recalls the latter. I am a pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago, walking slowly and faithfully across northern Spain; just one more traveler in a line stretching back through the centuries, to the Middle Ages and beyond.

Now that the rustling has started, sleep-heavy forms begin to rise up from the bunks around me and, gradually, a whole company of pilgrims materializes, going through their morning preparations with the steady certainty of routine and physical exhaustion. A loud, crisp thud echoes in the stony space and a beam of light cleaves the darkness as a head-torch clatters from a top bunk to the ground. There are muttered curses in an unfamiliar tongue, perhaps Gallego or Portuguese. In an hour each of us will be on the path, making our individual journey towards Santiago, and there will be no trace of our brief stay in this empty church.

In some ways, the Camino is one of the oldest examples of responsible travel. Pilgrims have traversed its arduous route for centuries and yet the daily lives of local townspeople go on as if we were simply part of the landscape, a geographic feature like the craggy mountains of Navarra or the verdant, rain-soaked valleys of Galicia. There is give and take, with towns offering refuge and repast in exchange for income and livelihood, but for the most part, each side regards the other with a quiet, almost reverent respect.

Hostels, called albergues, shelter the pilgrims and hearty menus de peregrino nourish us, but in all other respects, we are invited and expected to share in the daily activities of the towns through which we pass. Many of these have hosted pilgrims since the 12th century. Indeed, one abandoned medieval outpost, Foncebadon, was only recently re-inhabited when the revival of the Camino in the 1990s breathed new life into its forlorn and dilapidated structures. A few days down the road from this re-awakened haven, I meet a hospitalera whose dormitory and café have been entirely financed by the pilgrims she serves. She is proud to have realized the dream of her father and his father before him, to assist pilgrims on their journey to Santiago.

If our surroundings seem untouched by history and our travels, our individual lives are much less so. Many pilgrims will return, to walk the Camino again or work in the albergues, but each leaves with an imprint of the culture, language, and people whose lives we shared in our weeks on the path.