Culinary Hopscotch

Like Post #2 on Culinary Hopscotch, I am typing this from my seat on the plane. This time, I’m flying United and sitting in seat 41A. It’s the second to last row of the plane, and a punishment, I’m sure, for pulling the rip cord and booking something only ten days ago with miles. Punishment #2? My routing: MUC–IAD–ORD–SNA. I’m effectively referring to this portion of the journey as “The Culinary Hopscotch Campaign Trail.”

I have mixed feelings about going home. Despite numerous friends and family telling me I’m not a quitter, I still sort of feel like one. My trip got a one-month haircut, and while I should be in a German-speaking country right now, I’m relegated to a tiny airplane seat whose audio connection cuts in and out like a WW2 radio broadcast, and whose proximity to the lavatory reminds me of my favorite email forward that was written on a Continental cocktail napkin. At the same time, I am strangely excited to get back. There are tons of people (and animals) that I cannot wait to see, and being the person who can never relax for too long, I am eager to get back to the drawing board (i.e. work).

So, after two months and one day on the road, here I am. I just counted, and after touchdown tonight, I will have transited 13 airports (SNA, DFW, CDG, Girona Barcelona, Granada, Madrid, Paris Beauvais, Pisa, Lodz, Dublin, Munich, IAD, ORD, and back to SNA) on a few occasions more than once, and 25 train stations (Paris Montparnasse, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Granada, Sevilla, Madrid, Pisa, Florence, Rome, Bologna, San Pietro in Casale, Venice Mestre, Venice St. Lucia, Ljubljana, Zagreb, Budapest, Krakow, Warsaw, Lodz Fabryzna, Dublin Connolly, Lodz Kaliska, Kutno, Berlin Hbf, Munich Hbf, Innsbruck) over the course of my trip. I also mixed in a bus ride, and a “mitfahrgeliglenheit” (basically organized hitchhiking) along the way. Trains, planes, and automobiles much?

I need to take a minute and thank those of you who hosted or helped me along the way. Despite my best friends at home begging and pleading with me, I Couchsurfed for the majority of my trip. I have a feeling that most Americans aren’t familiar with this phenomenon, but I would encourage you to check it out. With 1.7 million users around the world, and my ringing endorsement, you’d be a fool to ever stay in a hostel again. For those Couchsurfers who hosted and went above and beyond for me in Toulouse, Barcelona, Sevilla, Bologna, Ljubljana, Budapest, Krakow, Warsaw, Lodz, and Berlin, I honestly can’t thank you enough for your hospitality and encouragement. And for my friends who hosted me elsewhere, financially and emotionally, I couldn’t have done it without you. You all opened up your homes and let me come and go as I pleased, and it made this journey ten times more interesting. Not only was I able to travel through a culinary lens, but I was also able to live your lives with you, if only for a few days. I hung out with your pets, sometimes your kids, and your sharing spirit is truly unmatched.

We’re somewhere over the Atlantic right now south of Iceland, and something interesting just came onto the screen…the Virgin Islands. As it turns out, my suitcase won’t stay unpacked for long because I’m turning 30 in St. Thomas two weeks from today. I’ll have a look and see if I can conjure up a cooking class or something culinary related there, and if people are interested, I think I’ll keep Culinary Hopscotch going on a domestic level for the time being. Raise your hand if you want more blog posts…

Next Stop: St. Thomas

One of the questions I received a lot over the course of my trip was regarding how I knew so many people in the various places I visited. There are a few answers. First off, I travel often and stay in touch, which has meant I’ve been able to cultivate relationships with people all over Europe. And I must be fun, because they generally want to see me again. But a few other things are at play as well. Two years ago, I participated in a home exchange with a couple from Austria. Just like the movie (I always get that question), we swapped homes, cars and lives for a few weeks. It was magnificent. And when I told them I would be back in Europe, they opened up their home to me again, this time as their guest and friend.

On Friday night, after an amazing day spent in the Tirol region of Austria (that’s just outside of Innsbruck where the good skiing takes place) with my friends Jürgen and Annick (and coming soon, baby Jona), Jürgen and I made Erdapfelgulash together. It’s a traditional Viennese dish made from sausages, gurkins, onions, and… nope, not apples like you might have thought you read in the name. Yes, “apfel” is the German word for “apple,” but like the French word for potatoes (“pomme de terre), “erdapfel” translates to “apple of the earth,” which means “potato.”

The stew was incredibly tasty and easy, and would be fantastic après-ski. Jürgen advised me that the onions are the most critical part of the process, and as I acted as his prep chef peeling and dicing the erdapfels, he went about with the onions and broth. We worked like a well-oiled machine in the kitchen together, and before long, dinner was on the table and two great bottles of wine were open. I know we downed a 2002 Bordeaux, which was fabulous, however, the second bottle of Spanish wine has evaded my memory. It was red. I do remember that.

At the table, we reviewed the photo books Annick had put together from their trip to Newport Beach two years ago, and laughed about things like their lost luggage that was delivered at 11pm, and the GPS being set to German in their car. She included emails in the book that we had exchanged, and I saw pictures of my home that I hadn’t seen in nearly two months. In a strange way, though, I felt like I was at home. And I was, with good friends. We had a laugh about my German, and Jürgen assured me that with two weeks–which oddly became one week, then three days, and then one day after the bottles of wine emptied– he would have me speaking perfect German.

If you know me at all, you know that with an invitation and challenge like that, I’ve already had a look at tickets for Oktoberfest. Why? Because Innsbruck is only two hours by train from Munich, and in a place so densely populated with friends, it doesn’t make sense not to go back. Plus, I’d love to take up Jürgen on his offer of German lessons so that I might be able to say something more than “ein breze bitte” or “bier hier, bier hier, oder ich faulum” while wearing a dirndl. Additionally, I would love nothing more than to put together an Autumn meal with Jürgen in their fantastische küchen, drink wine with Annick this time too, and meet baby Jona.

Auf wiedersehen, Austria and Germany. If history repeats itself, I will see you again in just a few short months fir das swei hundert geburstag der Oktoberfest. I think I’ll do a better job of managing my time (and money) next time so I can take the cooking classes I had planned. If bears can hibernate, then so can Culinary Hopscotch. Please excuse this minor commercial break.