Inspiration!

Another sunny day and another 15K! Not bad eh?!

So on today's blade I was listening to a playlist that I label "Shawnigan", because it captures many of the tunes that I remember from the last two years of high school, at the end of the 1970's. . . yes, I'm old! I spent those years at a school called Shawnigan Lake - a phenomenally beautiful location, 30 kilometres or so north of Victoria. . . of course we didn't see it as such at the time but it's beauty is impossible to deny.

(Figure 1: After 2 years of travel - waiting in Vancouver on my way to Tokyo - I need some bling!)

Over those two years I spent a lot of time traveling to China where my parents were stationed with the Canadian embassy - taking the easy route from Vancouver to Tokyo and on to Peking - occasionally stopping in Shanghai - or the longer route via Toronto, Zurich, Athens, Bombay and then into Peking - occasionally with an overnight in Frankfurt. For most of these trips I traveled on my own. . . and trust me, back then an airport hotel in Frankfurt when you're 14 wasn't very exciting; now Tokyo, on the other hand, was pretty exciting - even at 14!

But halfway through my parent's tenure the Japanese opened their new international airport, Narita; and staying out at Narita, 50 kilometres from the city centre, was a bit of a let down from the nights I had spent on my own in the Ginza, playing pachinko and drinking $12 cokes. If I'd been a few years older I would undoubtedly have had different experiences!

But I look at this period as being formative in shaping my love of food. Granted the ability to exercise this passion didn't really kick in for many years - until I could afford to buy something other than frozen lamb chops; but even in my second year of university I recall having a Mexican night where I made empanadas from scratch.

(Figure 3: Sampling some Chinese fare in Inner Mongolia - we were the first caucasions to visit since 1949; I'm the one with the long hair in the distance.)

I was never shy to eat alone. And I distinctly recall spending a few hours in Tokyo on one of my last trips, eating sushi, rice snacks and drinking a Sapporo - and I still recall the funky silver can. . . yes I was 15, but I had a diplomatic passport!

One of my first and most memorable experiences during that time was eating Mongolian Hot Pot in a small, crowded little place close to the Beijing Department Store on Wangfujing - even then a major shopping destination. It was a great experience, shared with some Canadian students studying at the local university, Beida. It was winter and we were all wearing our blue, down-stuffed overcoats - what we called Tongzhi (tong shur) coats (meaning Comrade) that were typically six sizes too big so you could wrap them around your body using your hands, buried deep inside your pockets.

Even today, as I land in Hong Kong, I feel distinctly at home - seeking out some of the back alleys where the smells may offend, but the tastes more than compensate.

(Figure 2: a spring outing - eating lunch around the Ming Tombs in March with other embassy brats - I'm 3rd on the right - even then competing with the princess in the fur lined coat to be the centre of attention - you'll note the can of pringles!).

Within three years of my adventures in China I had the opportunity to build on the experience, traveling to the Middle East where my parents served a four year stint in Tel Aviv. Again, I would take a few circuitous routes before landing at Ben Gurion airport and the short jaunt from there to Herzliya. It was in Israel, a place that I still claim as my centre of the universe, where I truly fell in love with Middle Eastern food. I distinctly recall walking through the market in Jaffa, eating falafel that I'd just bought from a vendor while I wandered the stalls; or sitting at a table in Jerusalem, Bethlehem or Tiberius, picking at fresh olives and scraping warm pita through shallow dishes of hummus - a thin reservoir of olive oil always on the surface.

This is how music, food and memories are interlaced. These are the memories that have charged me as I've gotten older. And even as I write this I'm thrown back to Sunday morning in Jaffa, eating falafel, the warm sauce dissolving the pita, the vinegar on the lettuce - sampling the olives - and the warm loaves of sesame bread being sold from carts at the corners of the market where the stalls have ended. I'd like to head into the kitchen, but I know my limits.