VARIOUS TASTES OF TRAVEL
Charlene Brzesowsky
Only half-conscious due to sleep deprivation, I stood in the endless airport check-in line, impatiently waiting to take my flight back home from China. Still sleepy from the early wake-up call and tragically lacking in energy, I deliriously fell into a vivid daydream. The last few days, I had traveled through so many remote villages full of oriental flavors and perfumes, all the while being trained in a myriad of tastes new to my Western palate. In Tibet, humming monks had presented me with trays of ripe goji berries, whose shimmering scarlet shade seemed to prove God’s proximity to the procession of men clad in sunny yellow kasaya robes. I had taken a mouthful—I remembered—of this not too intrusively sweet snack and felt as refreshed as the cool mountain air around me. Now, in the gray airport air, my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a dull droning from my own stomach. Ashamed, I pushed against it to try to silence the sound. The last time I had witnessed my body producing such an orchestra, I was surrounded by better scenery, I recalled. Between the rolling, emerald hills of Yunnan, after entire days of working with the Bai tribe in the fields scattered throughout the valley, in the evenings I was so famished that I almost did not perceive their singing language around me. Never before had I felt so near to our Mother Earth, willing to devour even raw crops if I had to, but the toothless yet smiling villagers shared with me their slowly-cooked meals seasoned with garlic, ginger root, and cassia bark, bursting with such color that it made those mere evenings more unforgettable than any world travel. Some of their dishes were bittersweet, just like my days: the view of the morning fog from the farm was breathtaking, but my dripping sweat often interrupted my dreams while I was towing sacks full of heavy squashes. The same fog seemed to return to me in the evenings, rising from their bubbling, warmly vaporous soup. The steam rose up from the happily simmering dish and lazily twirled around my nostrils, mixing with my silence and slow thoughts, flying directly into my heart. With every long sip and deep, curious bite, I widened my personal scale of sensations: I was suddenly sure I could see vast, unexplored forests and other valleys hiding behind the horizon, even if the hot air of the fire illuminating my smiling face was rather energizing than relaxing. Now, a fiery voice spoke out loudly, interrupting my recent memories: “Your flight has been delayed fifteen hours, Miss.” What? Fifteen hours? I looked sideways and my eyes caught some modern airport fast food corner. Fifteen hours here? Behind the countertop, the server reached for a plate with a bulging heap of French fries dripping with some dense sauce, seeming as heavy as I suddenly felt now. All his teeth were intact, but he was not smiling, sneezing instead, even though this meal did not seem to contain any traces of spice or flavor. My empty stomach had never before felt so heavy and full. Fifteen hours...
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