Armchair travelling, no passport required

and a recipe for white asparagus, Veneto style

Where will you go first? Where will you go next?

As the world both opens up and hunkers down, even the homebodies amongst us may be spending more time thinking of sunny beaches, French lavender fields in the sun, perhaps a pyramid or ancient temple, cobblestone streets and faraway cities, or the solitude of vast nature around us in landscapes yet to be seen.

It feels like we’re starving at a sumptuous feast we can’t touch. And yet…

No passport required

I’ve been reluctant to plan that first trip, plane ride, adventure. The romantic in me wants to dive in fully on the journey to wherever, leaving the shackles of caution behind me. The realist says there’ll still be hands to wash, masks to wear, spaces to maintain. It makes the hugger in me want to weep.

But rather than cry, I’m packing my bags today and going on a round-the-world trip - one that will transport me on this rainy Sunday to a handful of favourite places and memories. In the journey, I want to remember, not what’s been lost, but what’s been gained. Laughter, wonder, delight, reflection, growth, awe and pure joy. A reminder that what we have done before is always alive and rich and real, as accessible as a closing of the eyes, a slowing of the breath, and a deep look within.

Those journeys, both small and big, have added to our human dimension, our understanding, and renew a spirit of kindness, generosity and human connection. The beauty is that we can go on these journeys any time. No passport required.

Generosity

Paris, 1995. It’s no surprise that on this, our first trip of many to Paris and France, that there’s a strong focus on food. I want to eat my way through every patisserie, explore every bistrot, drink in local wines and flavour in one big gulp. Tout au Beurre - everything with butter - is the name of the patisserie down the street from our hotel, and it lives up to the billing. I have my first almond croissant and every day for the next nine, it becomes a new morning ritual. We eat at our first Michelin-starred restaurant, and have more fun sitting at the bar at Le Petit Fer a Cheval, eating frisees aux lardons and duck confit.

Almond croissants for the win

But the biggest revelation comes from an unexpected generosity that forever defines my own sensibilities. One night after dinner, we order the cheese course (it’s always cheese over chocolate for me). The server comes to the table with an enormous platter. On it, perfectly arranged, an abundance of cheese. The server tells us to “servez-vous a volonte” - serve yourself at will. That’s it. We can have as much or as little as we like. Choose one type or three. Like a scuba diver, I dive in with abandon.

Practicing abundance learned

It’s a pattern we see again and again in subsequent trips, most recently at one of our favourites, La Regalade, where every meal starts with a terrine of country pate, a crock of cornichons, and crusty bread - have as much as you like. That spirit of true hospitality is really why we travel, isn’t it?

The Kindness of Strangers

Damascus, 2009. In what some argue is the oldest inhabited city in the world, labyrinthine streets lead me past cafes, open air markets, bath houses and tiny storefronts. Modern, secular and infinitely ancient, everything enchants me, beckons me. In one shop colourful shawls sit in stacks of hues that can only come from nature, and I’m right. These are made of camel hair and finished with vegetable dyes. If that sounds like they might be scratchy and stiff, it isn’t so. They’re gossamer light, with intricate embroidery and beading. The shopkeeper tells me about the ancient nomadic craft of weaving the delicate hairs, thin, strong and, when layered, incredibly warm against this cold desert night. I buy two and the shopkeeper lovingly wraps my purchase with the same care with which they were made.

Treasured finds

In another shop, I admire handcrafted jewelry and smilingly shake my head no when the shopkeeper coaxes me to buy. He picks up a small necklace, bows formally, and says “A gift for you, madam.” When I try to pay, he waves me away with a smile, telling me I will be back again. In a third, my friend and I squeeze into an impossibly small space stacked with hundreds of carpets. The shopkeeper patiently unfolds one after another, laying them out for our consideration, and telling a tale of the weaving, the symbols, the provenance of each. We each finally choose one, and he folds them up expertly into the tiniest possible squares, perfect for packing.

Treasures big and small, each one unique but more meaningfully linked to a story and memory of human kindness, and a place that only exist now in my mind’s eye.

Far flung family

Conegliano 1993: A vine-covered veranda on a perfect May afternoon. Sun dappling the table of four, we solitary diners in a deserted restaurant. We talk of opera, politics and of course food, the barriers of language broken down by shared understanding and the commonality of family. It’s the laziest of meals, with no clocks or places to be other than the here and now.

The perfect May weather is unseasonably warm for that part of Veneto. Neither one of us recall what the main course was - perhaps fish, or maybe a chicken dish. What we do remember is the white asparagus. Simply steamed, with a light egg sauce, it is ethereal and delicious and delicate all at once. My cousins are amused by our wonderment at this magical asparagus we had never seen before, and urge us to eat more than our fair share. Love on a plate, perfectly served.

Generosity, the kindness of strangers, the connections of family, the joy of objects found and treasured. While I may not be on a plane any time soon, I am surrounded by an entire world, in my heart, in my mind and on my table.

Our 30 years of travel, captured in a jigsaw puzzle

Venetian-style white asparagus with egg sauce

serves 4 as a side dish

Unlike its green cousin, white asparagus benefits from a longer cooking time. But don’t mistake that for a potentially mushy result. Italians understand that, like life, it sometimes takes more time to extract the intrinsic tender sweetness at the heart of vegetables.

Ingredients

A bundle of white asparagus, about 1 2/3 pounds/750 grams

3 hard boiled eggs, peeled and roughly chopped

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, more as needed

salt and pepper to taste

1 tablespoon chopped tarragon, optional

Cooked country ham and sourdough bread, to serve alongside

1. To prepare the asparagus: Trim the tough woody end off each asparagus stalk, about an inch and a half. Using a small vegetable peeler, lightly peel each asparagus stalk from just below the tip to the end. Ties the stalks together with kitchen twine.

2. Fill your tallest, narrow pot with water that is about one inch below the height of  your asparagus bundle. Bring the water to a boil and lightly salt it. Lower the bundle into the water, prop it against the pot side, reduce the water to a brisk simmer cover and cook for about 15/20 minutes depending on the size of the asparagus or its hardness. To check for doneness, test a stalk with a thin paring knife. If the knife slides in easily, and the stalk is very pliable, the asparagus is done. Remove from water, drain any liquid and place the stalks in a serving dish while you prepare the sauce.

3. Prepare the egg sauce: In a blender, combine the eggs, vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper and tarragon, if using. Blend until the sauce is smooth and of a pourable consistency. If needed add a little more oil.

4. To serve: Pour sauce onto the asparagus and have more on the side. Serve with slices of country ham and crusty bread.