A Suitcase of One's Own

 I didn't travel much when I was young, except for maybe some weekend outings in the countryside and a couple trips to Disney Orlando. I did not actually go outside of Mexico City much. Like a true Chilango, I was perhaps convinced of the absolute superiority of the city that I called home, where everything could be found, and there was no legitimate reason to go elsewhere. Maybe I am being too harsh on myself—I was just a kid. You can't necessarily expect a kid to tell you that they have always dreamt of visiting the Tuscan countryside.

Strangely enough, however, a part of me always knew that I was going to end up living somewhere else. I studied in a French school since I was five years old, and it seemed like the logical step forward that after graduating from high school, I would most likely go to France to study. To some extent this is the chronicle of a travel foretold. The thing is, I did not know the extent and effect leaving my home with a relative lack of plan would have on me. I do not mean to say I rushed the airport with my passport, a spare shirt and a paperclip, but I really did not know, whether I would simply go to study and then return to Mexico? Would I decide that France was great and end up staying there for the rest of my life? Or, as it turned out, would I get a taste of the world and then just want to keep seeing more of it?

I have been thinking for a while about putting some real effort into writing down these experiences—things I've seen, done, eaten, places I've visited, people I've met. I guess I always felt a little uneasy with the idea of sitting down and trying to organize all the varying impressions, memories, and feelings that remain after so long. I don't think I can do justice to a moment with mere words. Ironically, I do believe that writing is the means of expression I am most suited to. I couldn't even begin to convey these feelings through a drawing or a song, so this is what I have to work with.

The problem is, now that I've been away from where I grew up for almost ten years, I begin to discover that as one ages (and I say this at my ripe old age of 28 years), you realize that things sometimes become less clear as time passes. It is easier to forget some details, some elements. I do believe that I have a pretty good memory when it comes to overall vibes, if I am to use a simple word, but I've never been too detail-oriented. This is my tragedy as sometimes the details are what make something wonderful, and I do not want to forget or overlook them. It isn’t fair to simply let them fade away in some corner of my brain. I now embark on the perilous and tricky task of trying to say something coherent that would be considered readable and/or enjoyable, if not for others, at least for myself.

For some time now, I have gotten into the habit of writing at least a tiny page in a notebook whenever I am traveling, simply as a log of where I am in the world at that moment, what I’m doing, and my general impressions. Most of these I actually write during travel, not so much on location. This also seems to defeat the purpose I expressed above. I hope the result of this task I’m giving myself will be to salvage existing memories and experiences and provide much more vivid impressions of where I go next.

I have so far written mostly about writing and traveling, but another element that ties together my perception of the world is food. I think that all of these elements cannot function by themselves. Maybe you can write without them, but in my case, I have nothing interesting or worth saying without these experiences. I have no talent for fiction, and god forbid I try to write an essay on a serious topic. During the darkest times of my depression, studying in a "classe prépa" I dabbled with essay writing and I believe that somehow it made the world worse-off for everyone.

If I am to write about something, it would be about the world. I believe that the best way to connect with the world is to experience it with your palate. There is so much interesting diversity in flavors, dishes, techniques, and ingredients in this world that it would seem inconceivable to me not to try to explore that. Experiencing this diversity in any meaningful way cannot be done from the comfort of home, even in the most cosmopolitan of cities. To me, the true enjoyment of food (and therefore the world) cannot be done without a suitcase. And if I plan to keep on dragging a suitcase around the world, I might as well carry pen and paper in it.