All week I've been getting ready for tonight's flight to Strasbourg
and the ASTA shindig that awaits. Between putting my house in order
here at Crossroads and working with the Travel Weekly bunch to
organize our overseas publishing operation, there's been precious
little time to think about the trip itself.
To get myself into the proper nomadic mindset, I began leafing
through the stack of magazines I subscribe to by the wagonload but
rarely read. Travel magazines? Uh-uh. To really sink my teeth into
a trip I go straight to the hard stuff: food magazines.
When I think of traveling, especially in Europe, my higher self
may tip its hat to museums and monuments, but my inner glutton
always pulls me back to the table. My fondest memory of the
Fountain of Trevi is the enormous slab of pizza I consumed there.
Paris, for me, is one perfect chicken leg served with exquisite
frites off the Boulevard Saint Germain. London is an exception.
London is about beer.
And Strasbourg? I'm thinking of foie gras and confit, goat
cheese, sauerbraten, fat berries and thick cream. I'm imagining
French genius, German abundance and Swiss efficiency. And by next
week I'll be dreaming of a hot dog with mustard from a Times Square
umbrella cart. Some people are just never satisfied.