One afternoon last spring, I texted my friend Sue, asking if she could meet for dinner at a new Uzbek restaurant in Wallingford called Caravan. Sue loves invitations like these.
See you in 45 minutes, she replied.
So we sat for a few hours -- the only two non-Uzbeks -- watching a stream of happy people come in and eat the food of their homeland. The food was interesting, but not amazing. The dumplings were great, the national rice dish, plov, was good, but the bread was dry and the noodles greasy.
Being in the midst of a surprising Seattle subculture, though, felt electric. Everyone was so warm and friendly, proud to be sharing a taste of home.
Then I retired from teaching in June and my world opened up.
Now we are leaving on November 4 to spend a month in the Stans--mainly in Uzbekistan--with a few jumps over the border here and there.
That's pretty much it: we ate at an Uzbek restaurant, and now we are going to Central Asia.
Here's the Sue part:
When I say Sue has been everywhere, I mean she spent three years riding her bike around the Middle East and Europe in her twenties before becoming a firefighter, and the only reason she ever declines my food invitations is because she is somewhere else, eating, surfing, meeting people and asking them questions, making them feel like they are the best books she has ever read.
In comparison, my travels look like the It's a Small World ride at Disneyland.
So let's not compare. Instead, let's talk about why Sue loves traveling with me: because we both travel to taste. We both wonder why else would anyone do this? I went to Mexico because I was jealous when a friend told me she got off a bus and ate a fresh tortilla, and I spent two years teaching in Vietnam because I loved the turmeric rice cakes at the Tamarind Tree. That's why.
In fact, Sue was my first visitor in Ho Chi Minh City, where I lived with two other people in a five-story stack house in the middle of a neighborhood market. We called our house "The Castle" for its Romeo and Juliet balcony room with a pink curtain. Sue set up camp there for a week while setting the eating/exploring bar for the 18 friends and family that would visit over the next two years; no one ever even came close to reaching her levels.
Sue went shopping with my neighbors and facilitated making dinners at The Castle. She set up an interview with Nam, translated by his nephew, so we could hear his story of the war, about the failing economy after it, and of his three attempts to come to America in a boat before landing in a reeducation camp.
I watched, in awe, as Sue complimented Officer Budiawan from his boots to his muscles to his hat until, rendered helpless, he wished us well on our journey. "Have a good time," he called after us, waving.
A few miles later, we pulled over to breathe sighs of relief. "I've never seen anything like that," I said.
"I've worked in the fire department a long time," she shrugged. "I know how to stroke an ego."
In short, Sue is up for being on the edge of adventure, always, in the most thoughtful, interested way possible.
Here we are in the mountains of Indonesia, about to find the best fried rice of our lives at a mountain food stand, nothing else around for miles.
Our adventure will begin in Tashkent, a modern city, and then we'll head west, following the Silk Road from Samarkand to Bukhara to Khiva--with one dip into Tajikistan--then back to Tashkent for entry into the Fergana Valley. There we will travel from town to town and see artisans making silk, embroidery, pottery, and knives. To end, we will hop the border into Kyrgyzstan for a few days before heading home.
While planning this trip, Sue kept saying, "I'd like to go to at least two of the Stans, possibly three," and I kept pushing back. "It's better to get to know one place..." But she looked so sad, and a few times said, mournfully, "But we will be so close!" In the end, I could not deny Sue her borders.
I couldn't help giving Sue a homework assignment: to answer the question "What is it about crossing borders?" for this post. Here's her response:
I love the idea that you can stand in one place, take a few steps, and find yourself on the other side of a line that has shaped its identity and life of people who live there.
