Caribbean

On a recent trip to New York City, my husband and I took the train from New Haven’s Union Station. On our way out of Grand Central Station, we passed a bakery, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread stopped me in my tracks. “On the way back,” my husband promised. “We’ll get bread to bring home.” He was right. We were headed to the Andaz Wall Street for the GT Tested Awards and a two-night stay. What was I going to do with a bag full of bread?

The hotel was fabulous, the event even more so. And, true to his word, on our return trip, my husband steered us straight to Grand Central Market, a long arcade of food stalls on the ground floor of the terminal, with access to the street at one end. Featuring everything from Greenwich Produce to Penzeys Spices, from Murray’s Cheese to Pescatore Seafood, it is a foodie’s paradise. But it was bread I was after, and bread I found at Zaro’s Bread Basket. There was such a large selection, I couldn’t make up my mind; and with our luggage getting in everyone’s way, I had to decide fast. We ended up with a bag full of ciabatta and other crusty creations to take home and a couple of focaccio loaves, loaded with delicious toppings, for the train.

It’s hard to get a good loaf of bread in our part of Connecticut. There are few bakeries to begin with, even fewer that bake their own bread, and fewer still that bake really good, crusty bread.

My passion for bread goes way back. In the 1980s, after a week in Paris with a friend, dining on fresh baguette morning, noon and night, I bemoaned the dismal lack of good bread at home. Enduring one too many complaints about “this doughy American stuff,” my husband had had enough: “Then learn to make your own!” And so I did, and I’ve been baking baguettes ever since.

Some of the finest souvenirs I have brought home from my travels are not the usual tchotchkes. Sure, I’ve carted my share of china cups and coffee mugs, original watercolors by local artists and Gustav Klimt prints from Vienna. I’ve stuffed my suitcase with fine woolens from Ireland and Iceland, and lugged back a huge pottery half-moon from the Caribbean. Each year my Christmas tree is adorned with ornaments from around the world — Delftware from Dutch St. Maarten, bright red wooden lobsters from Maine, Bermudian bobbies, Tyrolean jumping jacks. I even schlepped a cuckoo clock halfway through Europe on a backpacking trip when I was 20. And some items have inspired whole collections, as with our Wayang Golek (Java puppets), which we accumulated over many years of traveling through the Caribbean.

But fabric fades. China chips and cracks. It is the more intangible things that stay with me. Like learning to bake baguette, I seem to collect new abilities wherever I go, new traditions to incorporate into my life that remind me of where I’ve been.

In Germany, one taste of Schwarzwalder-Kirsch-Torte (Black Forest cake) and I had to possess its lush chocolate-and-cream secrets. I found a recipe and practiced making it — even impressing my father-in-law with a torte for his birthday one year.

Other locations have led to other additions to my culinary repertoire: Johnny cakes and plantains as they are served in the lolos of Grand Case, St. Martin; Irish scones, brown bread and potato soup; dim sum inspired by a trip to San Francisco’s Chinatown.

But musical fare can have the same effect as food. On a visit to Doolin, the traditional music capital of Ireland, I was so taken by the local music that I needed to possess it myself and bought two tin whistles — I have learned three songs in three years — and if I had room in my suitcase would have lugged home enough instruments for a whole band: bodhran drums, bones, spoons and maybe even uilleann pipes. On one trip to the Caribbean, I was convinced I could be a steel drum player; luckily, there were no drums for purchase on the island.

I suppose it’s my passion for a place, for its people, that inspires this sort of madness in me, this need to replicate what I have found and instill it into my daily life. Perhaps it is a way of keeping the memories alive. I am loath to leave some places and head home to my ordinary life.

What I have yet to figure out, though, is how to carry home more esoteric things, like an entire way of life. How, for instance, to institute the Spanish siesta into my afternoon? How to take a two-hour lunch and still get work done? How to stay as relaxed as I am on the beach in the Caribbean, as enthused as I am in a Parisian art museum, as connected to people as I am when encountering another culture?

Ah, but that’s exactly what vacations are for.

– Jan Hecht, associate editor